THE WATCHMAN'S ADVENTURES by Hans Christian Andersen Well,
I declare,
There lies a pair of galoshes,
Said the watchman.
No doubt they belong to the lieutenant who lives up the stairs.
They're 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 that 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 child,
And he goes out and accompanies every evening.
Oh,
I wish I were he,
Then I should be a happy man.
As he uttered this wish,
The galoshes 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.
Oh,
Were I rich!
Oh,
Were I rich!
How oft,
In youth's bright hour,
When youthful pleasures banish every care,
I longed for riches but to gain a power,
The sword and plume and uniform to wear.
The riches and the honor came for me,
Yet still my greatest wealth was poverty.
Ah,
Help and pity me!
Once in my youthful hours,
When gay and free,
A maiden loved me,
And her gentle kiss,
Rich in its tender love and purity,
Taught me,
Alas,
Too much of earthly bliss.
Dear child,
She only thought of youthful glee.
She loved no wealth but fairy tales and me.
Thou knowest.
Ah,
Pity me!
Oh,
Were I rich!
Again is all my prayer,
That child is now a woman,
Fair and free,
As good and beautiful as angels are.
Oh,
Were I rich in lover's poetry,
To tell my fairy tale,
Love's richest lore.
But no,
I must be silent.
I am poor.
Ah,
Wilt thou pity me?
Oh,
Were I rich in truth and peace below,
I need not then my poverty bewail.
To thee I dedicate these lines of woe.
Wilt thou not understand the mournful tale?
A leaf on which my sorrows I relate.
Dark story of a darker night of fate.
Oh,
Bless and pity me!
Well,
Yes,
People write poems when they are in love,
But a wise man will not print them.
A lieutenant in love and poor,
This is a triangle,
Or more properly speaking,
The half of the broken die of fortune.
The lieutenant feels this very keenly,
And therefore leaned his head against the window frame and sighed deeply.
The poor watchman in the street said he is far happier than I am.
He knows not what I call poverty.
He has a home,
A wife and children,
Who weep at his sorrow and rejoice at his joy.
Oh,
How much happier I should be,
Could I change my being in position with him,
And pass through life with this humble expectation and hopes.
Yes,
He is indeed happier than I am.
At this moment the watchman again became the watchman,
For having,
Through the glosses of fortune,
Passed into the existence of the lieutenant and found himself less contented than he expected.
He had preferred his former condition and wished himself again a watchman.
That was an ugly dream,
Said he,
But droll enough.
It seemed to me as if I were the lieutenant up yonder,
But there was no happiness for me.
I missed my wife and the little ones,
Who were always ready to smother me with kisses.
He sat down again and nodded,
But he could not get the dream out of his thoughts,
And he still had the galoshes on his feet.
A falling star gleamed across the sky.
There goes one,
Cried he,
However,
There are quite enough left.
I should very much like to examine these a little nearer,
Especially the moon,
For that could not slip away under one's hands.
The student for whom my wife washes says that when we die we shall fly from one star to another.
If that were true it would be very delightful,
But I don't believe it.
I wish I could make a little spring up there now.
I would willingly let my body lie here on the steps.
There are certain things in the world which should be uttered very cautiously,
Doubly so when the speaker has on his feet the galoshes of fortune.
Now we shall hear what happened to the watchman.
Nearly everyone is acquainted with the great power of steam.
We have proved it by the rapidity with which we can travel,
Both on railroad or in a steamship across the sea,
But this speed is like the movements of the sloth or the crawling march of the snail when compared to the swiftness with which light travels.
Light flies nineteen million times faster than the fleetest racehorse,
And electricity is more rapid still.
Death is an electric shock which we receive in our hearts,
And on the wings of electricity the liberated soul flies away swiftly.
The light from the sun travels to our earth ninety-five millions of miles in eight minutes and a few seconds,
But on the wings of electricity the mind requires only a second to accomplish the same distance.
The space between the heavenly bodies is,
To thought,
No further than the distance which we may have to walk from one friend's house to another in the same town,
Yet this electric shock obliges us to use our bodies here below,
Unless,
Like the watchman,
We have the galoshes of fortune.
In a very few seconds the watchman had traveled more than two thousand miles to the moon,
Which is formed of a lighter material than our earth and may be said to be as soft as new-fallen snow.
He found himself on one of the circular ranges of the mountains which we see represented in Dr.
Madler's large map of the moon.
The interior had the appearance of a large,
Hollow bowl shaped with a depth about half a mile from the brim.
Within the hollow stood a large town.
We may form some idea of its appearance by pouring the white of an egg into the glass of water.
The materials of which it was built seemed just as soft and pictured forth cloudy turrents and sail-like terraces,
Quite transparent and floating in the thin air.
Our earth hung over his head like a great,
Dark red ball.
Presently he discovered a number of beings,
Which might certainly be called men,
But were very different to ourselves.
A more fantastical imagination than Herschel's must have discovered these.
Had they been placed in groups and painted,
It might have been said,
What beautiful foliage!
They had also a language of their own.
No one could have expected the soul of the watchman to understand it.
And yet he did understand it,
For our souls have much greater capabilities than we are inclined to believe.
Do we not,
In our dreams,
Show a wonderful,
Dramatic talent?
Each of our acquaintance appears to us than in his own character,
And with his own voice.
No man could thus imitate them in his waking hours.
How clearly,
Too,
We are reminded of persons whom we have not seen for years.
They start up suddenly to the mind's eye,
With all their peculiarities as living realities.
In fact,
This memory of the soul is a fearful thing.
Every sin,
Every sinful thought it can bring back.
And we may well ask how we are going to give account of every idle word that may have been whispered in the heart or uttered with the lips.
The spirit of the watchman,
Therefore,
Understood very well the language of the inhabitants of the moon.
They were disputing about our earth,
And doubted whether it could be inhabited.
The atmosphere,
They asserted,
Must be too dense for any inhabitants of the moon to exist there.
They maintained that the moon alone was inhabited,
And was really the heavenly body in which the old world people lived.
They likewise talked politics.
But now we will descend to East Street and see what happened to the watchman's body.
He sat lifeless on the steps,
His staff had fallen out of his hand,
And his eyes stared at the moon,
About which his honest soul was wondering.
What is it o'clock,
Watchman?
Inquired a passenger.
But there was no answer from the watchman.
The man then pulled his nose gently,
Which caused him to lose balance.
The body fell forward and lay at full length on the ground,
As one would dead.
All his comrades were very much frightened,
For he seemed quite dead.
Still they allowed him to remain after they had given notice of what had happened,
And at dawn the body was carried to the hospital.
We might imagine it to be no jesting matter if the soul of a man should chance to return to him,
For most probably it would seek for the body in East Street without being able to find it.
We might fancy the soul inquiring of the police,
Or at the address office,
Or among the missing parcels,
And then at length finding it at the hospital.
But we may comfort ourselves by the certainty that this soul,
When acting upon its own impulses,
Is wiser than we are.
It is the body that makes it stupid.
As we have said,
The watchman's body had been taken to the hospital,
And here it was placed in a room to be washed.
Naturally,
The first thing done here was to take off the galoshes,
Upon which the soul was instantly obliged to return,
And it took the direct road to the body at once,
And in a few seconds the man's life returned to him.
He declared,
When he quite recovered himself,
That this had been the most dreadful night he had ever passed.
Not for a hundred pounds would he go through such feelings again.
However,
It was all over now.
The same day he was allowed to leave,
But the galoshes remained in the hospital.
And that is the end of our story this evening.
Until next time,
Sweet dreams.
