安徒生童話:守塔人奧勒
ON the world it's always going up and down； and now I can't go up any higher！“ So said Ole the tower-keeper. ”Most people have to try both the ups and the downs； and， rightly considered， we all get to be watchmen at last， and look down upon life from a height.“
Such was the speech of Ole， my friend， the old tower-keeper， a strange， talkative old fellow， who seemed to speak out everything that came into his head， and who for all that had many a serious thought deep in his heart. Yes， he was the child of respectable people， and there were even some who said that he was the son of a privy councillor， or that he might have been. He had studied， too， and had been assistant teacher and deputy clerk； but of what service was all that to him？ In those days he lived in the clerk's house， and was to have everything in the house—to be at free quarters， as the saying is； but he was still， so to speak， a fine young gentleman. He wanted to have his boots cleaned with patent blacking， and the clerk could only afford ordinary GREase； and upon that point they split. One spoke of stinginess， the other of vanity， and the blacking became the black cause of enmity between them， and at last they parted.
This is what he demanded of the world in general， namely， patent blacking， and he got nothing but GREase. Accordingly， he at last drew back from all men， and became a hermit； but the church tower is the only place in a great city where hermitage， office and bread can be found together. So he betook himself up thither， and smoked his pipe as he made his solitary rounds. He looked upward and downward， and had his own thoughts， and told in his own way of what he read in books and in himself. I often lent him books—good books； and you may know by the company he keeps. He loved neither the English governess novels nor the French ones， which he called a mixture of empty wind and raisin-stalks： he wanted biographies， and descriptions of the wonders of， the world. I visited him at least once a year， generally directly after New Year's day， and then he always spoke of this and that which the change of the year had put into his head.
I will tell the story of three of these visits， and will reproduce his own words whenever I can remember them. First Visit
AMONG the books which I had Lately lent Ole， was one which had GREatly rejoiced and occupied him. It was a geological book， containing an account of the boulders.
“Yes， they're rare old fellows， those boulders！” he said； “and to think that we should pass them without noticing them！ And over the street pavement， the paving stones， those fragments of the oldest remains of antiquity， one walks without ever thinking about them. I have done the very thing myself. But now I look respectfully at every paving-stone. Many thanks for the book！ It has filled me with thought， and has made me long to read more on the subject. The romance of the earth is， after all， the most wonderful of all romances. It's a pity one can't read the first volume of it， because it is written in a language that we don't understand. One must read in the different strata， in the pebble-stones， for each separate period. Yes， it is a romance， a very wonderful romance， and we all have our place in it. We grope and ferret about， and yet remain where we are； but the ball keeps turning， without emptying the ocean over us； the clod on which we move about， holds， and does not let us through. And then it's a story that has been acting for thousands upon thousands of years and is still going on. My best thanks for the book about the boulders. Those are fellows indeed！ They could tell us something worth hearing， if they only knew how to talk. It's really a pleasure now and then to become a mere nothing， especially when a man is as highly placed as I am. And then to think that we all， even with patent lacquer， are nothing more than insects of a moment on that ant-hill the earth， though we may be insects with stars and garters， places and offices！ One feels quite a novice beside these venerable million-year-old boulders. On last New Year's eve I was reading the book， and had lost myself in it so completely， that I forgot my usual New Year's diversion， namely， the wild hunt to Amager. Ah， you don't know what that is！
“the journey of the witches on broomsticks is well enough known—that journey is taken on St. John's eve， to the Brocken； but we have a wild journey， also which is national and modern， and that is the journey to Amager on the night of the New Year. All indifferent poets and poetesses， musicians， newspaper writers， and artistic notabilities，—I mean those who are no good，—ride in the New Year's night through the air to Amager. They sit backwards on their painting brushes or quill pens， for steel pens won't bear them—they're too stiff. As I told you， I see that every New Year's night， and could mention the majority of the riders by name， but I should not like to draw their enmity upon myself， for they don't like people to talk about their ride to Amager on quill pens. I've a kind of niece， who is a fishwife， and who， as she tells me， supplies three respectable newspapers with the terms of abuse and vituperation they use， and she has herself been at Amager as an invited guest； but she was carried out thither， for she does not own a quill pen， nor can she ride. She has told me all about it. Half of what she said is not true， but the other half gives us information enough. When she was out there， the festivities began with a song； each of the guests had written his own song， and each one sang his own song， for he thought that the best， and it was all one， all the same melody. Then those came marching up， in little bands， who are only busy with their mouths. There were ringing bells that rang alternately； and then came the little drummers that beat their tattoo in the family circle； and acquaintance was made with those who write without putting their names， which here means as much as using GREase instead of patent blacking； and then there was the beadle with his boy， and the boy was worst off， for in general he gets no notice taken of him； then， too， there was the good street sweeper with his cart， who turns over the dust-bin， and calls it 'good， very good， remarkably good.' And in the midst of the pleasure that was afforded by the mere meeting of these folks， there shot up out of the great dirt-heap at Amager a stem， a tree， an immense flower， a great mushroom， a perfect roof， which formed a sort of warehouse for the worthy company， for in it hung everything they had given to the world during the Old Year. Out of the tree poured sparks like flames of fire； these were the ideas and thoughts， borrowed from others， which they had used， and which now got free and rushed away like so many fireworks. They played at 'the stick burns，' and the young poets played at 'heart-burns，' and the witlings played off their jests， and the jests rolled away with a thundering sound， as if empty pots were being shattered against doors. 'It was very amusing！' my niece said； in fact， she said many things that were very malicious but very amusing， but I won't mention them， for a man must be good-natured， and not a carping critic. But you will easily perceive that when a man once knows the rights of the journey to Amager， as I know them， it's quite natural that on the New Year's night one should look out to see the wild chase go by. If in the New Year I miss certain persons who used to be there， I am sure to notice others who are new arrivals； but this year I omitted taking my look at the guests， I bowled away on the boulders， rolled back through millions of years， and saw the stones break loose high up in the north， saw them drifting about on icebergs， long before Noah's ark was constructed， saw them sink down to the bottom of the sea， and re-appear with a sand-bank， with that one that peered forth from the flood and said， 'This shall be Zealand！' I saw them become the dwelling-place of birds that are unknown to us， and then become the seat of wild chiefs of whom we know nothing， until with their axes they cut their Runic signs into a few of these stones， which then came into the calendar of time. But as for me， I had gone quite beyond all lapse of time， and had become a cipher and a nothing. Then three or four beautiful falling stars came down， which cleared the air， and gave my thoughts another direction. You know what a falling star is， do you not？ The learned men are not at all clear about it. I have my own ideas about shooting stars， as the common people in many parts call them， and my idea is this： How often are silent thanksgivings offered up for one who has done a good and noble action！ The thanks are often speechless， but they are not lost for all that. I think these thanks are caught up， and the sunbeams bring the silent， hidden thankfulness over the head of the benefactor； and if it be a whole people that has been expressing its gratitude through a long lapse of time， the thankfulness appears as a nosegay of flowers， and at length falls in the form of a shooting star over the good man's grave. I am always very much pleased when I see a shooting star， especially in the New Year's night， and then find out for whom the gift of gratitude was intended. Lately a gleaming star fell in the southwest， as a tribute of thanksgiving to many—many！ 'For whom was that star intended？' thought I. It fell， no doubt， on the hill by the Bay of Flensborg， where the Dannebrog waves over the graves of Schleppegrell， Lasloe， and their comrades. One star also fell in the midst of the land， fell upon Soro， a flower on the grave of Holberg， the thanks of the year from a great many —thanks for his charming plays！
“It is a GREat and pleasant thought to know that a shooting star falls upon our graves. On mine certainly none will fall—no sunbeam brings thanks to me， for here there is nothing worthy of thanks. I shall not get the patent lacquer，” said Ole， “for my fate on earth is only grease， after all.”Second Visit
IT was New Year's day， and I went up on the tower. Ole spoke of the toasts that were drunk on the transition from the Old Year into the New—from one grave into the other， as he said. And he told me a story about the glasses， and this story had a very deep meaning. It was this：
“When on the New Year's night the clock strikes twelve， the people at the table rise up with full glasses in their hands， and drain these glasses， and drink success to the New Year. They begin the year with the glass in their hands； that is a good beginning for drunkards. They begin the New Year by going to bed， and that's a good beginning for drones. Sleep is sure to play a GREat part in the New Year， and the glass likewise. Do you know what dwells in the glass？” asked Ole. “I will tell you. There dwell in the glass， first， health， and then pleasure， then the most complete sensual delight； and misfortune and the bitterest woe dwell in the glass also. Now， suppose we count the glasses—of course I count the different degrees in the glasses for different people.
“You see， the first glass， that's the glass of health， and in that the herb of health is found growing. Put it up on the beam in the ceiling， and at the end of the year you may be sitting in the arbor of health.
“If you take the second glass—from this a little bird soars upward， twittering in guileless cheerfulness， so that a man may listen to his song， and perhaps join in 'Fair is life！ no downcast looks！ Take courage， and march onward！'
“Out of the third glass rises a little winged urchin， who cannot certainly be called an angel child， for there is goblin blood in his veins， and he has the spirit of a goblin—not wishing to hurt or harm you， indeed， but very ready to play off tricks upon you. He'll sit at your ear and whisper merry thoughts to you； he'll creep into your heart and warm you， so that you grow very merry， and become a wit， so far as the wits of the others can judge.
“In the fourth glass is neither herb， bird， nor urchin. In that glass is the pause drawn by reason， and one may never go beyond that sign.
“Take the fifth glass， and you will weep at yourself， you will feel such a deep emotion； or it will affect you in a different way. Out of the glass there will spring with a bang Prince Carnival， nine times and extravagantly merry. He'll draw you away with him； you'll forget your dignity， if you have any， and you'll forget more than you should or ought to forget. All is dance， song and sound： the masks will carry you away with them， and the daughters of vanity， clad in silk and satin， will come with loose hair and alluring charms； but tear yourself away if you can！
“the sixth glass！ Yes， in that glass sits a demon， in the form of a little， well dressed， attractive and very fascinating man， who thoroughly understands you， aGREes with you in everything， and becomes quite a second self to you. He has a lantern with him， to give you light as he accompanies you home. There is an old legend about a saint who was allowed to choose one of the seven deadly sins， and who accordingly chose drunkenness， which appeared to him the least， but which led him to commit all the other six. The man's blood is mingled with that of the demon. It is the sixth glass， and with that the germ of all evil shoots up within us； and each one grows up with a strength like that of the grains of mustard-seed， and shoots up into a tree， and spreads over the whole world： and most people have no choice but to go into the oven， to be re-cast in a new form.
“That's the history of the glasses，” said the tower-keeper Ole， “and it can be told with lacquer or only with GREase； but I give it you with both！”Third Visit1
ON this occasion I chose the general “moving-day” for my visit to Ole， for on that day it is anything but aGREeable down in the streets in the town； for they are full of sweepings， shreds， and remnants of all sorts， to say nothing of the cast-off rubbish in which one has to wade about. But this time I happened to see two children playing in this wilderness of sweepings. They were playing at “going to bed，” for the occasion seemed especially favorable for this sport. They crept under the straw， and drew an old bit of ragged curtain over themselves by way of coverlet. “It was splendid！” they said； but it was a little too strong for me， and besides， I was obliged to mount up on my visit to Ole.
“It's moving-day to day，” he said； “streets and houses are like a dust-bin—a large dust-bin； but I'm content with a cartload. I may get something good out of that， and I really did get something good out of it once. Shortly after Christmas I was going up the street； it was rough weather， wet and dirty—the right kind of weather to catch cold in. The dustman was there with his cart， which was full， and looked like a sample of streets on moving-day. At the back of the cart stood a fir tree， quite GREen still， and with tinsel on its twigs； it had been used on Christmas eve， and now it was thrown out into the street， and the dustman had stood it up at the back of his cart. It was droll to look at， or you may say it was mournful—all depends on what you think of when you see it； and I thought about it， and thought this and that of many things that were in the cart： or I might have done so， and that comes to the same thing. There was an old lady's glove， too： I wonder what that was thinking of？ Shall I tell you？ The glove was lying there， pointing with its little finger at the tree. 'I'm sorry for the tree，' it thought； 'and I was also at the feast， where the chandeliers glittered. My life was， so to speak， a ball night—a pressure of the hand， and I burst！ My memory keeps dwelling upon that， and I have really nothing else to live for！' This is what the glove thought， or what it might have thought. 'That's a stupid affair with yonder fir tree，' said the potsherds. You see， potsherds think everything is stupid. 'When one is in the dust-cart，' they said， 'one ought not to give one's self airs and wear tinsel. I know that I have been useful in the world—far more useful than such a green stick.' This was a view that might be taken， and I don't think it quite a peculiar one； but for all that， the fir tree looked very well： it was like a little poetry in the dust-heap； and truly there is dust enough in the streets on moving-day. The way is difficult and troublesome then， and I feel obliged to run away out of the confusion； or， if I am on the tower， I stay there and look down， and it is amusing enough.
“there are the good people below， playing at 'changing houses.' They toil and tug away with their goods and chattels， and the household goblin sits in an old tub and moves with them. All the little griefs of the lodging and the family， and the real cares and sorrows， move with them out of the old dwelling into the new； and what gain is there for them or for us in the whole affair？ Yes， there was written long ago the good old maxim： 'Think on the GREat moving-day of death！' That is a serious thought. I hope it is not disagreeable to you that I should have touched upon it？ Death is the most certain messenger， after all， in spite of his various occupations. Yes， Death is the omnibus conductor， and he is the passport writer， and he countersigns our service-book， and he is director of the savings bank of life. Do you understand me？ All the deeds of our life， the great and the little alike， we put into this savings bank； and when Death calls with his omnibus， and we have to step in， and drive with him into the land of eternity， then on the frontier he gives us our service-book as a pass. As a provision for the journey， he takes this or that good deed we have done， and lets it accompany us； and this may be very pleasant or very terrific. Nobody has ever escaped the omnibus journey. There is certainly a talk about one who was not allowed to go—they call him the Wandering Jew： he has to ride behind the omnibus. If he had been allowed to get in， he would have escaped the clutches of the poets.
“Just cast your mind's eye into that GREat omnibus. the society is mixed， for king and beggar， genius and idiot， sit side by side. They must go without their property and money； they have only the service-book and the gift out of the savings bank with them. But which of our deeds is selected and given to us？ Perhaps quite a little one， one that we have forgotten， but which has been recorded—small as a pea， but the pea can send out a blooming shoot. The poor bumpkin who sat on a low stool in the corner， and was jeered at and flouted， will perhaps have his worn-out stool given him as a provision； and the stool may become a litter in the land of eternity， and rise up then as a throne， gleaming like gold and blooming as an arbor. He who always lounged about， and drank the spiced draught of pleasure， that he might forget the wild things he had done here， will have his barrel given to him on the journey， and will have to drink from it as they go on； and the drink is bright and clear， so that the thoughts remain pure， and all good and noble feelings are awakened， and he sees and feels what in life he could not or would not see； and then he has within him the punishment， the gnawing worm， which will not die through time incalculable. If on the glasses there stood written 'oblivion，' on the barrel 'remembrance' is inscribed.
“When I read a good book， an historical work， I always think at last of the poetry of what I am reading， and of the omnibus of death， and wonder， which of the hero's deeds Death took out of the savings bank for him， and what provisions he got on the journey into eternity. There was once a French king—I have forgotten his name， for the names of good people are sometimes forgotten， even by me， but it will come back some day；—there was a king who， during a famine， became the benefactor of his people； and the people raised up to his memory a monument of snow， with the inscription， 'Quicker than this melts didst thou bring help！' I fancy that Death， looking back upon the monument， gave him a single snow-flake as provision， a snow-flake that never melts， and this flake floated over his royal head， like a white butterfly， into the land of eternity. Thus， too， there was Louis XI. I have remembered his name， for one remembers what is bad—a trait of him often comes into my thoughts， and I wish one could say the story is not true. He had his lord high constable executed， and he could execute him， right or wrong； but he had the innocent children of the constable， one seven and the other eight years old， placed under the scaffold so that the warm blood of their father spurted over them， and then he had them sent to the Bastille， and shut up in iron cages， where not even a coverlet was given them to protect them from the cold. And King Louis sent the executioner to them every week， and had a tooth pulled out of the head of each， that they might not be too comfortable； and the elder of the boys said， 'My mother would die of grief if she knew that my younger brother had to suffer so cruelly； therefore pull out two of my teeth， and spare him.' The tears came into the hangman's eyes， but the king's will was stronger than the tears； and every week two little teeth were brought to him on a silver plate； he had demanded them， and he had them. I fancy that Death took these two teeth out of the savings bank of life， and gave them to Louis XI， to carry with him on the GREat journey into the land of immortality； they fly before him like two flames of fire； they shine and burn， and they bite him， the innocent children's teeth.
“Yes， that's a serious journey， the omnibus ride on the GREat moving-day！ And when is it to be undertaken？ That's just the serious part of it. Any day， any hour， any minute， the omnibus may draw up. Which of our deeds will Death take out of the savings bank， and give to us as provision？ Let us think of the moving-day that is not marked in the calendar.”
“當今世事時起時落，時落時起！現在我可不能起得再高了！”守塔人奧勒說道。“起落，落起，大多數人都必須試試；從根本上說來，我們大家最終都要成爲守塔人，從高處審視生活，審視萬事。”
我的朋友奧勒，老守塔人，一個有趣愛嘮叨，好像甚麼都藏不住可是卻又極嚴肅認真地把許多東西都藏在心底的人，他在塔上就是這樣講的。是啊，他出身於滿不錯的門第，還有那麼一些人說，他是一個樞密參事的兒子，或者說可能是，讀書讀到高中畢業，曾是助理教師，助理牧師，但這於事又有何補！那時他住在牧師的家裏，一切全是免費的；他要上光鞋油打整他的靴子，但是牧師只給他用油脂調的黑色塗料，爲了這個，他們之間產生了隔閡；一個說另一個小氣，另一個說這一個虛榮，黑色塗料成了敵意的黑色緣由，於是兩人分手了。他對牧師要求的東西，也正是他對人世間的要求：上光鞋油；可得到的總是用油脂調的黑色塗料；——於是他便走離人寰去當隱士。可是，在一個大城市裏食人間煙火的隱士只能在教堂的塔上纔有，他便爬到那上面，抽着菸斗，孤單地走來走去；他朝下望望，朝上望望，不斷琢磨，然後用自己的方式講出他看到了些甚麼，沒有看到甚麼，他從書本上以及從自己身上，讀到了些甚麼。我常借給他些書讀，都是些好書，從你交往的人讀些甚麼樣的書，你便會知道其人如何。他不喜歡英國那種寫家庭女教師的小說，他是這麼說的，也不喜歡法國的那種用對流風和玫瑰花桿炮製成的東西，不，他要讀傳記，讀關於大自然的奇妙的書。我每年至少去看望他一回，通常是新年一過便去，在每年送舊迎新的時刻，他的思想中總有點兒這樣或那樣的事情。
我在此講兩次對他的訪問，用他的原話來說，如果我能做到的話。頭一次訪問
在我不久前借給他的書中，有一本是講鵝卵石的。那本書使他特別高興，使他十分充實。
“是啊，它們真是些有年頭的老東西，這些鵝卵石！”他說道，“可是人們毫不留神地從它們一旁走過去了！在田野裏，在海灘上，有大量這種石子的地方我自己就是這樣乾的。你踩在鋪路的石子上，那都是最最古老的太古時代的遺蹟呀！我自己就這麼幹過。現在，我對每一塊鋪路石都有了由衷的敬意！謝謝您這本書，它真使我得到充實，把那些陳腐思想和習慣都趕到一旁，令我渴望再多讀一點這樣的書。描述地球的長篇小說是各種長篇小說中最奇特的！可惜，我們無法讀到開頭的幾部了，因爲那幾部是用一種我們沒有學過的語言寫的。我們必須從各個地層，從含硅的石頭，從地球的各個時期中才能讀到，只是到了第六部，有行爲的人，亞當先生和夏娃夫人才出現；對大多數讀者，這太晚了一點，他們願意一開始就這樣，對我倒無所謂。這是一部長篇小說，非常奇特，我們大夥兒都被寫了進去。我們腳爬手摸，停留在老地方，可是地球卻在轉動，並沒有把海洋裏的水潑到我們身上，我們在上面踏着走着的地殼，還是緊緊地連在一起，我們並沒有跌落進去，沒有穿過去；於是便有了幾百萬年的歷史，不斷地進步。謝謝你這本講鵝卵石的書。這些鵝卵石都是些小夥子，要是它們能講話的話，一定可以給你講不少！要是一個人像我這樣高高地坐在上面，偶而一兩次變得微不足道，豈不是非常有趣的事情，然後想着我們大夥兒，甚至有了上光鞋油，也全是蟻塚上瞬間即逝的螞蟻，儘管我們當中有的是佩帶着綬帶勳章的螞蟻，有的是有前途有地位的螞蟻。人處在這些有幾百萬歲年紀的可尊敬的老鵝卵石面前，年輕得多麼可笑！除夕晚上我在讀這本書，着了迷，竟忘記了我新年夜的慣常娛樂項目，看”狂人的隊伍進軍阿瑪厄1“，是的，我是怎麼回事，您一定不明白！
“女巫騎着掃帚的傳說是大家都知道的，那講的是仲夏夜2，去的地方是布洛克斯畢耶爾3.但是我們也有一支狂人軍隊，是國內的，是現代的，他們在除夕晚上朝着阿瑪厄進軍。所有的蹩腳詩人，男的女的，演員，給報紙寫文章的和藝術界露面的人物，那些不中用的人，都在除夕晚上飄過天空到阿瑪厄；他們騎在自己的鉛筆或者羽毛筆上，鋼筆不能馱人，它太僵硬了。就像前面說的，我每年除夕都看見這個場面；他們當中絕大多數我能叫出名字來，不過犯不上和他們過不去；他們不喜歡旁人知道他們騎着羽毛筆的阿瑪厄之行。我有一個外甥女，她是一個漁婦，她給三份很受人尊敬的報紙送去罵人的話，她這麼說；她自己被邀請去那邊作客，她是被別人帶去的，她自己沒有羽毛筆，不能騎；她這麼講過。她講的東西一半是胡謅，不過有另一半也就夠了。她到了那兒以後，他們開始唱歌，每位客人都寫自己的歌，都唱自己的，因爲自己的是最好的；全都一回事，都是一樣的”陳詞濫調“。接着他們結成小羣，這一小羣一小羣的人都會饒舌，後來是一羣愛唱的傢伙，他們輪流轉着唱，後來是一夥兒在家人中間敲鼓的小鼓手。——在這裏大家和那些寫東西而不署名的人交了朋友。這裏也就是說，油脂調的黑色塗料怎麼樣被人看成是上光鞋油的；有劊子手和他的小夥計，小夥計是最奸滑的，要不然便不會有人注意他了；有善良的清道夫，他是倒垃圾桶的，他把垃圾桶分成”良、優、特優4！“ ——在大家玩得應該那麼開心的時候，垃圾堆裏冒出一根桿子，一整棵的大樹，一朵碩大無比的花，一大朵菌子，一大片遮棚，那是這令人尊敬的集會的仙境柱5，把他們在過去一年中給予世界的東西全都綴掛在上面，從這裏射出了火星，像火舌，全都是他們用過的抄襲和剽竊來的思想和主意，它們發出火花到處竄，就像一陣焰火似的。有人在玩”快找到了“6；沒有甚麼名氣的詩人在玩”心在燃燒“；頭腦靈敏的人口講雙關語，更蹩腳的玩意兒大家就不能容忍了。俏皮話充斥整個會場，就像有人把空瓦罐摔在大門上7，或者像在摔裝滿了灰的瓦罐一樣。真是有趣極了！我的外甥女這麼說；事實上，她還說了一大堆非常有害可是卻很有意思的話。我不講了，我們應該做好人，而不能處處評頭論足。然而您可以看出，一個像我這樣知道那邊的聚會活動的人，自然是很希望每年新年都看到這一支狂軍飛往那邊去的；如果有一年覺得有個別人沒有參加，那麼我一定會發現另有新人加入；可是今年我忽略了，沒有看看客人。我從鵝卵石上滑滾開來，滾過了幾百萬年，看到石頭在北國亂衝亂撞。看見它們早在諾亞的方舟8造成之前便在冰塊上漂游，看到它們沉入海底又從一片沙洲處冒了出來，被水沖積在那裏的那一塊說道：”這該叫錫蘭9！“我看見它們成了許多種我們不認識的鳥的住地，成了野蠻人酋長的家園，這種野蠻人酋長我們也不認識，直到斧子在幾塊石頭上刻下了魯納符號十，這纔可以算作進入紀年的時代。不過，我對它們一竅不通，等於是零。這時落下了三、四顆美麗的流星，它們發出光亮，思想這纔有了向另一方向的轉變；您當然知道流星是甚麼！那些學問淵博的卻不知道！——我現在對他們有了想法，而我是從這樣一點出發的：人們經常在暗底裏對做過善行的人感謝着、祝福着，這種感謝常常是無聲的，但是它沒有落到泥土裏！我這樣想，它被陽光發現了，陽光把這些無聲的感謝帶到了行善者的頭上。若是在一段時間中整個人民都表示了自己的感謝，那麼感謝便會變成一束花像一顆流星似地落到善行者的墳上。我看着流星墜落，特別是在新年夜裏，我真有這麼一種興致，去找一找這感謝的花束是獻給誰的。不久前有一顆流星在西南方墜落：”一種千百遍的祝福感謝！“這一回它落向誰呢！它肯定是落在，我想，佛倫斯堡土地石崖上？，那裏丹麥國旗飄揚在施萊帕格瑞爾？的，在萊瑟？和戰友的墳上。有一顆落在國家的正中；它落到索渝，落在霍爾貝？的棺木上，是這年許許多多人對他的感謝，對令人心情愉快的喜劇的感謝！
“知道有顆流星將落在我們的墳上，這個想法是很了不起的，也是使人愉快的。只是現在還沒有流星落到我的墳上，沒有一絲陽光給我帶來感謝，這裏沒有甚麼值得感謝的！我還沒有得到上光鞋油呢，”奧勒說道，“我這一生的命只能得到用油脂調的黑色塗料。”第二次訪問
新年那天，我爬上了塔頂。奧勒講了在新舊交替，也就是他說的過年的時候，左一杯右一杯碰杯乾杯的事。於是我聽到了他講的酒杯的故事，含義頗深。
“除夕夜裏，時鐘敲響了十二下，大家都站起來立在桌旁，手裏拿着斟滿了酒的杯子，爲新年祝酒。有人手拿着酒杯開始了新的一年，對於貪杯的人來說，這倒是個好開端！有人以上牀睡覺開始新的一年，這對嗜睡的人來說是個好開端！睡眠在一年中有頗重要的作用，對酒杯也一樣。你知道，酒杯裏都有些甚麼嗎？”他問道。“是啊，裏面有健康、愉快和狂歡極樂！裏面有悲愴和極度的不幸！在我算酒杯的時候，我當然也就算了不同的人生裏面的等級。
“您看，第一隻酒杯，那是健康的酒杯！裏面長着健康的草，把這草插在屋樑上，到年末的時候，您便可以坐在健康的蔭棚之下了。
“要是您拿起第二隻酒杯——！是的，從裏面飛出一隻小鳥，它天真無邪歡快地啾啾唱着，於是人們傾聽着，說不定還和着它唱：生活是美好的！我們不要垂頭喪氣！勇敢向前！”從第三隻酒杯裏跑出一個長了翅膀的小東西。還不能稱他爲小天使，因爲他的血是小精靈？的，思想也是小精靈的，倒不拿人尋開心，只是逗逗樂而已；他爬到耳朵的後面，給我們講些有趣的事？，他在我們的心房躺下，使那兒變暖，於是我們便歡快起來，成了別的頭腦的判斷力認定的好頭腦。“在第四隻酒杯中沒有草，沒有鳥也沒有那個小傢伙，裏面是表明理智的一道思想長劃，人們永遠也不能超越這道思想長劃。
“要是拿起了第五隻杯子，那你就要爲自己而哭泣了，由衷地高興激動，或者它有另外的聲響；從酒杯裏彭地跳出個狂歡王子，能說會道，放蕩不羈！他把你拉上，你忘記了自己的尊嚴，如果你有尊嚴的話！比起你應該忘記和需要忘記的東西來，你忘掉了更多的東西。到處都是歡歌漫舞一片喧囂；戴着面具的人把你拉上，魔鬼的女兒，穿着絲絨、綢緞，頭髮散落開，體態美麗，朝你走來；掙脫掉吧，要是你能夠的話！
“第六隻杯子！——是的，在裏面撒旦？本人坐着，一位穿着考究，能說會道，有吸引力，令人極爲舒服的小個子男人，他十分瞭解你，認爲你說的一切都是對的，完全就是你的寫照！他提着燈陪伴你去他的家裏。有一段關於一個聖人的古老傳說，這位聖人須從七種巨罪？中選擇一種，他選擇了酗酒，他以爲那是最輕微的，在酗酒中他卻把其他六種罪惡全都犯了。人和魔鬼摻混着血液，那就是那第六隻杯子，於是我們體內便有一切壞種萌芽；每個壞種都猛烈地生長，像聖經裏的芥菜子一樣？，長成了大樹，籠罩了整個世界。它們當中的大部份只好走向熔爐，被重新鑄造過。
“這就是酒杯的故事！”守塔人奧勒說道，“用上光鞋油或油脂調的黑色塗料都可以講出！我兩種都用來講它。”
