安徒生童话：The Goloshes of Fortune

The Goloshes of Fortune

by Hans Christian Andersen（1838）

　　* A Beginning

　　* What Happened to the Counsellor

　　* The Watchman's Adventures

　　* The Eventful Moment―a Most Unusual Journey

　　* The Clerk's Transformation

　　* The Best Thing the Goloshes Did

A Beginning

　　IN a house in Copenhagen， not far from the king's new market， a very large party had assembled， the host and his family expecting， no doubt， to receive invitations in return. One half of the company were already seated at the card-tables， the other half seemed to be waiting the result of their hostess's question， “Well， how shall we amuse ourselves？”

　　Conversation followed， which， after a while， began to prove very entertaining. Among other subjects， it turned upon the events of the middle ages， which some persons maintained were more full of interest than our own times. Counsellor Knapp defended this opinion so warmly that the lady of the house immediately went over to his side， and both exclaimed against Oersted's Essays on Ancient and Modern Times， in which the preference is given to our own. The counsellor considered the times of the Danish king， Hans，1 as the noblest and happiest.

　　The conversation on this topic was only interrupted for a moment by the arrival of a newspaper， which did not， however， contain much worth reading， and while it is still going on we will pay a visit to the ante-room， in which cloaks， sticks， and goloshes were carefully placed. Here sat two maidens， one young， and the other old， as if they had come and were waiting to accompany their mistresses home； but on looking at them more closely， it could easily be seen that they were no common servants. Their shapes were too graceful， their complexions too delicate， and the cut of their dresses much too elegant. They were two fairies. The younger was not Fortune herself， but the chambermaid of one of Fortune's attendants， who carries about her more trifling gifts. The elder one， who was named Care， looked rather gloomy； she always goes about to perform her own business in person； for then she knows it is properly done. They were telling each other where they had been during the day. The messenger of Fortune had only transacted a few unimportant matters； for instance， she had preserved a new bonnet from a shower of rain， and obtained for an honest man a bow from a titled nobody， and so on； but she had something extraordinary to relate， after all.

　　“I must tell you，” said she， “that to-day is my birthday； and in honor of it I have been intrusted with a pair of goloshes， to introduce amongst mankind. These goloshes have the property of making every one who puts them on imagine himself in any place he wishes， or that he exists at any period. Every wish is fulfilled at the moment it is expressed， so that for once mankind have the chance of being happy.”

　　“No，” replied Care； “you may depend upon it that whoever puts on those goloshes will be very unhappy， and bless the moment in which he can get rid of them.”

　　“What are you thinking of？” replied the other. “Now see； I will place them by the door； some one will take them instead of his own， and he will be the happy man.”

　　This was the end of their conversation.

What Happened to the Counsellor

　　IT was late when Counsellor Knapp， lost in thought about the times of King Hans， desired to return home； and fate so ordered it that he put on the goloshes of Fortune instead of his own， and walked out into the East Street. Through the magic power of the goloshes， he was at once carried back three hundred years， to the times of King Hans， for which he had been longing when he put them on. Therefore he immediately set his foot into the mud and mire of the street， which in those days possessed no pavement.

　　“Why， this is horrible； how dreadfully dirty it is！” said the counsellor； “and the whole pavement has vanished， and the lamps are all out.”

　　The moon had not yet risen high enough to penetrate the thick foggy air， and all the objects around him were confused together in the darkness. At the nearest corner， a lamp hung before a picture of the Madonna； but the light it gave was almost useless， for he only perceived it when he came quite close and his eyes fell on the painted figures of the Mother and Child.

　　“That is most likely a museum of art，” thought he， “and they have forgotten to take down the sign.”

　　Two men， in the dress of olden times， passed by him.

　　“What odd figures！” thought he； “they must be returning from some masquerade.”

　　Suddenly he heard the sound of a drum and fifes， and then a blazing light from torches shone upon him. The counsellor stared with astonishment as he beheld a most strange procession pass before him. First came a whole troop of drummers， beating their drums very cleverly； they were followed by life-guards， with longbows and crossbows. The principal person in the procession was a clerical-looking gentleman. The astonished counsellor asked what it all meant， and who the gentleman might be.

　　“That is the bishop of Zealand.”

　　“Good gracious！” he exclaimed； “what in the world has happened to the bishop？ what can he be thinking about？” Then he shook his head and said， “It cannot possibly be the bishop himself.”

　　While musing on this strange affair， and without looking to the right or left， he walked on through East Street and over Highbridge Place. The bridge， which he supposed led to Palace Square， was nowhere to be found； but instead， he saw a bank and some shallow water， and two people， who sat in a boat.

　　“Does the gentleman wish to be ferried over the Holm？” asked one.

　　“To the Holm！” exclaimed the counsellor， not knowing in what age he was now existing； “I want to go to Christian's Haven， in Little Turf Street.” The men stared at him. “Pray tell me where the bridge is！” said he. “It is shameful that the lamps are not lighted here， and it is as muddy as if one were walking in a marsh.” But the more he talked with the boatmen the less they could understand each other.

　　“I don't understand your outlandish talk，” he cried at last， angrily turning his back upon them. He could not， however， find the bridge nor any railings.

　　“What a scandalous condition this place is in，” said he； never， certainly， had he found his own times so miserable as on this evening. “I think it will be better for me to take a coach； but where are they？” There was not one to be seen！ “I shall be obliged to go back to the king's new market，” said he， “where there are plenty of carriages standing， or I shall never reach Christian's Haven.” Then he went towards East Street， and had nearly passed through it， when the moon burst forth from a cloud.

　　“Dear me， what have they been erecting here？” he cried， as he caught sight of the East gate， which in olden times used to stand at the end of East Street. However， he found an opening through which he passed， and came out upon where he expected to find the new market. Nothing was to be seen but an open meadow， surrounded by a few bushes， through which ran a broad canal or stream. A few miserable-looking wooden booths， for the accommodation of Dutch watermen， stood on the opposite shore.

　　“Either I behold a fata morgana， or I must be tipsy，” groaned the counsellor. “What can it be？ What is the matter with me？” He turned back in the full conviction that he must be ill. In walking through the street this time， he examined the houses more closely； he found that most of them were built of lath and plaster， and many had only a thatched roof.

　　“I am certainly all wrong，” said he， with a sigh； “and yet I only drank one glass of punch. But I cannot bear even that， and it was very foolish to give us punch and hot salmon； I shall speak about it to our hostess， the agent's lady. Suppose I were to go back now and say how ill I feel， I fear it would look so ridiculous， and it is not very likely that I should find any one up.” Then he looked for the house， but it was not in existence.

　　“This is really frightful； I cannot even recognize East Street. Not a shop to be seen； nothing but old， wretched， tumble-down houses， just as if I were at Roeskilde or Ringstedt. Oh， I really must be ill！ It is no use to stand upon ceremony. But where in the world is the agent's house. There is a house， but it is not his； and people still up in it， I can hear. Oh dear！ I certainly am very queer.” As he reached the half-open door， he saw a light and went in. It was a tavern of the olden times， and seemed a kind of beershop. The room had the appearance of a Dutch interior. A number of people， consisting of seamen， Copenhagen citizens， and a few scholars， sat in deep conversation over their mugs， and took very little notice of the new comer.

　　“Pardon me，” said the counsellor， addressing the landlady， “I do not feel quite well， and I should be much obliged if you will send for a fly to take me to Christian's Haven.” The woman stared at him and shook her head. Then she spoke to him in German. The counsellor supposed from this that she did not understand Danish； he therefore repeated his request in German. This， as well as his singular dress， convinced the woman that he was a foreigner. She soon understood， however， that he did not find himself quite well， and therefore brought him a mug of water. It had something of the taste of seawater， certainly， although it had been drawn from the well outside. Then the counsellor leaned his head on his hand， drew a deep breath， and pondered over all the strange things that had happened to him.

　　“Is that to-day's number of the Day？”2 he asked， quite mechanically， as he saw the woman putting by a large piece of paper. She did not understand what he meant， but she handed him the sheet； it was a woodcut， representing a meteor， which had appeared in the town of Cologne.

　　“That is very old，” said the counsellor， becoming quite cheerful at the sight of this antique drawing. “Where did you get this singular sheet？ It is very interesting， although the whole affair is a fable. Meteors are easily explained in these days； they are northern lights， which are often seen， and are no doubt caused by electricity.”

　　Those who sat near him， and heard what he said， looked at him in great astonishment， and one of them rose， took off his hat respectfully， and said in a very serious manner， “You must certainly be a very learned man， monsieur.”

　　“Oh no，” replied the counsellor； “I can only discourse on topics which every one should understand.”

　　“Modestia is a beautiful virtue，” said the man. “Moreover， I must add to your speech mihi secus videtur； yet in this case I would suspend my judicium”。

　　“May I ask to whom I have the pleasure of speaking？”

　　“I am a Bachelor of Divinity，” said the man. This answer satisfied the counsellor. The title agreed with the dress.

　　“This is surely，” thought he， “an old village schoolmaster， a perfect original， such as one meets with sometimes even in Jutland.”

　　“This is not certainly a locus docendi，” began the man； “still I must beg you to continue the conversation. You must be well read in ancient lore.”

　　“Oh yes，” replied the counsellor； “I am very fond of reading useful old books， and modern ones as well， with the exception of every-day stories， of which we really have more than enough.”

　　“Every-day stories？” asked the bachelor.

　　“Yes， I mean the new novels that we have at the present day.”

　　“Oh，” replied the man， with a smile； “and yet they are very witty， and are much read at Court. The king likes especially the romance of Messeurs Iffven and Gaudian， which describes King Arthur and his knights of the round table. He has joked about it with the gentlemen of his Court.”

　　“Well， I have certainly not read that，” replied the counsellor. “I suppose it is quite new， and published by Heiberg.”

　　“No，” answered the man， “it is not by Heiberg； Godfred von Gehman brought it out.”

　　“Oh， is he the publisher？ That is a very old name，” said the counsellor； “was it not the name of the first publisher in Denmark？”

　　“Yes； and he is our first printer and publisher now，” replied the scholar.

　　So far all had passed off very well； but now one of the citizens began to speak of a terrible pestilence which had been raging a few years before， meaning the plague of 1484. The counsellor thought he referred to the cholera， and they could discuss this without finding out the mistake. The war in 1490 was spoken of as quite recent. The English pirates had taken some ships in the Channel in 1801， and the counsellor， supposing they referred to these， agreed with them in finding fault with the English. The rest of the talk， however， was not so agreeable； every moment one contradicted the other. The good bachelor appeared very ignorant， for the simplest remark of the counsellor seemed to him either too bold or too fantastic. They stared at each other， and when it became worse the bachelor spoke in Latin， in the hope of being better understood； but it was all useless.

　　“How are you now？” asked the landlady， pulling the counsellor's sleeve.

　　Then his recollection returned to him. In the course of conversation he had forgotten all that had happened previously.

　　“Goodness me！ where am I？” said he. It bewildered him as he thought of it.

　　“We will have some claret， or mead， or Bremen beer，” said one of the guests； “will you drink with us？”

　　Two maids came in. One of them had a cap on her head of two colors.3 They poured out the wine， bowed their heads， and withdrew.

　　The counsellor felt a cold shiver run all over him. “What is this？ what does it mean？” said he； but he was obliged to drink with them， for they overpowered the good man with their politeness. He became at last desperate； and when one of them said he was tipsy， he did not doubt the man's word in the least―only begged them to get a droschky； and then they thought he was speaking the Muscovite language. Never before had he been in such rough and vulgar company. “One might believe that the country was going back to heathenism，” he observed. “This is the most terrible moment of my life.”

　　Just then it came into his mind that he would stoop under the table， and so creep to the door. He tried it； but before he reached the entry， the rest discovered what he was about， and seized him by the feet， when， luckily for him， off came the goloshes， and with them vanished the whole enchantment. The counsellor now saw quite plainly a lamp， and a large building behind it； everything looked familiar and beautiful. He was in East Street， as it now appears； he lay with his legs turned towards a porch， and just by him sat the watchman asleep.

　　“Is it possible that I have been lying here in the street dreaming？” said he. “Yes， this is East Street； how beautifully bright and gay it looks！ It is quite shocking that one glass of punch should have upset me like this.”

　　Two minutes afterwards he sat in a droschky， which was to drive him to Christian's Haven. He thought of all the terror and anxiety which he had undergone， and felt thankful from his heart for the reality and comfort of modern times， which， with all their errors， were far better than those in which he so lately found himself.

The Watchman's Adventures

　　TELL， I declare， there lies a pair of goloshes，“ said the watchman. ”No doubt， they belong to the lieutenant who lives up stairs. They are lying just by his door.“ Gladly would the honest man have rung， and given them in， for a light was still burning， but he did not wish to disturb the other people in the house； so he let them lie. ”These things must keep the feet very warm，“ said he； ”they are of such nice soft leather.“ Then he tried them on， and they fitted his feet exactly. ”Now，“ said he， ”how droll things are in this world！ There's that man can lie down in his warm bed， but he does not do so. There he goes pacing up and down the room. He ought to be a happy man. He has neither wife nor children， and he goes out into company every evening. Oh， I wish I were he； then I should be a happy man.“

　　As he uttered this wish， the goloshes which he had put on took effect， and the watchman at once became the lieutenant. There he stood in his room， holding a little piece of pink paper between his fingers， on which was a poem，―a poem written by the lieutenant himself. Who has not had， for once in his life， a moment of poetic inspiration？ and at such a moment， if the thoughts are written down， they flow in poetry. The following verses were written on the pink paper：―

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