安徒生童话故事第：姑妈Our Aunt

安徒生童话故事第131篇：姑妈Our Aunt

　　引导语：姑妈即姑母，父亲的姐妹，那么安徒生的《姑妈》大家知道?是讲什么内容的?下面是小编整理的中英文版本的，与大家分享。

　　你应该认识姑妈!她这个人才可爱呢!这也就是说，她的可爱并不像我们平时所说的那种可爱。她和蔼可亲，有自己的一种滑稽味儿。如果一个人想聊聊闲天、开开什么人的玩笑，那么她就可以成为谈笑的资料。她可以成为戏里的角色;这是因为她只是为戏院和与戏院有关的一切而活着的缘故。她是一个非常有身份的人。但是经纪人法布——姑妈把他念作佛拉布——却说她是一个“戏迷”。

　　“戏院就是我的学校，”她说，“是我的知识的源泉。我在这儿重新温习《圣经》的历史：摩西啦，约瑟和他的弟兄们啦，都成了歌剧!我在戏院里学到世界史、地理和关于人类的知识!我从法国戏中知道了巴黎的生活——很不正经，但是非常有趣!我为《李格堡家庭》这出戏流了不知多少眼泪：想想看，一个丈夫为了使他的妻子得到她的年轻的爱人，居然喝酒喝得醉死了!是的，这50年来我成了戏院的一个老主顾;在这期间，我不知流了多少眼泪!”

　　姑妈知道每出戏、每一场情节、每一个要出场或已经出过场的人物。她只是为那演戏的九个月而活着。夏天是没有戏上演的——这段时间使她变得衰老。晚间的戏如果能演到半夜以后，那就等于是把她的生命延长。她不像别人那样说：“春天来了，鹳鸟来了!”或者：“报上说草莓已经上市了!”相反，关于秋天的到来，她总喜欢说：“你没有看到戏院开始卖票了吗?戏快要上演了呀!”

　　在她看来，一幢房子是否有价值，完全要看它离戏院的远近而定。当她不得不从戏院后边的一个小巷子迁到一条比较远一点的大街上，住进一幢对面没有街坊的房子里去的时候，她真是难过极了。

　　“我的窗子就应该是我的包厢!你不能老是在家里坐着想自己的事情呀。你应该看看人。不过我现在的生活就好像我是住在老远的乡下似的。如果我要想看看人，我就得走进厨房，爬到洗碗槽上去。只有这样我才能看到对面的邻居。当我还住在我那个小巷子里的时候，我可以直接望见那个卖麻商人的店里的情景，而且只需走三百步路就可以到戏院。现在我可得走三千大步了。”

　　姑妈有时也生病。但是不管她怎样不舒服，她决不会不看戏的。她的医生开了一个单子，叫她晚上在脚上敷些药。她遵照医生的话办了，但是她却喊车子到戏院去，带着她脚上敷的药坐在那儿看戏。如果她坐在那儿死去了，那对她说来倒是很幸福的呢。多瓦尔生①就是在戏院里死去的——她把这叫做“幸福之死”。

　　天国里如果没有戏院，对她说来是不可想象的。我们当然是不会走进天国的。但是我们可以想象得到，过去死去了的名男演员和女演员，一定还是在那里继续他们的事业的。

　　姑妈在她的房间里安了一条私人电线，直通到戏院。她在每天吃咖啡的时候就接到一个“电报”。她的电线就是舞台装置部的西凡尔生先生。凡是布景或撤销布景，幕启或幕落，都是由此人来发号施令的。

　　她从他那里打听到每出戏的简单扼要的情节。她把莎士比亚的《暴风雨》叫做“讨厌的作品，因为它的布景太复杂，而且头一场一开始就有水!”她的意思是说，汹涌的波涛这个布景在舞台上太突出了。相反，假如同样一个室内布景在五幕中都不变换一下，那么她就要认为这个剧本写得很聪明和完整，是一出安静的戏，因为它不需要什么布景就能自动地演起来。

　　在古时候——也就是姑妈所谓的30多年以前——她和刚才所说的西凡尔生先生还很年轻。他那时已经在装置部里工作，而且正如她所说的，已经是她的一个“恩人”。在那个时候，城里只有一个独一无二的大戏院。在演晚场时，许多顾客总是坐在台顶上的布景间里。每一个后台的木匠都可以自由处理一两个位子。这些位子经常坐满了客人，而且都是名流：据说不是将军的太太，就是市府参议员的夫人。从幕后看戏，而且当幕落以后，知道演员怎样站着和怎样动作——这都是非常有趣的。

　　姑妈有好几次在这种位子上看悲剧和芭蕾舞，因为需要大批演员上台的戏只有从台顶上的布景间里才看得最有味。

　　你在黑暗中坐着，而且这儿大多数的人都随身带有晚餐。有一次三个苹果和一片夹着香肠的黄油面包掉到监狱里去了，而狱中的乌果里诺②却在这时快要饿死。这引起观众哄堂大笑。后来戏院的经理不准人坐在台顶的布景间里看戏，主要就是为了香肠的缘故。

　　“不过我到那上面去过37次，”姑妈说。“西凡尔生先生，我永远也忘不了这件事。”

　　当布景间最后一次为观众开放的时候，《所罗门的审判》这出戏正在上演。姑妈记得清清楚楚。她通过她的恩人西凡尔生先生为经纪人法布弄到了一张门票，虽然他不配得到一张，因为他老是跟戏院开玩笑，而且也常因此讽刺她。不过她总算为他弄到了一个位子。他要“倒看”舞台上的表演。姑妈说：这个词儿是他亲口说出来的——真能代表他的个性。

　　因此他就从上面“倒看”《所罗门的审判》了，同时也就睡着了。你很可能以为他事先赴过宴会，干了好多杯酒。他睡过去了，而且因此被锁在里面。他在戏院里的这一觉，睡过了整个黑夜。睡醒以后，他把全部经过都讲了出来，但是姑妈却不相信他的话。经纪人说：“《所罗门的审判》演完了，所有的灯和亮都灭了，楼上和楼下的人都走光了;但是真正的戏——所谓‘余兴’——还不过是刚刚开始呢。”经纪人说，“这才是最好的戏呢!道具都活起来了。它们不是在演《所罗门的审判》;不是的，它们是在演《戏院的审判日》。”这一套话，经纪人法布居然胆敢叫姑妈相信!这就是她为他弄到一张台顶票所得到的感谢!

　　经纪人所讲的话，听起来确实很滑稽，不过骨子里却是包含着恶意和讽刺。

　　“那上面真是漆黑一团，”经纪人说，“不过只有在这种情景下，伟大的妖术演出《戏院的审判日》才能开始。收票人站在门口。每个看戏的人都要交出品行证明书，看他要不要戴着手铐，或是要不要戴着口络走进去。在戏开演后迟到的上流社会中人，或者故意在外面浪费时间的年轻人，都被拴在外面。除了戴上口络以外，他们的脚还得套上毡底鞋，待到下一幕开演时才能走进去。这样，《戏院的审判日》就开始了。”

　　“这简直是我们上帝从来没有听过的胡说!”姑妈说。

　　布景画家如果想上天，他就得爬着他自己画的梯子，但是这样的梯子是任何人也爬不上的。这可以说是犯了违反透视规则的错误。舞台木工如果想上天，他就得把他费了许多气力放错了地方的那些房子和树木搬回到正确的地方来，而且必须在鸡叫以前就搬好。法布先生如果想上天，也得留神。至于他所形容的那些悲剧和喜剧中的演员，歌唱和舞蹈的演员，他们简直糟糕得很。法布先生!佛拉布先生!他真不配坐在台顶上。姑妈永远不愿意把他的话传达给任何人听。但是佛拉布这东西，居然说他已经把这些话都写下来了，而且还要印出来——不过这要在他死了以后，不在他死去以前，因为他怕人家活剥他的皮。

　　姑妈只有一次在她的幸福的神庙——戏院——里感到恐怖和苦恼。那是在冬天——那种一天只有两个钟头的稀薄的阳光的日子里。这时天气又冷又下雪，但是姑妈不得不到戏院里去。除了一个小型歌剧和一个大型芭蕾舞、一段开场白和一段收场白以外，主戏是《赫尔曼·冯·翁那》，这出戏一直可以演到深夜。姑妈非去不可。她的房客借给她一双里外都有毛的滑雪靴。她连小腿都伸进靴子里去了。

　　她走进戏院，在包厢里坐下来。靴子是很暖和的，因此她没有脱下来。忽然间，有一个喊“起火”的声音叫起来了。

　　烟从舞台边厢和顶楼上冒出来了，这时立刻起了一阵可怕的骚动。大家都在向外乱跑。姑妈坐在离门最远的一个包厢里。

　　“布景从第二层楼的左边看最好，”她这样说过，“因为它是专为皇家包厢里的人的欣赏而设计的。”姑妈想走出去，但是她前面的人已经在恐怖中无意地把门关上了。姑妈坐在那里面，既不能出，也不能进——这也就是说，进不到隔壁的一个包厢里去，因为隔板太高了。

　　她大叫起来，谁也听不见。她朝下面的一层楼望。那儿已经空了。这层楼很低，而且隔她不远。姑妈在恐怖中忽然觉得自己变得年轻和活泼起来。她想跳下去。她一只腿跨过了栏杆，另一只腿还抵在座位上。她就是这样像骑马似地坐着，穿着漂亮的衣服和花裙子，一条长腿悬在外面——一条穿着庞大的滑雪靴的腿。这副样儿才值得一看呢!她当真被人看见了，因此她的求救声也被人听见了。她被人从火中救出来了，因为戏院到底还是没有被烧掉。

　　她说这是她一生中最值得纪念的一晚。她很高兴她当时没有办法看见自己的全貌，否则她简直要羞死了。

　　她的恩人——舞台装置部的西凡尔生先生——经常在礼拜天来看她。不过从这个礼拜天到下个礼拜天是很长的一段时间。因此近来一些时日里，在每个星期三前后，她就找一个小女孩来吃“剩饭”——这就是说，把每天午饭后剩下的东西给这女孩子当晚饭吃。

　　这个女孩子是一个芭蕾舞班子里的一员;她的确需要东西吃。她每天在舞台上作为一个小妖精出现。她最难演的一个角色是当《魔笛》③中那只狮子的后腿。不过她慢慢长大了，可以演狮子的前腿。演这个角色，她只能得到三毛钱;而演后腿的时候，她却能得到一块钱——在这种情形下，她得弯下腰，而且呼吸不到新鲜空气。姑妈觉得能了解到这种内幕也是蛮有趣的事情。

　　她的确值得有跟戏院同样长久的寿命，但是她却活不了那么久。她也没有在戏院里死去，她是在她自己的床上安静地、庄严地死去的。她临终的一句话是非常有意义的。她问：“明天有什么戏上演?”

　　她死后大概留下了500块钱。这件事我们是从她所得到的利息推断出来的——20元。姑妈把这笔钱作为遗产留给一位没有家的、正派的老小姐。这笔钱是专为每年买一张二层楼上左边位子的票而用的，而且是星期六的一张票，因为最好的戏都是在这天上演的;同时她每星期六在戏院的时候必须默念一下躺在坟墓里的姑妈。

　　这就是姑妈的宗教。

　　①多瓦尔生(1768-1844)是丹麦名雕刻家。

　　②乌果里诺是意大利13世纪的政治家。他晚年被人出卖，饿死在狱中。这里所谈的是关于他坐监牢的一出戏。

　　③这是奥地利音乐家莫扎特(Mozart,1756-1791)的一个歌剧。

　　《姑妈》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.