安徒生童话故事第62篇：好心境A Cheerful Temper

安徒生童话故事第62篇：好心境A Cheerful Temper

　　引导语：好心境是一种思想感情?下面是关于《好心境》的安徒生童话故事，还有英文版，欢迎大家阅读!

　　我从我父亲那里继承了一笔最好的遗产：我有一个好心境。那么谁是我的父亲呢?咳，这跟好的心境没有什么关系!他是一个心宽体胖的人，又圆又肥。他的外表和内心跟他的职业完全不相称。那么，他的职业和社会地位是怎样的呢?是的，如果把这写下来，印在一本书的开头，很可能许多人一读到它就会把书扔掉，说：“这使我感到真不舒服，我不要读这类的东西。”但是我的父亲既不是一个杀马的屠夫，也不是一个刽子手。相反地，他的职业却使他站在城里最尊贵的人的面前。这是他的权利，也是他的地位。他得走在前面，在主教的前面，在纯血统的王子前面，他老是走在前面——因为他是一个赶柩车的人!

　　你看，我把真情说出来了!我可以说，当人们看见我的父亲高高地坐在死神的交通车上，穿着一件又长又宽的黑披风，头上戴着一顶缀有黑纱的三角帽，加上他那一副像太阳一样的圆圆的笑脸，人们恐怕很难想到坟墓和悲哀了。他的那副圆面孔说：“不要怕，那比你所想象的要好得多!”

　　你看，我继承了他的“好心境”和一个经常拜访墓地的习惯。如果你怀着“好心境”去，那倒是蛮痛快的事情。像他一样，我也订阅《新闻报》。

　　我并不太年轻。我既没有老婆，又没有孩子，也没有书。不过，像前面说过了的，我订阅《新闻报》。它是我最心爱的一种报纸，也是我父亲最心爱的一种报纸。它的用处很大，一个人所需要知道的东西里面全有——比如：谁在教堂里讲道，谁在新书里说教;在什么地方你可以找到房子和佣人，买到衣服和食物;谁在拍卖东西，谁在破产。人们还可以在上面读到许多慈善事情和天真无邪的诗!此外还有征婚、订约会和拒绝约会的广告等——一切都是非常简单和自然!一个人如果订阅《新闻报》，他就可以很愉快地生活着，很愉快地走进坟墓里去。同时在他寿终正寝的时候，他可以有一大堆报纸，舒舒服服地睡在上面——假如他不愿意睡在刨花上的话。

　　《新闻报》和墓地是我精神上两件最富有刺激性的消遣，是我的好心境的最舒适的浴泉。

　　当然谁都可以阅读《新闻报》。不过请你一块儿跟我到墓地来吧。当太阳在照着的时候，当树儿变绿了的时候，我们到墓地去吧。我们可以在坟墓之间走走!每座坟像一本背脊朝上的。合着的书本——你只能看到书名。它说明书的内容，但同时什么东西也没有说明。不过我知道它的内容——我从我的父亲和我自己知道的。我的“坟墓书”都把它记载了下来，这是我自己作为参考和消遣所写的一本书。所有的事情都写在里面，还有其他更多的东西。

　　现在我们来到了墓地。

　　这儿，在一排涂了白漆的栏栅后面，曾经长着一棵玫瑰树。它现在已经没有了，不过从邻近坟上的一小棵常青树伸过来的枝子，似乎弥补了这个损失。在这儿躺着一个非常不幸的人;但是，当他活着的时候，他的生活很好，即一般人所谓的“小康”。他的收人还有一点剩余。不过他太喜欢关心这个世界——或者更正确地说，关心艺术。当他晚间坐在戏院里以全副精神欣赏戏的时候，如果布景人把月亮两边的灯光弄得太强了一点，或者把本来应该放在景后边的天空悬在景上面，或者把棕桐树放在亚马格尔①的风景里，或者把仙人掌放在蒂洛尔②的风景里，或者把山毛榉放在挪威的北部，他就忍受不了。这是什么大不了的事情，谁会去理它呢?谁会为这些琐事而感到不安呢?这无非是在做戏，其目的是给人娱乐。观众有时大鼓一顿掌，有时只略微鼓几下。

　　“这简直是湿柴火，”他说。“它今晚一点也燃不起来!”于是他就向四周望，看看这些观众究竟是什么人。他发现他们笑得不是时候：他们在不应当笑的地方却大笑了——这使得他心烦，坐立不安，成为一个不幸的人。现在他躺在坟墓里。

　　这儿躺着一个非常幸福的人，这也就是说——一位大人物。他出身很高贵，而这是他的幸运，否则他也就永远是一个渺小的人了。不过大自然把一切安排得很聪明，我们一想起这点就觉得很愉快。他过去常穿着前后都绣了花的衣服，在沙龙的社交场合出现，像那些镶得有珍珠的拉铃绳的把手一样——它后面老是有一根很适用的粗绳子在代替它做工作。他后边也有一根很粗的好绳子——一个替身——代替他做工作，而且现在仍然在另一个镶有珍珠的新把手后面做工作。样样事情都安排得这样聪明，使人很容易获得好心境。

　　这儿躺着——唔，想起来很伤心!——这儿躺着一个人，他花了67年的光阴要想说出一个伟大的思想。他活着就是为了要找到一个伟大的思想。最后他相信他找到了。因此他很高兴，他终于怀着这个伟大的思想死去。谁也没有得到这个伟大思想的好处，谁也没有听到过这个伟大的思想。现在我想，这个伟大的思想使他不能在坟墓里休息：比如说吧，这个好思想只有在吃早饭的时候说出来才能有效，而他，根据一般人关于幽灵的看法，只能在半夜才能升起来和走动。那么他的伟大的思想与时间的条件不合。谁也不会发笑，他只好把他的伟大思想又带进坟墓里去。所以这是一座忧郁的坟墓。

　　这儿躺着一个异常吝啬的妇人。在她活着的时候，她常常夜间起来，学着猫叫，使邻人相信她养了一只猫——她是那么地吝啬!

　　这儿躺着一个出自名门的小姐，她跟别人在一起的`时候，总是希望人们听到她的歌声。她唱：“mi manca la voce!”③这是她生命中一件唯一真实的事情。

　　这儿躺着一个另一类型的姑娘!当心里的金丝雀在歌唱着的时候，理智的指头就来塞住她的耳朵。这位美丽的姑娘总是“差不多快要结婚了”。不过——唔，这是一个老故事……不过说得好听一点罢了。我们还是让死者休息吧。

　　这儿躺着一个寡妇。她嘴里满是天鹅的歌声，但她的心中却藏着猫头鹰的胆汁。她常常到邻家去猎取人家的缺点。这很像古时的“警察朋友”，他跑来跑去想要找到一座并不存在的阴沟上的桥。

　　这儿是一个家庭的坟地。这家庭的每一分子都相信，假如整个世界和报纸说“如此这般”，而他们的小孩从学校里回来说：“我听到的是那样，”那么他的说法就是唯一的真理，因为他是这家里的一分子。大家也都知道：如果这家里的一个公鸡在半夜啼叫，这家的人就要说这是天明，虽然守夜人和城里所有的钟都说这是半夜。

　　伟大的诗人歌德在他的《浮士德》的结尾说了这样的话：“可能继续下去。”我们在墓地里的散步也是这样。我常常到这儿来!如果我的任何朋友，或者敌人弄得我活不下去的话，我就来到这块地方，拣一块绿草地，献给我打算埋掉的他或她，立刻把他们埋葬掉。他们躺在那儿，没有生命，没有力量，直到他们变成更新和更好的人才活转来。我把他们的生活和事迹，依照我的看法，在我的“坟墓书”上记录下来，用我的一套看法去研究它们。大家也应该这样做。当人们做了太对不起人的事情的时候，你不应该只感觉苦恼，而应该立刻把他们埋葬掉，同时保持自己的好心境和阅读《新闻报》——这报纸上的文章是由许多人写成的，但是有一只手在那里牵线。

　　有一天.当我应该把我自己和我的故事装进坟墓里去的时候，我希望人们写这样一个墓志铭：

　　“一个好心境的人!”

　　这就是我的故事。

　　①亚马格尔(Amager)是离哥本哈根不远的一个海岛。

　　②蒂洛尔(Tyrol)是奥地利的一个多山的省份。

　　③这是一句意大利文，直译的意义是：“我就是没有一个好声音。”

 

　　好心境英文版：

　　A Cheerful Temper

　　FROM my father I received the best inheritance, namely a “good temper.” “And who was my father?” That has nothing to do with the good temper; but I will say he was lively, good-looking round, and fat; he was both in appearance and character a complete contradiction to his profession. “And pray what was his profession and his standing in respectable society?” Well, perhaps, if in the beginning of a book these were written and printed, many, when they read it, would lay the book down and say, “It seems to me a very miserable title, I don’t like things of this sort.” And yet my father was not a skin-dresser nor an executioner; on the contrary, his employment placed him at the head of the grandest people of the town, and it was his place by right. He had to precede the bishop, and even the princes of the blood; he always went first,—he was a hearse driver! There, now, the truth is out. And I will own, that when people saw my father perched up in front of the omnibus of death, dressed in his long, wide, black cloak, and his black-edged, three-cornered hat on his head, and then glanced at his round, jocund face, round as the sun, they could not think much of sorrow or the grave. That face said, “It is nothing, it will all end better than people think.” So I have inherited from him, not only my good temper, but a habit of going often to the churchyard, which is good, when done in a proper humor; and then also I take in the Intelligencer, just as he used to do.

　　I am not very young, I have neither wife nor children, nor a library, but, as I said, I read the Intelligencer, which is enough for me; it is to me a delightful paper, and so it was to my father. It is of great use, for it contains all that a man requires to know; the names of the preachers at the church, and the new books which are published; where houses, servants, clothes, and provisions may be obtained. And then what a number of subscriptions to charities, and what innocent verses! Persons seeking interviews and engagements, all so plainly and naturally stated. Certainly, a man who takes in the Intelligencer may live merrily and be buried contentedly, and by the end of his life will have such a capital stock of paper that he can lie on a soft bed of it, unless he prefers wood shavings for his resting-place. The newspaper and the churchyard were always exciting objects to me. My walks to the latter were like bathing-places to my good humor. Every one can read the newspaper for himself, but come with me to the churchyard while the sun shines and the trees are green, and let us wander among the graves. Each of them is like a closed book, with the back uppermost, on which we can read the title of what the book contains, but nothing more. I had a great deal of information from my father, and I have noticed a great deal myself. I keep it in my diary, in which I write for my own use and pleasure a history of all who lie here, and a few more beside.

　　Now we are in the churchyard. Here, behind the white iron railings, once a rose-tree grew; it is gone now, but a little bit of evergreen, from a neighboring grave, stretches out its green tendrils, and makes some appearance; there rests a very unhappy man, and yet while he lived he might be said to occupy a very good position. He had enough to live upon, and something to spare; but owing to his refined tastes the least thing in the world annoyed him. If he went to a theatre of an evening, instead of enjoying himself he would be quite annoyed if the machinist had put too strong a light into one side of the moon, or if the representations of the sky hung over the scenes when they ought to have hung behind them; or if a palm-tree was introduced into a scene representing the Zoological Gardens of Berlin, or a cactus in a view of Tyrol, or a beech-tree in the north of Norway. As if these things were of any consequence! Why did he not leave them alone? Who would trouble themselves about such trifles? especially at a comedy, where every one is expected to be amused. Then sometimes the public applauded too much, or too little, to please him. “They are like wet wood,” he would say, looking round to see what sort of people were present, “this evening; nothing fires them.” Then he would vex and fret himself because they did not laugh at the right time, or because they laughed in the wrong places; and so he fretted and worried himself till at last the unhappy man fretted himself into the grave.

　　Here rests a happy man, that is to say, a man of high birth and position, which was very lucky for him, otherwise he would have been scarcely worth notice. It is beautiful to observe how wisely nature orders these things. He walked about in a coat embroidered all over, and in the drawing-rooms of society looked just like one of those rich pearl-embroidered bell-pulls, which are only made for show; and behind them always hangs a good thick cord for use. This man also had a stout, useful substitute behind him, who did duty for him, and performed all his dirty work. And there are still, even now, these serviceable cords behind other embroidered bell-ropes. It is all so wisely arranged, that a man may well be in a good humor.

　　Here rests,—ah, it makes one feel mournful to think of him!— but here rests a man who, during sixty-seven years, was never remembered to have said a good thing; he lived only in the hope of having a good idea. At last he felt convinced, in his own mind, that he really had one, and was so delighted that he positively died of joy at the thought of having at last caught an idea. Nobody got anything by it; indeed, no one even heard what the good thing was. Now I can imagine that this same idea may prevent him from resting quietly in his grave; for suppose that to produce a good effect, it is necessary to bring out his new idea at breakfast, and that he can only make his appearance on earth at midnight, as ghosts are believed generally to do; why then this good idea would not suit the hour, and the man would have to carry it down again with him into the grave— that must be a troubled grave.

　　The woman who lies here was so remarkably stingy, that during her life she would get up in the night and mew, that her neighbors might think she kept a cat. What a miser she was!

　　Here rests a young lady, of a good family, who would always make her voice heard in society, and when she sang “Mi manca la voce,”1 it was the only true thing she ever said in her life.

　　Here lies a maiden of another description. She was engaged to be married,—but, her story is one of every-day life; we will leave her to rest in the grave.

　　Here rests a widow, who, with music in her tongue, carried gall in her heart. She used to go round among the families near, and search out their faults, upon which she preyed with all the envy and malice of her nature. This is a family grave. The members of this family held so firmly together in their opinions, that they would believe in no other. If the newspapers, or even the whole world, said of a certain subject, “It is so-and-so;” and a little schoolboy declared he had learned quite differently, they would take his assertion as the only true one, because he belonged to the family. And it is well known that if the yard-cock belonging to this family happened to crow at midnight, they would declare it was morning, although the watchman and all the clocks in the town were proclaiming the hour of twelve at night.

　　The great poet Goethe concludes his Faust with the words, “may be continued;” so might our wanderings in the churchyard be continued. I come here often, and if any of my friends, or those who are not my friends, are too much for me, I go out and choose a plot of ground in which to bury him or her. Then I bury them, as it were; there they lie, dead and powerless, till they come back new and better characters. Their lives and their deeds, looked at after my own fashion, I write down in my diary, as every one ought to do. Then, if any of our friends act absurdly, no one need to be vexed about it. Let them bury the offenders out of sight, and keep their good temper. They can also read the Intelligencer, which is a paper written by the people, with their hands guided. When the time comes for the history of my life, to be bound by the grave, then they will write upon it as my epitaph—

　　“The man with a cheerful temper.”

　　And this is my story.