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安徒生童話故事第131篇：姑媽Our Aunt
引導(dǎo)語：姑媽即姑母，父親的姐妹，那么安徒生的《姑媽》大家知道?是講什么內(nèi)容的?下面是小編整理的中英文版本的，與大家分享。
你應(yīng)該認(rèn)識姑媽!她這個(gè)人才可愛呢!這也就是說，她的可愛并不像我們平時(shí)所說的那種可愛。她和藹可親，有自己的一種滑稽味兒。如果一個(gè)人想聊聊閑天、開開什么人的玩笑，那么她就可以成為談笑的資料。她可以成為戲里的角色;這是因?yàn)樗皇菫閼蛟汉团c戲院有關(guān)的一切而活著的緣故。她是一個(gè)非常有身份的人。但是經(jīng)紀(jì)人法布——姑媽把他念作佛拉布——卻說她是一個(gè)“戲迷”。
“戲院就是我的學(xué)校，”她說，“是我的知識的源泉。我在這兒重新溫習(xí)《圣經(jīng)》的歷史：摩西啦，約瑟和他的弟兄們啦，都成了歌劇!我在戲院里學(xué)到世界史、地理和關(guān)于人類的知識!我從法國戲中知道了巴黎的生活——很不正經(jīng)，但是非常有趣!我為《李格堡家庭》這出戲流了不知多少眼淚：想想看，一個(gè)丈夫?yàn)榱耸顾钠拮拥玫剿哪贻p的愛人，居然喝酒喝得醉死了!是的，這50年來我成了戲院的一個(gè)老主顧;在這期間，我不知流了多少眼淚!”
姑媽知道每出戲、每一場情節(jié)、每一個(gè)要出場或已經(jīng)出過場的人物。她只是為那演戲的九個(gè)月而活著。夏天是沒有戲上演的——這段時(shí)間使她變得衰老。晚間的戲如果能演到半夜以后，那就等于是把她的生命延長。她不像別人那樣說：“春天來了，鸛鳥來了!”或者：“報(bào)上說草莓已經(jīng)上市了!”相反，關(guān)于秋天的到來，她總喜歡說：“你沒有看到戲院開始賣票了嗎?戲快要上演了呀!”
在她看來，一幢房子是否有價(jià)值，完全要看它離戲院的遠(yuǎn)近而定。當(dāng)她不得不從戲院后邊的一個(gè)小巷子遷到一條比較遠(yuǎn)一點(diǎn)的大街上，住進(jìn)一幢對面沒有街坊的房子里去的時(shí)候，她真是難過極了。
“我的窗子就應(yīng)該是我的包廂!你不能老是在家里坐著想自己的事情呀。你應(yīng)該看看人。不過我現(xiàn)在的生活就好像我是住在老遠(yuǎn)的鄉(xiāng)下似的。如果我要想看看人，我就得走進(jìn)廚房，爬到洗碗槽上去。只有這樣我才能看到對面的鄰居。當(dāng)我還住在我那個(gè)小巷子里的時(shí)候，我可以直接望見那個(gè)賣麻商人的店里的情景，而且只需走三百步路就可以到戲院�，F(xiàn)在我可得走三千大步了。”
姑媽有時(shí)也生病。但是不管她怎樣不舒服，她決不會不看戲的。她的醫(yī)生開了一個(gè)單子，叫她晚上在腳上敷些藥。她遵照醫(yī)生的話辦了，但是她卻喊車子到戲院去，帶著她腳上敷的藥坐在那兒看戲。如果她坐在那兒死去了，那對她說來倒是很幸福的呢。多瓦爾生①就是在戲院里死去的——她把這叫做“幸福之死”。
天國里如果沒有戲院，對她說來是不可想象的。我們當(dāng)然是不會走進(jìn)天國的。但是我們可以想象得到，過去死去了的名男演員和女演員，一定還是在那里繼續(xù)他們的事業(yè)的。
姑媽在她的房間里安了一條私人電線，直通到戲院。她在每天吃咖啡的時(shí)候就接到一個(gè)“電報(bào)”。她的電線就是舞臺裝置部的西凡爾生先生。凡是布景或撤銷布景，幕啟或幕落，都是由此人來發(fā)號施令的。
她從他那里打聽到每出戲的簡單扼要的情節(jié)。她把莎士比亞的《暴風(fēng)雨》叫做“討厭的作品，因?yàn)樗牟季疤珡?fù)雜，而且頭一場一開始就有水!”她的意思是說，洶涌的波濤這個(gè)布景在舞臺上太突出了。相反，假如同樣一個(gè)室內(nèi)布景在五幕中都不變換一下，那么她就要認(rèn)為這個(gè)劇本寫得很聰明和完整，是一出安靜的戲，因?yàn)樗恍枰裁床季熬湍茏詣拥匮萜饋怼?/p>
在古時(shí)候——也就是姑媽所謂的30多年以前——她和剛才所說的西凡爾生先生還很年輕。他那時(shí)已經(jīng)在裝置部里工作，而且正如她所說的，已經(jīng)是她的一個(gè)“恩人”。在那個(gè)時(shí)候，城里只有一個(gè)獨(dú)一無二的大戲院。在演晚場時(shí)，許多顧客總是坐在臺頂上的布景間里。每一個(gè)后臺的木匠都可以自由處理一兩個(gè)位子。這些位子經(jīng)常坐滿了客人，而且都是名流：據(jù)說不是將軍的太太，就是市府參議員的夫人。從幕后看戲，而且當(dāng)幕落以后，知道演員怎樣站著和怎樣動作——這都是非常有趣的。
姑媽有好幾次在這種位子上看悲劇和芭蕾舞，因?yàn)樾枰笈輪T上臺的戲只有從臺頂上的布景間里才看得最有味。
你在黑暗中坐著，而且這兒大多數(shù)的人都隨身帶有晚餐。有一次三個(gè)蘋果和一片夾著香腸的黃油面包掉到監(jiān)獄里去了，而獄中的烏果里諾②卻在這時(shí)快要餓死。這引起觀眾哄堂大笑。后來戲院的經(jīng)理不準(zhǔn)人坐在臺頂?shù)牟季伴g里看戲，主要就是為了香腸的緣故。
“不過我到那上面去過37次，”姑媽說。“西凡爾生先生，我永遠(yuǎn)也忘不了這件事。”
當(dāng)布景間最后一次為觀眾開放的時(shí)候，《所羅門的審判》這出戲正在上演。姑媽記得清清楚楚。她通過她的恩人西凡爾生先生為經(jīng)紀(jì)人法布弄到了一張門票，雖然他不配得到一張，因?yàn)樗鲜歉鷳蛟洪_玩笑，而且也常因此諷刺她。不過她總算為他弄到了一個(gè)位子。他要“倒看”舞臺上的表演。姑媽說：這個(gè)詞兒是他親口說出來的——真能代表他的個(gè)性。
因此他就從上面“倒看”《所羅門的審判》了，同時(shí)也就睡著了。你很可能以為他事先赴過宴會，干了好多杯酒。他睡過去了，而且因此被鎖在里面。他在戲院里的這一覺，睡過了整個(gè)黑夜。睡醒以后，他把全部經(jīng)過都講了出來，但是姑媽卻不相信他的話。經(jīng)紀(jì)人說：“《所羅門的審判》演完了，所有的燈和亮都滅了，樓上和樓下的人都走光了;但是真正的戲——所謂‘余興’——還不過是剛剛開始呢。”經(jīng)紀(jì)人說，“這才是最好的戲呢!道具都活起來了。它們不是在演《所羅門的審判》;不是的，它們是在演《戲院的審判日》。”這一套話，經(jīng)紀(jì)人法布居然膽敢叫姑媽相信!這就是她為他弄到一張臺頂票所得到的感謝!
經(jīng)紀(jì)人所講的話，聽起來確實(shí)很滑稽，不過骨子里卻是包含著惡意和諷刺。
“那上面真是漆黑一團(tuán)，”經(jīng)紀(jì)人說，“不過只有在這種情景下，偉大的妖術(shù)演出《戲院的審判日》才能開始。收票人站在門口。每個(gè)看戲的人都要交出品行證明書，看他要不要戴著手銬，或是要不要戴著口絡(luò)走進(jìn)去。在戲開演后遲到的上流社會中人，或者故意在外面浪費(fèi)時(shí)間的年輕人，都被拴在外面。除了戴上口絡(luò)以外，他們的腳還得套上氈底鞋，待到下一幕開演時(shí)才能走進(jìn)去。這樣，《戲院的審判日》就開始了。”
“這簡直是我們上帝從來沒有聽過的胡說!”姑媽說。
布景畫家如果想上天，他就得爬著他自己畫的梯子，但是這樣的梯子是任何人也爬不上的。這可以說是犯了違反透視規(guī)則的錯(cuò)誤。舞臺木工如果想上天，他就得把他費(fèi)了許多氣力放錯(cuò)了地方的那些房子和樹木搬回到正確的地方來，而且必須在雞叫以前就搬好。法布先生如果想上天，也得留神。至于他所形容的那些悲劇和喜劇中的演員，歌唱和舞蹈的演員，他們簡直糟糕得很。法布先生!佛拉布先生!他真不配坐在臺頂上。姑媽永遠(yuǎn)不愿意把他的話傳達(dá)給任何人聽。但是佛拉布這東西，居然說他已經(jīng)把這些話都寫下來了，而且還要印出來——不過這要在他死了以后，不在他死去以前，因?yàn)樗氯思一顒兯钠ぁ?/p>
姑媽只有一次在她的幸福的神廟——戲院——里感到恐怖和苦惱。那是在冬天——那種一天只有兩個(gè)鐘頭的稀薄的陽光的日子里。這時(shí)天氣又冷又下雪，但是姑媽不得不到戲院里去。除了一個(gè)小型歌劇和一個(gè)大型芭蕾舞、一段開場白和一段收場白以外，主戲是《赫爾曼·馮·翁那》，這出戲一直可以演到深夜。姑媽非去不可。她的房客借給她一雙里外都有毛的滑雪靴。她連小腿都伸進(jìn)靴子里去了。
她走進(jìn)戲院，在包廂里坐下來。靴子是很暖和的，因此她沒有脫下來。忽然間，有一個(gè)喊“起火”的聲音叫起來了。
煙從舞臺邊廂和頂樓上冒出來了，這時(shí)立刻起了一陣可怕的騷動。大家都在向外亂跑。姑媽坐在離門最遠(yuǎn)的一個(gè)包廂里。
“布景從第二層樓的左邊看最好，”她這樣說過，“因?yàn)樗菍榛始野鼛锏娜说男蕾p而設(shè)計(jì)的。”姑媽想走出去，但是她前面的人已經(jīng)在恐怖中無意地把門關(guān)上了。姑媽坐在那里面，既不能出，也不能進(jìn)——這也就是說，進(jìn)不到隔壁的一個(gè)包廂里去，因?yàn)楦舭逄吡恕?/p>
她大叫起來，誰也聽不見。她朝下面的一層樓望。那兒已經(jīng)空了。這層樓很低，而且隔她不遠(yuǎn)。姑媽在恐怖中忽然覺得自己變得年輕和活潑起來。她想跳下去。她一只腿跨過了欄桿，另一只腿還抵在座位上。她就是這樣像騎馬似地坐著，穿著漂亮的衣服和花裙子，一條長腿懸在外面——一條穿著龐大的滑雪靴的腿。這副樣兒才值得一看呢!她當(dāng)真被人看見了，因此她的求救聲也被人聽見了。她被人從火中救出來了，因?yàn)閼蛟旱降走�是沒有被燒掉。
她說這是她一生中最值得紀(jì)念的一晚。她很高興她當(dāng)時(shí)沒有辦法看見自己的全貌，否則她簡直要羞死了。
她的恩人——舞臺裝置部的西凡爾生先生——經(jīng)常在禮拜天來看她。不過從這個(gè)禮拜天到下個(gè)禮拜天是很長的一段時(shí)間。因此近來一些時(shí)日里，在每個(gè)星期三前后，她就找一個(gè)小女孩來吃“剩飯”——這就是說，把每天午飯后剩下的東西給這女孩子當(dāng)晚飯吃。
這個(gè)女孩子是一個(gè)芭蕾舞班子里的一員;她的確需要東西吃。她每天在舞臺上作為一個(gè)小妖精出現(xiàn)。她最難演的一個(gè)角色是當(dāng)《魔笛》③中那只獅子的后腿。不過她慢慢長大了，可以演獅子的前腿。演這個(gè)角色，她只能得到三毛錢;而演后腿的時(shí)候，她卻能得到一塊錢——在這種情形下，她得彎下腰，而且呼吸不到新鮮空氣。姑媽覺得能了解到這種內(nèi)幕也是蠻有趣的事情。
她的確值得有跟戲院同樣長久的壽命，但是她卻活不了那么久。她也沒有在戲院里死去，她是在她自己的床上安靜地、莊嚴(yán)地死去的。她臨終的一句話是非常有意義的。她問：“明天有什么戲上演?”
她死后大概留下了500塊錢。這件事我們是從她所得到的利息推斷出來的——20元。姑媽把這筆錢作為遺產(chǎn)留給一位沒有家的、正派的老小姐。這筆錢是專為每年買一張二層樓上左邊位子的票而用的，而且是星期六的一張票，因?yàn)樽詈玫膽蚨际窃谶@天上演的;同時(shí)她每星期六在戲院的時(shí)候必須默念一下躺在墳?zāi)估锏墓脣尅?/p>
這就是姑媽的宗教。
�、俣嗤郀柹�(1768-1844)是丹麥名雕刻家。
�、跒豕镏Z是意大利13世紀(jì)的政治家。他晚年被人出賣，餓死在獄中。這里所談的是關(guān)于他坐監(jiān)牢的一出戲。
�、圻@是奧地利音樂家莫扎特(Mozart,1756-1791)的一個(gè)歌劇。
《姑媽》英文版：
Our Aunt
YOU ought to have known our aunt; she was charming! That is to say, she was not charming at all as the word is usually understood; but she was good and kind, amusing in her way, and was just as any one ought to be whom people are to talk about and to laugh at. She might have been put into a play, and wholly and solely on account of the fact that she only lived for the theatre and for what was done there. She was an honorable matron; but Agent Fabs, whom she used to call “Flabs,” declared that our aunt was stage-struck.
“The theatre is my school,” said she, “the source of my knowledge. From thence I have resuscitated Biblical history. Now, ‘Moses’ and ‘Joseph in Egypt’—there are operas for you! I get my universal history from the theatre, my geography, and my knowledge of men. Out of the French pieces I get to know life in Paris—slippery, but exceedingly interesting. How I have cried over ‘La Famille Roquebourg’—that the man must drink himself to death, so that she may marry the young fellow! Yes, how many tears I have wept in the fifty years I have subscribed to the theatre!”
Our aunt knew every acting play, every bit of scenery, every character, every one who appeared or had appeared. She seemed really only to live during the nine months the theatre was open. Summertime without a summer theatre seemed to be only a time that made her old; while, on the other hand, a theatrical evening that lasted till midnight was a lengthening of her life. She did not say, as other people do, “Now we shall have spring, the stork is here,” or, “They’ve advertised the first strawberries in the papers.” She, on the contrary, used to announce the coming of autumn, with “Have you heard they’re selling boxes for the theatre? now the performances will begin.”
She used to value a lodging entirely according to its proximity to the theatre. It was a real sorrow to her when she had to leave the little lane behind the playhouse, and move into the great street that lay a little farther off, and live there in a house where she had no opposite neighbors.
“At home,” said she, “my windows must be my opera-box. One cannot sit and look into one’s self till one’s tired; one must see people. But now I live just as if I’d go into the country. If I want to see human beings, I must go into my kitchen, and sit down on the sink, for there only I have opposite neighbors. No; when I lived in my dear little lane, I could look straight down into the ironmonger’s shop, and had only three hundred paces to the theatre; and now I’ve three thousand paces to go, military measurement.”
Our aunt was sometimes ill, but however unwell she might feel, she never missed the play. The doctor prescribed one day that she should put her feet in a bran bath, and she followed his advice; but she drove to the theatre all the same, and sat with her feet in bran there. If she had died there, she would have been very glad. Thorwaldsen died in the theatre, and she called that a happy death.
She could not imagine but that in heaven there must be a theatre too. It had not, indeed, been promised us, but we might very well imagine it. The many distinguished actors and actresses who had passed away must surely have a field for their talent.
Our aunt had an electric wire from the theatre to her room. A telegram used to be dispatched to her at coffee-time, and it used to consist of the words, “Herr Sivertsen is at the machinery;” for it was he who gave the signal for drawing the curtain up and down and for changing the scenes.
From him she used to receive a short and concise description of every piece. His opinion of Shakspeare’s “Tempest,” was, “Mad nonsense! There’s so much to put up, and the first scene begins with ‘Water to the front of the wings.’” That is to say, the water had to come forward so far. But when, on the other hand, the same interior scene remained through five acts, he used to pronounce it a sensible, well-written play, a resting play, which performed itself, without putting up scenes.
In earlier times, by which name our aunt used to designate thirty years ago, she and the before-mentioned Herr Sivertsen had been younger. At that time he had already been connected with the machinery, and was, as she said, her benefactor. It used to be the custom in those days that in the evening performances in the only theatre the town possessed, spectators were admitted to the part called the “flies,” over the stage, and every machinist had one or two places to give away. Often the flies were quite full of good company; it was said that generals’ wives and privy councillors’ wives had been up there. It was quite interesting to look down behind the scenes, and to see how the people walked to and fro on the stage when the curtain was down.
Our aunt had been there several times, as well when there was a tragedy as when there was a ballet; for the pieces in which there were the greatest number of characters on the stage were the most interesting to see from the flies. One sat pretty much in the dark up there, and most people took their supper up with them. Once three apples and a great piece of bread and butter and sausage fell down right into the dungeon of Ugolino, where that unhappy man was to be starved to death; and there was great laughter among the audience. The sausage was one of the weightiest reasons why the worthy management refused in future to have any spectators up in the flies.
“But I was there seven-and-thirty times,” said our aunt, “and I shall always remember Mr. Sivertsen for that.”
On the very last evening when the flies were still open to the public, the “Judgment of Solomon” was performed, as our aunt remembered very well. She had, through the influence of her benefactor, Herr Sivertsen, procured a free admission for the Agent Fabs, although he did not deserve it in the least, for he was always cutting his jokes about the theatre and teasing our aunt; but she had procured him a free admission to the flies, for all that. He wanted to look at this player-stuff from the other side.
“Those were his own words, and they were just like him,” said our aunt.
He looked down from above on the ‘Judgment of Solomon,’ and fell asleep over it. One would have thought that he had come from a dinner where many toasts had been given. He went to sleep, and was locked in. And there he sat through the dark night in the flies, and when he woke, he told a story, but our aunt would not believe it.
“The ‘Judgment of Solomon’ was over,” he said, “and all the people had gone away, up stairs and down stairs; but now the real play began, the after-piece, which was the best of all,” said the agent. “Then life came into the affair. It was not the ‘Judgment of Solomon’ that was performed; no, a real court of judgment was held upon the stage.” And Agent Fabs had the impudence to try and make our aunt believe all this. That was the thanks she got for having got him a place in the flies.
What did the agent say? Why, it was curious enough to hear, but there was malice and satire in it.
“It looked dark enough up there,” said the agent; “but then the magic business began—a great performance, ‘The Judgment in the Theatre.’ The box-keepers were at their posts, and every spectator had to show his ghostly pass-book, that it might be decided if he was to be admitted with hands loose or bound, and with or without a muzzle. Grand people who came too late, when the performance had begun, and young people, who could not always watch the time, were tied up outside, and had list slippers put on their feet, with which they were allowed to go in before the beginning of the next act, and they had muzzles too. And then the ‘Judgment on the Stage’ began.”
“All malice, and not a bit of truth in it,” said our aunt.
The painter, who wanted to get to Paradise, had to go up a staircase which he had himself painted, but which no man could mount. That was to expiate his sins against perspective. All the plants and buildings, which the property-man had placed, with infinite pains, in countries to which they did not belong, the poor fellow was obliged to put in their right places before cockcrow, if he wanted to get into Paradise. Let Herr Fabs see how he would get in himself; but what he said of the performers, tragedians and comedians, singers and dancers, that was the most rascally of all. Mr. Fabs, indeed!—Flabs! He did not deserve to be admitted at all, and our aunt would not soil her lips with what he said. And he said, did Flabs, that the whole was written down, and it should be printed when he was dead and buried, but not before, for he would not risk having his arms and legs broken.
Once our aunt had been in fear and trembling in her temple of happiness, the theatre. It was on a winter day, one of those days in which one has a couple of hours of daylight, with a gray sky. It was terribly cold and snowy, but aunt must go to the theatre. A little opera and a great ballet were performed, and a prologue and an epilogue into the bargain; and that would last till late at night. Our aunt must needs go; so she borrowed a pair of fur boots of her lodger—boots with fur inside and out, and which reached far up her legs.
She got to the theatre, and to her box; the boots were warm, and she kept them on. Suddenly there was a cry of “Fire!” Smoke was coming from one of the side scenes, and streamed down from the flies, and there was a terrible panic. The people came rushing out, and our aunt was the last in the box, “on the second tier, left-hand side, for from there the scenery looks best,” she used to say. “The scenes are always arranged that they look best from the King’s side.” Aunt wanted to come out, but the people before her, in their fright and heedlessness, slammed the door of the box; and there sat our aunt, and couldn’t get out, and couldn’t get in; that is to say, she couldn’t get into the next box, for the partition was too high for her. She called out, and no one heard her; she looked down into the tier of boxes below her, and it was empty, and low, and looked quite near, and aunt in her terror felt quite young and light. She thought of jumping down, and had got one leg over the partition, the other resting on the bench. There she sat astride, as if on horseback, well wrapped up in her flowered cloak with one leg hanging out—a leg in a tremendous fur boot. That was a sight to behold; and when it was beheld, our aunt was heard too, and was saved from burning, for the theatre was not burned down.
That was the most memorable evening of her life, and she was glad that she could not see herself, for she would have died with confusion.
Her benefactor in the machinery department, Herr Sivertsen, visited her every Sunday, but it was a long time from Sunday to Sunday. In the latter time, therefore, she used to have in a little child “for the scraps;” that is to say, to eat up the remains of the dinner. It was a child employed in the ballet, one that certainly wanted feeding. The little one used to appear, sometimes as an elf, sometimes as a page; the most difficult part she had to play was the lion’s hind leg in the “Magic Flute;” but as she grew larger she could represent the fore-feet of the lion. She certainly only got half a guilder for that, whereas the hind legs were paid for with a whole guilder; but then she had to walk bent, and to do without fresh air. “That was all very interesting to hear,” said our aunt.
She deserved to live as long as the theatre stood, but she could not last so long; and she did not die in the theatre, but respectably in her bed. Her last words were, moreover, not without meaning. She asked,
“What will the play be to-morrow?”
At her death she left about five hundred dollars. We presume this from the interest, which came to twenty dollars. This our aunt had destined as a legacy for a worthy old spinster who had no friends; it was to be devoted to a yearly subscription for a place in the second tier, on the left side, for the Saturday evening, “for on that evening two pieces were always given,” it said in the will; and the only condition laid upon the person who enjoyed the legacy was, that she should think, every Saturday evening, of our aunt, who was lying in her grave.
This was our aunt’s religion.
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