GOOD HUMOUR

MY father left me the best inheritance；to wit——good humour．And who was my father？Why，that has nothing to do with the humour．He was lively and stout，round and fat；and his outer and inner man were in direct contradiction to his calling．And pray what was he by profession and calling in civil society？Ah，if this were to be written down and printed in the very beginning of a book，it is probablethat many when they read it would lay the book aside，and say，“It looks so uncomfortable；I don't like anything of that sort．”And yet my father was neither a horse－slaughterer nor an executioner；on the contrary，his office placed him at the head of the most respectable gentry of the town；and he held his place by right，for it was his right place．He had to go first，before the bishop even，and before the Princes of the Blood．He always went first——for he was the driver of the hearse！

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There，now it's out！And I will confess that when people saw my father sitting perched up on the omnibus of death，dressed in his long，wide，black clock，with his black－bordered three-cornered hat on his head——and then his face，exactly as the sun is drawn，round and jocund——it was difficult for them to think of the grave and of sorrow．The face said，“It doesn't matter；it will be much better than one thinks．”

You see，I have inherited my good humour from him，and also the habit of going often to the churchyard，and that is an agreeable thing to do if it be done with good humour；and then I take in the Intelligencer，just as he used to do．

I am not quite young．I have neither wife，nor children，nor a library；but，as aforesaid，I take in the Intelligencer，and that's my favourite newspaper，as it was al-so my father's．It is very useful，and contains everything that a man needs to know——such as who preaches in the church and in the new books；where one can get houses，servants，clothes，and food；who is selling off，and who is going off himself．And then what a lot of charity，and what a number of innocent，harmless verses are found in it！Advertisements for husbands and wives，and arrangements for meeting——all quite simple and natural．Certainly，one may live merrily and be contentedly buried if one takes in the Intelligencer．And then one has，by the end of his life，such a capital store of paper，that he may use it as a soft bed，unless he prefers to rest upon wood－shavings．

The newspaper and my walk to the churchyard were always my most exciting occupations——they were like bathing－places for my good humour．

The newspaper every one can read for himself．But please come with me to the churchyard；let us wander there where the sun shines and the trees grow green，let us walk among the graves．Each of these is like a closed book，with the back placed uppermost，so that one can only read the title which tells what the book contains，and tells nothing more；but I know something of them．I heard it from my father，or found it out myself．I have it all down in my record that I wrote out for my own use and pleasure：all that lie here，and a few more，too，are chronicled in it．

Now we are in the churchyard．

Here，behind this white railing，where once a rose tree grew——it is gone now，but a little evergreen from the next grave stretches out its green fingers to make a show——there rests a very unhappy man；and yet，when he lived，he was in what they call a good position．He had enough to live upon，and something over；but worldly cares，or，to speak more correctly，his artistic taste，weighed heavily upon him．If in the evening he sat in the theatre to enjoy himself thoroughly，he would be quite put out if the machinist had put too strong a light into one side of the moon，or if the sky－pieces hung down over the scenes when they ought to have hung behind them，or when a palm tree was introduced into a scene representing Amager，or a cactus in a view of the Tyrol，or a beech tree in the far north of Norway．As if that was of any consequence．Is it not quite immaterial？Who would fidget about such a trifle？It's only make-believe，after all，and every one is expected to be amused．Then sometimes the public applauded too much，and sometimes too little．

“They're like wet wood this evening，”he would say；“they won't kindle at all！”And then he would look round to see what kind of people they were；and sometimes he would find them laughing at the wrong time，when they ought not to have laughed，and that vexed him；and he fretted，and was an unhappy man，and now he is in his grave．

Here rests a very happy man．That is to say，a very grand man．He was of high birth，and that was lucky for him，for otherwise he would never have been anything worth speaking of；and nature orders all that very wisely，so that it's quite charming when we think of it．He used to go about in a coat embroidered back and front，and appeared in the saloons of society just like one of those costly，pearl－embroidered bell－pulls which have always a good thick，serviceable cord behind them to do the work．He likewise had a good stout cord behind him，in the shape of a substitute，who did his duty，and who still continues to do it behind another embroidered bell－pull．Everything is so nicely managed，it's enough to put one into a good humour．

Here rests——well，it's a very mournful reflection——here rests a man who spent sixty－seven years considering how he should get a good idea．The object of his life was to say a good thing，and at last he felt convinced in his own mind that he had got one，and was so glad of it that he died of pure joy at having caught an idea at last．No－body derived any benefit from it，for nobody even heard what the good thing was．Now，I can fancy that this same good thing won't let him lie quiet in his grave；for let us suppose that it is a good thing which can only be brought out at breakfast if it is to make an effect，and that he，according to the received opinion concerning ghosts，can only rise and walk at midnight．Why，then the good thing does not suit the time，no one laughs，and the man must carry his good idea down with him again．That is a melancholy grave．

Here rests a remarkably stingy woman．During her lifetime she used to get up at night and mew，so that the neighbours might think she kept a cat——she was so remarkably stingy．

Here lies a lady of good family；in company she al－ways wanted to let her singing be heard，and then she sang“mi manca la voce”，that was the only true thing in her life．

Here is a maiden of another kind．When the canary bird of the heart begins to chirp，reason puts her fingers in her ears．The maiden was going to be married，but——well，it's an everyday story，and we will let the dead rest．

Here sleeps a widow who carried melody in her mouth and gall in her heart．She used to go out for prey in the families round about；and the prey she hunted was her neighbours’ faults，and she was an indefatigable hunter．

Here's a family sepulchre．Every member of this family held so firmly to the opinions of the rest，that if all the world，and the newspapers into the bargain，said of a certain thing it is so and so，and the little boy came home from school and said，“I've learned it thus and thus，”they declared his opinion to be the only true one，because he belonged to the family．And it is an acknowledged fact，that if the yard cock of the family crowed at midnight，they would declare it was morning，though the watchmen and all the clocks in the city were crying out that it was twelve o'clock at night．

The great poet Goethe concludes his“Faust”with the words“may be continued”；and our wanderings in the churchyard may be continued too．I come here often．If any of my friends，or my non-friends，go on too fast for me，I go out to my favourite spot，and select a mound，and bury him or her there——bury that person who is yet alive；and there those I bury must stay till they come back as new and improved characters．I inscribe their life and their deeds，looked at in my fashion，in my record；and that's what all people ought to do．They ought not to be vexed when any one goes on ridiculously，but bury him directly，and maintain their good humour，and keep to the Intelligencer，which is usually a book。written by people under competent guidance．

When the time comes for me to be beund with my history in the boards of the grave，I hope they will put up as my epitaph，

“A good humoured one．”

And that's my story．

好心境

 

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”。他的收入还有一点剩余。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，或者把棕榈树放在亚马格尔的风景里，或者把仙人掌放在蒂洛尔的风景里，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——晤，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 lavoce！”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——晤，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。

 

这是一篇童话式的杂文，最先收集在1852年4月5日出版的《故事集》里。用童话的形式来写杂文，这是安徒生的一个创造。故事虽短，但它所反映的现实却是既深刻而又尖锐的。