安徒生童话 OLE THE TOWER-KEEPER

　　ANNE LISBETH was a beautiful young woman, with a red and

　　white complexion, glittering white teeth, and clear soft eyes;

　　and her footstep was light in the dance, but her mind was

　　lighter still. She had a little child, not at all pretty; so

　　he was put out to be nursed by a laborer's wife, and his

　　mother went to the count's castle. She sat in splendid rooms,

　　richly decorated with silk and velvet; not a breath of air was

　　allowed to blow upon her, and no one was allowed to speak to

　　her harshly, for she was nurse to the count's child. He was

　　fair and delicate as a prince, and beautiful as an angel; and

　　how she loved this child! Her own boy was provided for by

　　being at the laborer's where the mouth watered more frequently

　　than the pot boiled, and where in general no one was at home

　　to take care of the child. Then he would cry, but what nobody

　　knows nobody cares for; so he would cry till he was tired, and

　　then fall asleep; and while we are asleep we can feel neither

　　hunger nor thirst. Ah, yes; sleep is a capital invention.

　　As years went on, Anne Lisbeth's child grew apace like

　　weeds, although they said his growth had been stunted. He had

　　become quite a member of the family in which he dwelt; they

　　received money to keep him, so that his mother got rid of him

　　altogether. She had become quite a lady; she had a comfortable

　　home of her own in the town; and out of doors, when she went

　　for a walk, she wore a bonnet; but she never walked out to see

　　the laborer: that was too far from the town, and, indeed, she

　　had nothing to go for, the boy now belonged to these laboring

　　people. He had food, and he could also do something towards

　　earning his living; he took care of Mary's red cow, for he

　　knew how to tend cattle and make himself useful.

　　The great dog by the yard gate of a nobleman's mansion

　　sits proudly on the top of his kennel when the sun shines, and

　　barks at every one that passes; but if it rains, he creeps

　　into his house, and there he is warm and dry. Anne Lisbeth's

　　boy also sat in the sunshine on the top of the fence, cutting

　　out a little toy. If it was spring-time, he knew of three

　　strawberry-plants in blossom, which would certainly bear

　　fruit. This was his most hopeful thought, though it often came

　　to nothing. And he had to sit out in the rain in the worst

　　weather, and get wet to the skin, and let the cold wind dry

　　the clothes on his back afterwards. If he went near the

　　farmyard belonging to the count, he was pushed and knocked

　　about, for the men and the maids said he was so horrible ugly;

　　but he was used to all this, for nobody loved him. This was

　　how the world treated Anne Lisbeth's boy, and how could it be

　　otherwise. It was his fate to be beloved by no one. Hitherto

　　he had been a land crab; the land at last cast him adrift. He

　　went to sea in a wretched vessel, and sat at the helm, while

　　the skipper sat over the grog-can. He was dirty and ugly,

　　half-frozen and half-starved; he always looked as if he never

　　had enough to eat, which was really the case.

　　Late in the autumn, when the weather was rough, windy, and

　　wet, and the cold penetrated through the thickest clothing,

　　especially at sea, a wretched boat went out to sea with only

　　two men on board, or, more correctly, a man and a half, for it

　　was the skipper and his boy. There had only been a kind of

　　twilight all day, and it soon grew quite dark, and so bitterly

　　cold, that the skipper took a dram to warm him. The bottle was

　　old, and the glass too. It was perfect in the upper part, but

　　the foot was broken off, and it had therefore been fixed upon

　　a little carved block of wood, painted blue. A dram is a great

　　comfort, and two are better still, thought the skipper, while

　　the boy sat at the helm, which he held fast in his hard seamed

　　hands. He was ugly, and his hair was matted, and he looked

　　crippled and stunted; they called him the field-laborer's boy,

　　though in the church register he was entered as Anne Lisbeth's

　　son. The wind cut through the rigging, and the boat cut

　　through the sea. The sails, filled by the wind, swelled out

　　and carried them along in wild career. It was wet and rough

　　above and below, and might still be worse. Hold! what is that?

　　What has struck the boat? Was it a waterspout, or a heavy sea

　　rolling suddenly upon them?

　　"Heaven help us!" cried the boy at the helm, as the boat

　　heeled over and lay on its beam ends. It had struck on a rock,

　　which rose from the depths of the sea, and sank at once, like

　　an old shoe in a puddle. "It sank at once with mouse and man,"

　　as the saying is. There might have been mice on board, but

　　only one man and a half, the skipper and the laborer's boy. No

　　one saw it but the skimming sea-gulls and the fishes beneath

　　the water; and even they did not see it properly, for they

　　darted back with terror as the boat filled with water and

　　sank. There it lay, scarcely a fathom below the surface, and

　　those two were provided for, buried, and forgotten. The glass

　　with the foot of blue wood was the only thing that did not

　　sink, for the wood floated and the glass drifted away to be

　　cast upon the shore and broken; where and when, is indeed of

　　no consequence. It had served its purpose, and it had been

　　loved, which Anne Lisbeth's boy had not been. But in heaven no

　　soul will be able to say, "Never loved."

　　Anne Lisbeth had now lived in the town many years; she was

　　called "Madame," and felt dignified in consequence; she

　　remembered the old, noble days, in which she had driven in the

　　carriage, and had associated with countess and baroness. Her

　　beautiful, noble child had been a dear angel, and possessed

　　the kindest heart; he had loved her so much, and she had loved

　　him in return; they had kissed and loved each other, and the

　　boy had been her joy, her second life. Now he was fourteen

　　years of age, tall, handsome, and clever. She had not seen him

　　since she carried him in her arms; neither had she been for

　　years to the count's palace; it was quite a journey thither

　　from the town.

　　"I must make one effort to go," said Anne Lisbeth, "to see

　　my darling, the count's sweet child, and press him to my

　　heart. Certainly he must long to see me, too, the young count;

　　no doubt he thinks of me and loves me, as in those days when

　　he would fling his angel-arms round my neck, and lisp 'Anne

　　Liz.' It was music to my ears. Yes, I must make an effort to

　　see him again." She drove across the country in a grazier's

　　cart, and then got out, and continued her journey on foot, and

　　thus reached the count's castle. It was as great and

　　magnificent as it had always been, and the garden looked the

　　same as ever; all the servants were strangers to her, not one

　　of them knew Anne Lisbeth, nor of what consequence she had

　　once been there; but she felt sure the countess would soon let

　　them know it, and her darling boy, too: how she longed to see

　　him!

　　Now that Anne Lisbeth was at her journey's end, she was

　　kept waiting a long time; and for those who wait, time passes

　　slowly. But before the great people went in to dinner, she was

　　called in and spoken to very graciously. She was to go in

　　again after dinner, and then she would see her sweet boy once

　　more. How tall, and slender, and thin he had grown; but the

　　eyes and the sweet angel mouth were still beautiful. He looked

　　at her, but he did not speak, he certainly did not know who

　　she was. He turned round and was going away, but she seized

　　his hand and pressed it to her lips.

　　"Well, well," he said; and with that he walked out of the

　　room. He who filled her every thought! he whom she loved best,

　　and who was her whole earthly pride!

　　Anne Lisbeth went forth from the castle into the public

　　road, feeling mournful and sad; he whom she had nursed day and

　　night, and even now carried about in her dreams, had been cold

　　and strange, and had not a word or thought respecting her. A

　　great black raven darted down in front of her on the high

　　road, and croaked dismally.

　　"Ah," said she, "what bird of ill omen art thou?"

　　Presently she passed the laborer's hut; his wife stood at the

　　door, and the two women spoke to each other.

　　"You look well," said the woman; "you're fat and plump;

　　you are well off."

　　"Oh yes," answered Anne Lisbeth.

　　"The boat went down with them," continued the woman; "Hans

　　the skipper and the boy were both drowned; so there's an end

　　of them. I always thought the boy would be able to help me

　　with a few dollars. He'll never cost you anything more, Anne

　　Lisbeth."

　　"So they were drowned," repeated Anne Lisbeth; but she

　　said no more, and the subject was dropped. She felt very

　　low-spirited, because her count-child had shown no inclination

　　to speak to her who loved him so well, and who had travelled

　　so far to see him. The journey had cost money too, and she had

　　derived no great pleasure from it. Still she said not a word

　　of all this; she could not relieve her heart by telling the

　　laborer's wife, lest the latter should think she did not enjoy

　　her former position at the castle. Then the raven flew over

　　her, screaming again as he flew.

　　"The black wretch!" said Anne Lisbeth, "he will end by

　　frightening me today." She had brought coffee and chicory with

　　her, for she thought it would be a charity to the poor woman

　　to give them to her to boil a cup of coffee, and then she

　　would take a cup herself.

　　The woman prepared the coffee, and in the meantime Anne

　　Lisbeth seated her in a chair and fell asleep. Then she

　　dreamed of something which she had never dreamed before;

　　singularly enough she dreamed of her own child, who had wept

　　and hungered in the laborer's hut, and had been knocked about

　　in heat and in cold, and who was now lying in the depths of

　　the sea, in a spot only known by God. She fancied she was

　　still sitting in the hut, where the woman was busy preparing

　　the coffee, for she could smell the coffee-berries roasting.

　　But suddenly it seemed to her that there stood on the

　　threshold a beautiful young form, as beautiful as the count's

　　child, and this apparition said to her, "The world is passing

　　away; hold fast to me, for you are my mother after all; you

　　have an angel in heaven, hold me fast;" and the child-angel

　　stretched out his hand and seized her. Then there was a

　　terrible crash, as of a world crumbling to pieces, and the

　　angel-child was rising from the earth, and holding her by the

　　sleeve so tightly that she felt herself lifted from the

　　ground; but, on the other hand, something heavy hung to her

　　feet and dragged her down, and it seemed as if hundreds of

　　women were clinging to her, and crying, "If thou art to be

　　saved, we must be saved too. Hold fast, hold fast." And then

　　they all hung on her, but there were too many; and as they

　　clung the sleeve was torn, and Anne Lisbeth fell down in

　　horror, and awoke. Indeed she was on the point of falling over

　　in reality with the chair on which she sat; but she was so

　　startled and alarmed that she could not remember what she had

　　dreamed, only that it was something very dreadful.

　　They drank their coffee and had a chat together, and then

　　Anne Lisbeth went away towards the little town where she was

　　to meet the carrier, who was to drive her back to her own

　　home. But when she came to him she found that he would not be

　　ready to start till the evening of the next day. Then she

　　began to think of the expense, and what the distance would be

　　to walk. She remembered that the route by the sea-shore was

　　two miles shorter than by the high road; and as the weather

　　was clear, and there would be moonlight, she determined to

　　make her way on foot, and to start at once, that she might

　　reach home the next day.

　　The sun had set, and the evening bells sounded through the

　　air from the tower of the village church, but to her it was

　　not the bells, but the cry of the frogs in the marshes. Then

　　they ceased, and all around became still; not a bird could be

　　heard, they were all at rest, even the owl had not left her

　　hiding place; deep silence reigned on the margin of the wood

　　by the sea-shore. As Anne Lisbeth walked on she could hear her

　　own footsteps in the sands; even the waves of the sea were at

　　rest, and all in the deep waters had sunk into silence. There

　　was quiet among the dead and the living in the deep sea. Anne

　　Lisbeth walked on, thinking of nothing at all, as people say,

　　or rather her thoughts wandered, but not away from her, for

　　thought is never absent from us, it only slumbers. Many

　　thoughts that have lain dormant are roused at the proper time,

　　and begin to stir in the mind and the heart, and seem even to

　　come upon us from above. It is written, that a good deed bears

　　a blessing for its fruit; and it is also written, that the

　　wages of sin is death. Much has been said and much written

　　which we pass over or know nothing of. A light arises within

　　us, and then forgotten things make themselves remembered; and

　　thus it was with Anne Lisbeth. The germ of every vice and

　　every virtue lies in our heart, in yours and in mine; they lie

　　like little grains of seed, till a ray of sunshine, or the

　　touch of an evil hand, or you turn the corner to the right or

　　to the left, and the decision is made. The little seed is

　　stirred, it swells and shoots up, and pours its sap into your

　　blood, directing your course either for good or evil.

　　Troublesome thoughts often exist in the mind, fermenting

　　there, which are not realized by us while the senses are as it

　　were slumbering; but still they are there. Anne Lisbeth walked

　　on thus with her senses half asleep, but the thoughts were

　　fermenting within her.

　　From one Shrove Tuesday to another, much may occur to

　　weigh down the heart; it is the reckoning of a whole year;

　　much may be forgotten, sins against heaven in word and

　　thought, sins against our neighbor, and against our own

　　conscience. We are scarcely aware of their existence; and Anne

　　Lisbeth did not think of any of her errors. She had committed

　　no crime against the law of the land; she was an honorable

　　person, in a good position- that she knew.

　　She continued her walk along by the margin of the sea.

　　What was it she saw lying there? An old hat; a man's hat. Now

　　when might that have been washed overboard? She drew nearer,

　　she stopped to look at the hat; "Ha! what was lying yonder?"

　　She shuddered; yet it was nothing save a heap of grass and

　　tangled seaweed flung across a long stone, but it looked like

　　a corpse. Only tangled grass, and yet she was frightened at

　　it. As she turned to walk away, much came into her mind that

　　she had heard in her childhood: old superstitions of spectres

　　by the sea-shore; of the ghosts of drowned but unburied

　　people, whose corpses had been washed up on the desolate

　　beach. The body, she knew, could do no harm to any one, but

　　the spirit could pursue the lonely wanderer, attach itself to

　　him, and demand to be carried to the churchyard, that it might

　　rest in consecrated ground. "Hold fast! hold fast!" the

　　spectre would cry; and as Anne Lisbeth murmured these words to

　　herself, the whole of her dream was suddenly recalled to her

　　memory, when the mother had clung to her, and uttered these

　　words, when, amid the crashing of worlds, her sleeve had been

　　torn, and she had slipped from the grasp of her child, who

　　wanted to hold her up in that terrible hour. Her child, her

　　own child, which she had never loved, lay now buried in the

　　sea, and might rise up, like a spectre, from the waters, and

　　cry, "Hold fast; carry me to consecrated ground!"

　　As these thoughts passed through her mind, fear gave speed

　　to her feet, so that she walked faster and faster. Fear came

　　upon her as if a cold, clammy hand had been laid upon her

　　heart, so that she almost fainted. As she looked across the

　　sea, all there grew darker; a heavy mist came rolling onwards,

　　and clung to bush and tree, distorting them into fantastic

　　shapes. She turned and glanced at the moon, which had risen

　　behind her. It looked like a pale, rayless surface, and a

　　deadly weight seemed to hang upon her limbs. "Hold," thought

　　she; and then she turned round a second time to look at the

　　moon. A white face appeared quite close to her, with a mist,

　　hanging like a garment from its shoulders. "Stop! carry me to

　　consecrated earth," sounded in her ears, in strange, hollow

　　tones. The sound did not come from frogs or ravens; she saw no

　　sign of such creatures. "A grave! dig me a grave!" was

　　repeated quite loud. Yes, it was indeed the spectre of her

　　child. The child that lay beneath the ocean, and whose spirit

　　could have no rest until it was carried to the churchyard, and

　　until a grave had been dug for it in consecrated ground. She

　　would go there at once, and there she would dig. She turned in

　　the direction of the church, and the weight on her heart

　　seemed to grow lighter, and even to vanish altogether; but

　　when she turned to go home by the shortest way, it returned.

　　"Stop! stop!" and the words came quite clear, though they were

　　like the croak of a frog, or the wail of a bird. "A grave! dig

　　me a grave!"

　　The mist was cold and damp, her hands and face were moist

　　and clammy with horror, a heavy weight again seized her and

　　clung to her, her mind became clear for thoughts that had

　　never before been there.

　　In these northern regions, a beech-wood often buds in a

　　single night and appears in the morning sunlight in its full

　　glory of youthful green. So, in a single instant, can the

　　consciousness of the sin that has been committed in thoughts,

　　words, and actions of our past life, be unfolded to us. When

　　once the conscience is awakened, it springs up in the heart

　　spontaneously, and God awakens the conscience when we least

　　expect it. Then we can find no excuse for ourselves; the deed

　　is there and bears witness against us. The thoughts seem to

　　become words, and to sound far out into the world. We are

　　horrified at the thought of what we have carried within us,

　　and at the consciousness that we have not overcome the evil

　　which has its origin in thoughtlessness and pride. The heart

　　conceals within itself the vices as well as the virtues, and

　　they grow in the shallowest ground. Anne Lisbeth now

　　experienced in thought what we have clothed in words. She was

　　overpowered by them, and sank down and crept along for some

　　distance on the ground. "A grave! dig me a grave!" sounded

　　again in her ears, and she would have gladly buried herself,

　　if in the grave she could have found forgetfulness of her

　　actions.

　　It was the first hour of her awakening, full of anguish

　　and horror. Superstition made her alternately shudder with

　　cold or burn with the heat of fever. Many things, of which she

　　had feared even to speak, came into her mind. Silently, as the

　　cloud-shadows in the moonshine, a spectral apparition flitted

　　by her; she had heard of it before. Close by her galloped four

　　snorting steeds, with fire flashing from their eyes and

　　nostrils. They dragged a burning coach, and within it sat the

　　wicked lord of the manor, who had ruled there a hundred years

　　before. The legend says that every night, at twelve o'clock,

　　he drove into his castleyard and out again. He was not as pale

　　as dead men are, but black as a coal. He nodded, and pointed

　　to Anne Lisbeth, crying out, "Hold fast! hold fast! and then

　　you may ride again in a nobleman's carriage, and forget your

　　child."

　　She gathered herself up, and hastened to the churchyard;

　　but black crosses and black ravens danced before her eyes, and

　　she could not distinguish one from the other. The ravens

　　croaked as the raven had done which she saw in the daytime,

　　but now she understood what they said. "I am the raven-mother;

　　I am the raven-mother," each raven croaked, and Anne Lisbeth

　　felt that the name also applied to her; and she fancied she

　　should be transformed into a black bird, and have to cry as

　　they cried, if she did not dig the grave. And she threw

　　herself upon the earth, and with her hands dug a grave in the

　　hard ground, so that the blood ran from her fingers. "A grave!

　　dig me a grave!" still sounded in her ears; she was fearful

　　that the cock might crow, and the first red streak appear in

　　the east, before she had finished her work; and then she would

　　be lost. And the cock crowed, and the day dawned in the east,

　　and the grave was only half dug. An icy hand passed over her

　　head and face, and down towards her heart. "Only half a

　　grave," a voice wailed, and fled away. Yes, it fled away over

　　the sea; it was the ocean spectre; and, exhausted and

　　overpowered, Anne Lisbeth sunk to the ground, and her senses

　　left her.

　　It was a bright day when she came to herself, and two men

　　were raising her up; but she was not lying in the churchyard,

　　but on the sea-shore, where she had dug a deep hole in the

　　sand, and cut her hand with a piece of broken glass, whose

　　sharp stern was stuck in a little block of painted wood. Anne

　　Lisbeth was in a fever. Conscience had roused the memories of

　　superstitions, and had so acted upon her mind, that she

　　fancied she had only half a soul, and that her child had taken

　　the other half down into the sea. Never would she be able to

　　cling to the mercy of Heaven till she had recovered this other

　　half which was now held fast in the deep water.

　　Anne Lisbeth returned to her home, but she was no longer

　　the woman she had been. Her thoughts were like a confused,

　　tangled skein; only one thread, only one thought was clear to

　　her, namely that she must carry the spectre of the sea-shore

　　to the churchyard, and dig a grave for him there; that by so

　　doing she might win back her soul. Many a night she was missed

　　from her home, and was always found on the sea-shore waiting

　　for the spectre.

　　In this way a whole year passed; and then one night she

　　vanished again, and was not to be found. The whole of the next

　　day was spent in a useless search after her.

　　Towards evening, when the clerk entered the church to toll

　　the vesper bell, he saw by the altar Anne Lisbeth, who had

　　spent the whole day there. Her powers of body were almost

　　exhausted, but her eyes flashed brightly, and on her cheeks

　　was a rosy flush. The last rays of the setting sun shone upon

　　her, and gleamed over the altar upon the shining clasps of the

　　Bible, which lay open at the words of the prophet Joel, "Rend

　　your hearts and not your garments, and turn unto the Lord."

　　"That was just a chance," people said; but do things

　　happen by chance? In the face of Anne Lisbeth, lighted up by

　　the evening sun, could be seen peace and rest. She said she

　　was happy now, for she had conquered. The spectre of the

　　shore, her own child, had come to her the night before, and

　　had said to her, "Thou hast dug me only half a grave: but thou

　　hast now, for a year and a day, buried me altogether in thy

　　heart, and it is there a mother can best hide her child!" And

　　then he gave her back her lost soul, and brought her into the

　　church. "Now I am in the house of God," she said, "and in that

　　house we are happy."

　　When the sun set, Anne Lisbeth's soul had risen to that

　　region where there is no more pain; and Anne Lisbeth's

　　troubles were at an end.

　　THE END