《安徒生童话英文版》第68章

　　theysaid; but it was a little too strong for me, and besides, I wasobliged to mount up on my visit to Ole.

　　"It's moving-day to day," he said; "streets and houses are likea dust-bin- a large dust-bin; but I'm content with a cartload. I mayget something good out of that, and I really did get something goodout of it once. Shortly after Christmas I was going up the street;it was rough weather, wet and dirty- the right kind of weather tocatch 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 ofthe cart stood a fir tree, quite green still, and with tinsel on itstwigs; it had been used on Christmas eve, and now it was thrown outinto the street, and the dustman had stood it up at the back of hiscart. It was droll to look at, or you may say it was mournful- alldepends on what you think of when you see it; and I thought aboutit, and thought this and that of many things that were in the cart: orI might have done so, and that comes to the same thing. There was anold lady's glove, too: I wonder what that was thinking of? Shall Itell you? The glove was lying there, pointing with its little fingerat the tree. 'I'm sorry for the tree,' it thought; 'and I was alsoat the feast, where the chandeliers glittered. My life was, so tospeak, a ball night- a pressure of the hand, and I burst! My memorykeeps 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'sa stupid affair with yonder fir tree,' said the potsherds. You see,potsherds think everything is stupid. 'When one is in thedust-cart,' they said, 'one ought not to give one's self airs and weartinsel. I know that I have been useful in the world- far more usefulthan such a green stick.' This was a view that might be taken, and Idon't think it quite a peculiar one; but for all that, the fir treelooked very well: it was like a little poetry in the dust-heap; andtruly there is dust enough in the streets on moving-day. The way isdifficult and troublesome then, and I feel obliged to run away outof the confusion; or, if I am on the tower, I stay there and lookdown, 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 thehousehold goblin sits in an old tub and moves with them. All thelittle griefs of the lodging and the family, and the real cares andsorrows, move with them out of the old dwelling into the new; and whatgain is there for them or for us in the whole affair? Yes, there waswritten long ago the good old maxim: 'Think on the great moving-day ofdeath!' That is a serious thought. I hope it is not disagreeable toyou that I should have touched upon it? Death is the most certainmessenger, after all, in spite of his various occupations. Yes,Death is the omnibus conductor, and he is the passport writer, andhe countersigns our service-book, and he is director of the savingsbank of life. Do you understand me? All the deeds of our life, thegreat and the little alike, we put into this savings bank; and whenDeath calls with his omnibus, and we have to step in, and drive withhim into the land of eternity, then on the frontier he gives us ourservice-book as a pass. As a provision for the journey, he takesthis or that good deed we have done, and lets it accompany us; andthis may be very pleasant or very terrific. Nobody has ever escapedthe omnibus journey. There is certainly a talk about one who was notallowed to go- they call him the Wandering Jew: he has to ridebehind the omnibus. If he had been allowed to get in, he would haveescaped the clutches of the poets.

　　"Just cast your mind's eye into that great omnibus. The society ismixed, for king and beggar, genius and idiot, sit side by side. Theymust go without their property and money; they have only theservice-book and the gift out of the savings bank with them. But whichof our deeds is selected and given to us?