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.”

“当今世事时起时落，时落时起！现在我可不能起得再高了！”守塔人奥勒说道。“起落，落起，大多数人都必须试试；从根本上说来，我们大家最终都要成为守塔人，从高处审视生活，审视万事。”

　　我的朋友奥勒，老守塔人，一个有趣爱唠叨，好像甚么都藏不住可是却又极严肃认真地把许多东西都藏在心底的人，他在塔上就是这样讲的。是啊，他出身於满不错的门第，还有那么一些人说，他是一个枢密参事的儿子，或者说可能是，读书读到高中毕业，曾是助理教师，助理牧师，但这於事又有何补！那时他住在牧师的家里，一切全是免费的；他要上光鞋油打整他的靴子，但是牧师只给他用油脂调的黑色涂料，为了这个，他们之间产生了隔阂；一个说另一个小气，另一个说这一个虚荣，黑色涂料成了敌意的黑色缘由，於是两人分手了。他对牧师要求的东西，也正是他对人世间的要求：上光鞋油；可得到的总是用油脂调的黑色涂料；——於是他便走离人寰去当隐士。可是，在一个大城市里食人间烟火的隐士只能在教堂的塔上才有，他便爬到那上面，抽着烟斗，孤单地走来走去；他朝下望望，朝上望望，不断琢磨，然后用自己的方式讲出他看到了些甚么，没有看到甚么，他从书本上以及从自己身上，读到了些甚么。我常借给他些书读，都是些好书，从你交往的人读些甚么样的书，你便会知道其人如何。他不喜欢英国那种写家庭女教师的小说，他是这么说的，也不喜欢法国的那种用对流风和玫瑰花桿炮制成的东西，不，他要读传记，读关於大自然的奇妙的书。我每年至少去看望他一回，通常是新年一过便去，在每年送旧迎新的时刻，他的思想中总有点儿这样或那样的事情。

　　我在此讲两次对他的访问，用他的原话来说，如果我能做到的话。头一次访问

　　在我不久前借给他的书中，有一本是讲鹅卵石的。那本书使他特别高兴，使他十分充实。

　　“是啊，它们真是些有年头的老东西，这些鹅卵石！”他说道，“可是人们毫不留神地从它们一旁走过去了！在田野里，在海滩上，有大量这种石子的地方我自己就是这样干的。你踩在铺路的石子上，那都是最最古老的太古时代的遗迹呀！我自己就这么干过。现在，我对每一块铺路石都有了由衷的敬意！谢谢您这本书，它真使我得到充实，把那些陈腐思想和习惯都赶到一旁，令我渴望再多读一点这样的书。描述地球的长篇小说是各种长篇小说中最奇特的！可惜，我们无法读到开头的几部了，因为那几部是用一种我们没有学过的语言写的。我们必须从各个地层，从含硅的石头，从地球的各个时期中才能读到，只是到了第六部，有行为的人，亚当先生和夏娃夫人才出现；对大多数读者，这太晚了一点，他们愿意一开始就这样，对我倒无所谓。这是一部长篇小说，非常奇特，我们大夥儿都被写了进去。我们脚爬手摸，停留在老地方，可是地球却在转动，并没有把海洋里的水泼到我们身上，我们在上面踏着走着的地壳，还是紧紧地连在一起，我们并没有跌落进去，没有穿过去；於是便有了几百万年的历史，不断地进步。谢谢你这本讲鹅卵石的书。这些鹅卵石都是些小伙子，要是它们能讲话的话，一定可以给你讲不少！要是一个人像我这样高高地坐在上面，偶而一两次变得微不足道，岂不是非常有趣的事情，然后想着我们大夥儿，甚至有了上光鞋油，也全是蚁塚上瞬间即逝的蚂蚁，尽管我们当中有的是佩带着绶带勳章的蚂蚁，有的是有前途有地位的蚂蚁。人处在这些有几百万岁年纪的可尊敬的老鹅卵石面前，年轻得多么可笑！除夕晚上我在读这本书，着了迷，竟忘记了我新年夜的惯常娱乐项目，看”狂人的队伍进军阿玛厄1“，是的，我是怎么回事，您一定不明白！

　　“女巫骑着扫帚的传说是大家都知道的，那讲的是仲夏夜2，去的地方是布洛克斯毕耶尔3.但是我们也有一支狂人军队，是国内的，是现代的，他们在除夕晚上朝着阿玛厄进军。所有的蹩脚诗人，男的女的，演员，给报纸写文章的和艺术界露面的人物，那些不中用的人，都在除夕晚上飘过天空到阿玛厄；他们骑在自己的铅笔或者羽毛笔上，钢笔不能驮人，它太僵硬了。就像前面说的，我每年除夕都看见这个场面；他们当中绝大多数我能叫出名字来，不过犯不上和他们过不去；他们不喜欢旁人知道他们骑着羽毛笔的阿玛厄之行。我有一个外甥女，她是一个渔妇，她给三份很受人尊敬的报纸送去骂人的话，她这么说；她自己被邀请去那边作客，她是被别人带去的，她自己没有羽毛笔，不能骑；她这么讲过。她讲的东西一半是胡诌，不过有另一半也就够了。她到了那儿以后，他们开始唱歌，每位客人都写自己的歌，都唱自己的，因为自己的是最好的；全都一回事，都是一样的”陈词滥调“。接着他们结成小群，这一小群一小群的人都会饶舌，后来是一群爱唱的傢伙，他们轮流转着唱，后来是一夥儿在家人中间敲鼓的小鼓手。——在这里大家和那些写东西而不署名的人交了朋友。这里也就是说，油脂调的黑色涂料怎么样被人看成是上光鞋油的；有刽子手和他的小夥计，小夥计是最奸滑的，要不然便不会有人注意他了；有善良的清道夫，他是倒垃圾桶的，他把垃圾桶分成”良、优、特优4！“ ——在大家玩得应该那么开心的时候，垃圾堆里冒出一根桿子，一整棵的大树，一朵硕大无比的花，一大朵菌子，一大片遮棚，那是这令人尊敬的集会的仙境柱5，把他们在过去一年中给予世界的东西全都缀挂在上面，从这里射出了火星，像火舌，全都是他们用过的抄袭和剽窃来的思想和主意，它们发出火花到处窜，就像一阵焰火似的。有人在玩”快找到了“6；没有甚么名气的诗人在玩”心在燃烧“；头脑灵敏的人口讲双关语，更蹩脚的玩意儿大家就不能容忍了。俏皮话充斥整个会场，就像有人把空瓦罐摔在大门上7，或者像在摔装满了灰的瓦罐一样。真是有趣极了！我的外甥女这么说；事实上，她还说了一大堆非常有害可是却很有意思的话。我不讲了，我们应该做好人，而不能处处评头论足。然而您可以看出，一个像我这样知道那边的聚会活动的人，自然是很希望每年新年都看到这一支狂军飞往那边去的；如果有一年觉得有个别人没有参加，那么我一定会发现另有新人加入；可是今年我忽略了，没有看看客人。我从鹅卵石上滑滚开来，滚过了几百万年，看到石头在北国乱冲乱撞。看见它们早在诺亚的方舟8造成之前便在冰块上漂游，看到它们沉入海底又从一片沙洲处冒了出来，被水沖积在那里的那一块说道：”这该叫锡兰9！“我看见它们成了许多种我们不认识的鸟的住地，成了野蛮人酋长的家园，这种野蛮人酋长我们也不认识，直到斧子在几块石头上刻下了鲁纳符号十，这才可以算作进入纪年的时代。不过，我对它们一窍不通，等於是零。这时落下了三、四颗美丽的流星，它们发出光亮，思想这才有了向另一方向的转变；您当然知道流星是甚么！那些学问渊博的却不知道！——我现在对他们有了想法，而我是从这样一点出发的：人们经常在暗底里对做过善行的人感谢着、祝福着，这种感谢常常是无声的，但是它没有落到泥土里！我这样想，它被阳光发现了，阳光把这些无声的感谢带到了行善者的头上。若是在一段时间中整个人民都表示了自己的感谢，那么感谢便会变成一束花像一颗流星似地落到善行者的坟上。我看着流星坠落，特别是在新年夜里，我真有这么一种兴致，去找一找这感谢的花束是献给谁的。不久前有一颗流星在西南方坠落：”一种千百遍的祝福感谢！“这一回它落向谁呢！它肯定是落在，我想，佛伦斯堡土地石崖上？，那里丹麦国旗飘扬在施莱帕格瑞尔？的，在莱瑟？和战友的坟上。有一颗落在国家的正中；它落到索渝，落在霍尔贝？的棺木上，是这年许许多多人对他的感谢，对令人心情愉快的喜剧的感谢！

　　“知道有颗流星将落在我们的坟上，这个想法是很了不起的，也是使人愉快的。只是现在还没有流星落到我的坟上，没有一丝阳光给我带来感谢，这里没有甚么值得感谢的！我还没有得到上光鞋油呢，”奥勒说道，“我这一生的命只能得到用油脂调的黑色涂料。”第二次访问

　　新年那天，我爬上了塔顶。奥勒讲了在新旧交替，也就是他说的过年的时候，左一杯右一杯碰杯乾杯的事。於是我听到了他讲的酒杯的故事，含义颇深。

　　“除夕夜里，时钟敲响了十二下，大家都站起来立在桌旁，手里拿着斟满了酒的杯子，为新年祝酒。有人手拿着酒杯开始了新的一年，对於贪杯的人来说，这倒是个好开端！有人以上床睡觉开始新的一年，这对嗜睡的人来说是个好开端！睡眠在一年中有颇重要的作用，对酒杯也一样。你知道，酒杯里都有些甚么吗？”他问道。“是啊，里面有健康、愉快和狂欢极乐！里面有悲怆和极度的不幸！在我算酒杯的时候，我当然也就算了不同的人生里面的等级。

　　“您看，第一只酒杯，那是健康的酒杯！里面长着健康的草，把这草插在屋樑上，到年末的时候，您便可以坐在健康的荫棚之下了。

　　“要是您拿起第二只酒杯——！是的，从里面飞出一只小鸟，它天真无邪欢快地啾啾唱着，於是人们倾听着，说不定还和着它唱：生活是美好的！我们不要垂头丧气！勇敢向前！”从第三只酒杯里跑出一个长了翅膀的小东西。还不能称他为小天使，因为他的血是小精灵？的，思想也是小精灵的，倒不拿人寻开心，只是逗逗乐而已；他爬到耳朵的后面，给我们讲些有趣的事？，他在我们的心房躺下，使那儿变暖，於是我们便欢快起来，成了别的头脑的判断力认定的好头脑。“在第四只酒杯中没有草，没有鸟也没有那个小傢伙，里面是表明理智的一道思想长划，人们永远也不能超越这道思想长划。

　　“要是拿起了第五只杯子，那你就要为自己而哭泣了，由衷地高兴激动，或者它有另外的声响；从酒杯里彭地跳出个狂欢王子，能说会道，放荡不羁！他把你拉上，你忘记了自己的尊严，如果你有尊严的话！比起你应该忘记和需要忘记的东西来，你忘掉了更多的东西。到处都是欢歌漫舞一片喧嚣；戴着面具的人把你拉上，魔鬼的女儿，穿着丝绒、绸缎，头发散落开，体态美丽，朝你走来；挣脱掉吧，要是你能够的话！

　　“第六只杯子！——是的，在里面撒旦？本人坐着，一位穿着考究，能说会道，有吸引力，令人极为舒服的小个子男人，他十分瞭解你，认为你说的一切都是对的，完全就是你的写照！他提着灯陪伴你去他的家里。有一段关於一个圣人的古老传说，这位圣人须从七种巨罪？中选择一种，他选择了酗酒，他以为那是最轻微的，在酗酒中他却把其他六种罪恶全都犯了。人和魔鬼掺混着血液，那就是那第六只杯子，於是我们体内便有一切坏种萌芽；每个坏种都猛烈地生长，像圣经里的芥菜子一样？，长成了大树，笼罩了整个世界。它们当中的大部份只好走向熔炉，被重新铸造过。

　　“这就是酒杯的故事！”守塔人奥勒说道，“用上光鞋油或油脂调的黑色涂料都可以讲出！我两种都用来讲它。”