THERE is street in Copenhagen that has this strange name—“Hysken Str$de．”Whence comes this name and what is its meaning？It is said to be German；but injustice has been done to the Germans in this matter，for it would have to be“H uschen”，and that means little houses．For here stood，once upon a time，and indeed for a great many years，a few little houses，which were little more than wooden booths，just as we see now in the market－places at fair-time．They were，perhaps，a little larger，and had windows；but the panes were of horn or bladder，for glass was then too expensive to be used in every house．But then we are speaking of a long time ago—so long since，that grandfather's grandfather，when he talked about it，used to speak of it as“the old times”—in fact，it is several centuries ago．
The rich merchants in Bremen and Lübeck carried on trade with Copenhagen．They did not come here them－selves，but sent their clerks，who lived in the wooden booths in the street of the small houses，and sold beer and spices．
The German beer was good，and there were many kinds of it—Bremen，and Pryssing，Emser，and even Brunswick mumm；and quantities of spices were sold—saffron，and aniseed，and ginger，and especially pepper．Yes，pepper was the chief article here；and so it happened that the German clerks got the nickname，“pepper gentry”；and there was a condition which they had to enter into at home，that they would not marry at Copenhagen，and many of them became very old．They had to care for themselves，and to look after their own comforts，and to put out their own fires—when they had any；and some of them became very solitary old boys，with eccentric ideas and eccentric habits．From them，all unmarried men who have attained a certain age are called in Denmark“pepper gentry”；and this must be derstood by all who wish to comprehend this history．
The“pepper gentleman”becomes a butt for ridicule，and is told that he ought to put on his nightcap，draw it down over his eyes，and go to bed．The boys sing—
“Cut，cut wood，
Poor bachelor's a sorry elf；
A nightcap goes with him to bed，
And he must light his fire himself．”
Yes，that's what they sing about the“pepperer”—thus they make game of the poor bachelor and his night－cap，just because they know very little about either．Ah，that kind of nightcap no one should wish to earn！And why not？We shall hear．
In the old times the street of the small houses was not paved，and the people stumbled out of one hole into another，as in a neglected by-way；and it was narrow too．The booths leaned side by side，and stood so close together that in the summer-time a sail was often stretched from one booth to its opposite neighbour，on which occasion the fragrance of pepper，saffron，and ginger became doubly powerful．Behind the counters young men were seldom seen．The clerks were generally old boys；but they did not look like what we should fancy them，manely，with wig，and nightcap，and plush small－clothes，and with waistcoat and coat buttoned up to the chin．No，grandfather's great-grandfather may look like that，and has been thus portrayed，but the“pepper gentry”did not have the means to have their portraits taken；though，in-deed，it would be interesting now to have a picture of one of them，as he stood behind the counter or went to church on holy days．His hat was high－crowned and broad-brimmed，and sometimes one of the youngest clerks would mount a feather．The woollen shirt was hidden behind a broad clean collar，the close jacket was buttoned up to the chin，and the cloak hung loose over it；and the trousers were tucked into the broad－toed shoes，for the clerks did not wear stockings．In their girdles they carried a dinner-knife and spoon，and a larger knife was placed there also for the defense of the owner；and this weapon was often very necessary．Just so was Anthony，one of the oldest clerks，clad on high days and holy days，except that，instead of a high－crowned hat，he wore a low bonnet，and under it a knitted cap（a regular nightcap），to which he had grown so accustomed that it was always on his head；and he had two of them．The old fellow was a subject for a painter．He was as thin as a lath，had wrinkles about his eyes and mouth，and long bony fingers，and bushy grey eyebrows；over the left eye hung quite a tuft of hair，and that did not look very handsome，though it made him very noticeable．People knew that he came from Bremen；but that was not his native place，though his master lived there．His own native place was in Thuringia，the town of Eisenach，close by the Wartburg．Old Anthony did not speak much of this，but he thought of it all the more．
The old clerks in the street did not often come together．Each one remained in his booth，which was closed early in the evening；and then it looked dark enough in the street：only a faint glimmer of light forced its way through the little horn－pane in the roof；and in the booth sat，generally on his bed，the old bachelor，his German hymn－book in his hand，singing an evening psalm；or he went about in the booth till late into the night，and busied himself about all sorts of things．It was certainly not an amusing life．To be a stranger in a strange land is a bitter lot：nobody cares for you，unless you happen to get in anybody's way．
Often when it was dark night outside，with snow and rain，the place looked very gloomy and lonely．No lamps were to be seen，with the exception of one solitary light hanging before the picture of the Virgin that was fastened against the wall．The plash of the water against the neighbouring rampart at the castle wharf could be plainly heard．Such evenings are long and dreary，unless people devise some employment for themselves．There is not always pack－in or unpacking to do，nor can the scales be polished or paper bags be made continually；and，failing these，people should devise other employment for themselves．And that is just what old Anthony did；for he used to mend his clothes and put pieces on his boots．When he at last sought his couch he used from habit to keep his nightcap on．He drew it down a little closer；but soon he would push it up again，to see if the light had been properly extinguished．He would touch it，press the wick together，and then lie down on the other side，and draw his night-cap down again；but then a doubt would come upon him，if every coal in the little fire-pan below had been properly deadened and put out—a tiny spark might have been left burning，and might set fire to something and cause dam－age．And therefore he rose from his bed，and crept down the ladder，for it could scarcely be called a stair．And when he came to the fire－pan not a spark was to be discovered，and he might just go back again．But often，when he had gone half of the way back，it would occur to him that the shutters might not be securely fastened；yes，then his thin legs must carry him downstairs once more．He was cold，and his teeth chattered in his mouth when he crept back again to bed；for the cold seems to become doubly severe when it knows it cannot stay much longer．He drew up the coverlet closer around him，and pulled down the nightcap lower over his brows，and turned his thoughts away from trade and from the labours of the day．But that did not procure him agreeable entertainment；for now old thoughts came and put up their curtains，and these curtains have sometimes pins in them，with which one pricks oneself，and one cries out“Oh！”and they prick into one's flesh and burn so，that the tears some－times come into one's eyes；and that often happened to old Anthony—hot tears．The largest pearls streamed forth，and fell on the coverlet or on the floor，and then they sounded as if one of his heart-strings had broken．Sometimes again they seemed to rise up in flame，illuminating a picture of life that never faded out of his heart．If he then dried his eyes with his nightcap，the tear and the picture were indeed crushed，but the source of the tears remained，it lay in his heart．The pictures did not come up in the order in which the scenes had occurred in reality，for very often the most painful would come together；then again the most joyful would come，but these had the deepest shadows of all．
The beech woods of Denmark are beautiful，but the woods of Thuringia arose far more beautiful in the eyes of Anthony．More mighty and more venerable seemed to him the old oaks around the proud knightly castle，where the creeping plants hung down over the stony blocks of the rock；sweeter there bloomed the flowers of the apple－tree than in the Danish land．This he remembered very vividly．A glittering tear rolled down over his cheek；and in this tear he could plainly see two children playing—a boy and a girl．The boy had red cheeks，and yellow curling hair，and honest blue eyes．He was the son of the rich merchant，little Anthony—himself．The little girl had brown eyes and black hair，and had a bright clever look．She was the burgomaster's daughter Molly．The two were playing with an apple．They shook the apple，and heard the pips rattling in it．Then they cut the apple in two，and each of them took a half；they divided even the pips，and ate them all but one，which the little girl proposed that they should lay in the earth．
“Then you shall see，”she said，“what will come out．It will be something you don't at all expect．A whole apple-tree will come out，but not directly．”
And she put the pip in a flower－pot，and both were very busy and eager about it．The boy made a hole in the earth with his finger，and the little girl dropped the pip in it，and they both covered it with earth．
“Now，you must not take it out tomorrow to see if it has struck root，”said Molly．“That won't do at all．I did it with my flowers；but only twice．I wanted to see if they were growing—I didn't know any better then—and the plants withered．”
Anthony took away the flower－pot，and every morn－in，the whole winter through，he looked at it；but nothing was to be seen but the black earth．At length，however，the spring came，and the sun shone warm again；and two little green leaves came up out of the pot．
“Those are for me and Molly，”said the boy．“That's beautiful—that's marvellously beautiful！”
Soon a third leaf made its appearance．Whom did that represent？Yes，and there came another，and yet another．Day by day and week by week they grew larger，and the plant began to take the form of a real tree．And all this was now mirrored in a single tear，which was wiped away and disappeared；but it might come again from its source in the heart of old Anthony．
In the neighbourhood of Eisenach a row of stony mountains rises up．One of these mountains is round in outline，naked and without tree，bush，or grass．It is called the Venus Mount．In this mountain dwells Lady Venus，one of the deities of the heathen times．She is al-so called Lady Holle；and every child in and around Eisenach has heard about her．She it was who lured Tannh user，the noble knight and minstrel，from the circle of the singers of the Wartburg into her mountain．
Little Molly and Anthony often stood by this mountain；and once Molly said，
“Dare you knock and say，‘Lady Holle，open the door—Tannh user is here’？”
But Anthony did not dare．Molly，however，did it，though she only said the words“Lady Holle，Lady Holle！”aloud and distinctly；the rest she muttered so in-distinctly that Anthony felt convinced she had not really said anything；and yet she looked as bold and saucy as possible—as saucy as when she sometimes came round him with other little girls in the garden，and all wanted to kiss him because he did not like to be kissed and tried to keep them off；and she was the only one who dared to kiss him．
“I may kiss him！”she would say proudly．
That was her vanity；and Anthony submitted，and thought no more about it．
How charming and how teasing Molly was！It was said that Lady Holle in the mountain was beautiful also，but that her beauty was like that of a tempting fiend．The greatest beauty and grace was possessed by Saint Elizabeth，the patron saint of the country，the pious Princess of Thuringia，whose good actions have been immortalized in many places in legends and stories．In the chapel her picture was hanging，surrounded by silver lamps；but it was not in the least like Molly．
The apple－tree which the two children had planted grew year by year，and became so tall，that it had to be transplanted into the garden，into the fresh air，where the dew fell and the sun shone warm．And the tree developed itself strongly，so that it could resist the winter．And it seemed as if，after the rigour of the cold season was past，it put forth blossoms in spring for very joy．In the autumn it brought two apples—one for Molly and one for Anthony．It could not well have produced less．
The tree had grown apace，and Molly grew like the tree．She was as fresh as an apple－blossom：but Anthony was not long to behold this flower．All things change！Molly's father left his old home，and Molly went with him，far away．Yes，in our time steam has made the journey they took a matter of a few hours，but then more than a day and a night were necessary to go so far eastward from Eisenach to the farthest border of Thuringia，to the city which is still called Weimar．
And Molly wept，and Anthony wept；but all their tears now melted into one，and this tear had the rosy，charming hue of joy．For Molly told him she loved him—loved him more than all the splendours of Weimar．
One，two，three years went by，and during this period two letters were received．One came by a carrier，and a traveller brought the other．The way was long and difficult，and passed through many windings by towns and villages．
Often had Molly and Anthony heard of Tristram and Iseult，and often had the boy applied the story to himself and Molly，though the name Tristam was said to mean “born in tribulation”，and that did not apply to Anthony，nor would he ever be able to think，like Tristram，“She has forgotten me．”But，indeed，Iseult did not forget her faithful knight；and when both were laid to rest in the earth，one on each side of the church，the linden trees grew from their graves over the church roof，and there met each other in bloom．Anthony thought that was beautiful，but mournful，but it could not become mournful between him and Molly；and he whistled a song of the old min－nesinger，Walter of the Vogelweide—
Under the lindens
Upon the heath．
And especially that passage appeared charming to him—
From the forest，down in the vale，
Sang her sweet song the nightingale．
This song was often in his mouth，and he sang and whistled it in the moonlight night，when he rode along the deep hollow way on horseback to get to Weimar and visit Molly．He wished to come unexpectedly，and he came unexpectedly．He was made welcome with full goblets of wine，with jovial company，fine company，and a pretty room and a good bed were provided for him；and yet his reception was not what he had dreamed and fancied it would be．He could not understand himself—he could not understand the others；but we can understand it．One may be admitted into a house and associate with a family without becoming one of them．One may converse together as one would converse in a post－carriage，and know one another as people know each other on a journey，each incommoding the other and wishing that either oneself or the good neighbour were away．Yes，that was the kind of thing Anthony felt．
“I am an honest girl，”said Molly，“and I myself will tell you what it is．Much has changed since we were children together—changed inwardly and outwardly．Habit and will have no power over our hearts．Anthony，I should not like to have an enemy in you，now that I shall soon be far away from here．Believe me，I entertain the best wishes for you；but to feel for you what I know now one may feel for a man，has never been the case with me．You must reconcile yourself to this．Farewell，Anthony！”
And Anthony bade her farewell．No tear came into his eye，but he felt that he was no longer Molly's friend．Hot iron and cold iron alike take the skin from our lips，and we have the same feeling when we kiss it：and he kissed himself into hatred as into love．
Within twenty-four hours Anthony was back in Eisenach，though certainly the horse on which he rode was ruined．
“What matter！”he said：“I am ruined too；and I will destroy everything that can remind me of her，or of Lady Holle，or Venus the heathen woman！I will break down the apple－tree and tear it up by the roots，so that it shall never bear flower or fruit more！”
But the apple－tree was not broken down，though he himself was broken－down，and bound on a couch by fever．What could raise him up again？A medicine was presented to him which had strength to do this—the bitterest of medicines，that shakes up body and spirit together．Anthony's father ceased to be the richest of merchants．Heavy days—days of trial—were at the door；misfortune came rolling into the house like great waves of the sea．The father became a poor man．Sorrow and suffering took away his strength．Then Anthony had to think of something else besides nursing his love－sorrows and his anger against Molly．He had to take his father's place—to give orders，to help，to act energetically，and at last to go out into the world and earn his bread．
Anthony went to Bremen．There he learned what poverty and hard living meant；and these sometimes make the heart hard，and sometimes soften it，even too much．
How different the world was，and how different the people were from what he had supposed them to be in his childhood！What were the minnesinger's songs to him now？—an echo，a vanishing sound！Yes，that is what he thought sometimes；but again the songs would sound in his soul，and his heart became gentle．
“God's will is best！”he would say then．“It was well that I was not permitted to keep Molly's heart—that she did not remain true to me．What would it have led to now，when fortune has turned away from me？She quitted me be－fore she knew of this loss of prosperity，or had any notion of what awaited me．That was a mercy of Providence to－wards me．Everything has happened for the best．It was not her fault—and I have been so bitter，and have shown so much rancour towards her！”
And years went by．Anthony's father was dead，and strangers lived in the old house．But Anthony was destined to see it again．His rich employer sent him on commercial journeys，and his duty led him into his native town of Eisenach．The old Wartburg stood unchanged on the mountain，with“the monk and the nun”hewn out in stone．The great oaks gave to the scene the outlines it had possessed in his childish days．The Venus Mount glimmered grey and naked over the valley．He would have been glad to cry，“Lady Holle，Lady Holle，unlock the door，and I shall enter and remain in my native earth！”
That was a sinful thought，and he blessed himself to drive it away．Then a little bird out of the thicket sang clearly，and the old minnesong came into his mind—
From the forest，down in the vale，
Sang her sweet song the nightingale．
And here in the town of his childhood，which he thus saw again through tears，much came back into his remembrance．His father's house stood as in the old times；but the garden was altered，and a field－path led over a portion of the old ground，and the apple－tree that he had not broken down stood there，but outside the gar-den，on the farther side of the path．But the sun threw its rays on the apple－tree as in the old days，the dew descended gently upon it as then，and it bore such a burden of fruit hat the branches were bent down towards the earth．
“That flourishes！”he said．“The tree can grow！”
Nevertheless，one of the branches of the tree was broken．Mischievous hands had torn it down towards the ground；for now the tree stood by the public way．
“They break its blossoms off without a feeling of thankfulness—they steal its fruit and break the branches．One might say of the tree as has been said of some men—‘It was not sung at his cradle that it should come thus．’How brightly its history began，and what has it come to？Forsaken and forgotten—a garden tree by the hedge，in the field，and on the public way！There it stands unprotected，plundered，and broken！It has certainly not died，but in the course of years the number of blossoms will diminish；at last the fruit will cease altogether；and at last—at last all will be over！”
Such were Anthony's thoughts under the tree；such were his thoughts during many a night in the lonely chamber of the wooden house in the distant land—in the street of the small houses in Copenhagen，whither his rich employer，the Bremn merchant，had sent him，first makin it a condition that he should not marry．
“Marry！Ha，ha！”he 1aughed bitterly to himself．
Winter had set in early；it was freezing hard．With－out，a snow－storm was raging，so that every one who could do so remained at home；thus，too，it happened that those who lived opposite to Anthony did not notice that for two days his house had not been unlocked，and that he did not show himself；for who would go out unnecessarily in such weather？
They were grey，gloomy days；and in the house，whose windows were not of glass，twilight only alternated with dark night．Old Anthony had not left his bed during the two days，for he had not the strength to rise；he had for a long time felt in his limbs the hardness of the weather．Forsaken by all lay the old bachelor，unable to help himself．He could scarcely reach the water-jug that he had placed by his bedside，and the last drop it contained had been consumed．It was not fever，nor sickness，but old age that had struck him down．Up there，where his couch was placed，he was overshadowed，as it were，by continual night．A litile spider，which，howerer，he could not see，busily and cheerfully span its web around him，as if it were weaving a little crape banner that should wave when the old man close his eyes．
The time was very slow，and long，and dreary．Tears he had none to shed，nor did he feel pain．The thought of Molly never came into his mind．He felt as if the world and its noise concerned him no longer—as if he were lying out-side the world，and no one were thinking of him．For a moment he felt a sensation of hunger—of thirst．Yes，he felt them both．But nobody came to tend him—nobody．He thought of those who had once suffered want；of Saint Elizabeth，as she had once wandered on earth；of her，the saint of his home and of his childhood，the noble Duchess of Thuringia，the benevolent lady who had been accustomed to visit the lowliest cottages，bringing to the inmates re-freshment and comfort．Her pious deeds shone bright upon his soul．He thought of her as she had come to distribute words of comfort，binding up the wounds of the afflicted and giving meat to the hungry，though her stern husband had chidden her for it．He thought of the legend told of her，how she had been carrying the full basket containing food and wine，when her husband，who watched her foot-steps，came forth and asked angrily what she was carry-in，whereupon she answered，in fear and trembling，that the basket contained roses which she had plucked in the garden；how he had torn away the white cloth from the basket，and a miracle had been performed for the pious lady；for bread and wine，and everything in the basket，had been transformed into roses！
Thus the saint's memory dwelt in Anthony's quiet mind；thus she stood bodily before his downcast face，be－fore his warehouse in the simple booth in the Danish land．He uncovered his head，and looked into her gentle eyes，and everything around him was beautiful and roseate．Yes，the roses seemed to unfold themselves in fragrance．There came to him a sweet，peculiar odour of apples，and he saw a blossoming apple－tree，which spread its branches above him—it was the tree which Molly and he had planted together．
And the tree strewed down its fragrant leaves upon him，cooling his burning brow．The leaves fell upon his parched lips，and were like strengthening bread and wine；and they fell upon his breast，and he felt calm，and inclined to sleep peacefully．
“Now I shall sleep，”he whispered to himself．“Sleep is refreshing．Tomorrow I shall be upon my feet again，and strong and well—glorious，wonderful！That apple－tree，planted in true affection，now stands before me in heavenly radiance—”
And he slept．
The day afterwards—it was the third day that his shop had remained closed—the snowstorm had ceased，and a neighbour from the opposite house came over to－wards the booth where dwelt old Anthony，who had not yet shown himself．Anthony lay stretched upon his bed—dead—with his old cap clutched tightly in his two hands！They did not put that cap on his head in his coffin，for he had a new white one．
Where were now the tears that he had wept？What had become of the pearls？They remained in the night－cap—and the true ones do not come out in the wash—they were preserved in the nightcap，and in time forgotten；but the old thoughts and the old dreams still remained in the “bachelor's nightcap．”Don't wish for such a cap for your－self．It would make your forehead very hot，would make your pulse beat feverishly，and conjure up dreams which appear like reality．The first who wore that cap afterwards felt all that，though it was half a century afterwards；and that man was the burgomaster himself，who had a wife and eleven children，and was very well off．He was immediate－ly seized with dreams of unfortunate love，of bankruptcy，and of heavy times．
“Hallo！how the nightcap warms！”he cried，and tore it from his head．
And a pearl rolled out，and another，and another，and they sounded and glittered．
“This must be gout，”said the burgomaster．“Some－thing dazzles my eyes！”
They were tears，shed half a century before by old Anthony from Eisenach．
Every one who aftewards put that nightcap upon his head had visions and dreams．His own history was changed into that of Anthony，and became a story；in fact，many stories．But some one else may tell them．We have told the first．And our last word is—don't wish for“the Old Bachelor's Nightcap”．
单身汉的睡帽
哥本哈根有一条街；它有这样一个奇怪的名字——虎斯根·斯特勒得。为什么它要叫这样一个名字呢？它的意思是什么呢？它应该是德文。不过人们在这儿却把德文弄错了。
人们应该说Haüschen才对，它的意义是“小房子”。从前——的确是在许多许多年以前——
这儿没有什么大建筑，只有像我们现在在庙会时所看到的那种木棚子。是的，它们比那还要略为大一点，而且开有窗子；不过窗框里镶着的东西，不是兽角，就是膀胱皮，因为那时玻璃很贵，不是每座屋子都用得起的。当然，我们是在谈很久以前的事情——那么久，即使曾祖父的祖父谈起它，也要说“好久以前的时候”——事实上，那是好几个世纪以前的事儿。
那时卜列门和留贝克的有钱商人经常跟哥本哈根做生意。他们不亲自到这儿来，只是派他们的伙计来。这些人就住在这条“小房子街”上的木棚子里，出卖啤酒和香料。
德国的啤酒是非常可口的，而且种类繁多，包括卜列门、普利生、爱姆塞等啤酒，甚至还有布龙斯威克白啤酒。香料出售的种数也不少——番红花、大茴香、生姜，特别是胡椒。
的确，胡椒是这儿一种最重要的商品；因此在丹麦的那些德国的伙计就获得了一个称号：
“胡椒朋友”。他们在出国以前必须答应老板一个条件，那就是：他们不能在丹麦讨太太。
他们有许多人就这样老了。他们得自己照料自己，安排自己的生活，压制自己的感情——
如果他们真有感情冲动起来的话。他们有些人变成了非常孤独的单身汉，思想很古怪，生活习惯也很古怪。从他们开始，凡是达到了某种年龄而还没有结婚的人，现在人们统统把他们叫做“胡椒朋友”。人们要懂得这个故事，必须要了解这一点。
“胡椒朋友”成了人们开玩笑的一个对象。据说他们总是要戴上睡帽，并且把帽子拉到眼睛上，然后才去睡觉。孩子们都这么唱：
砍柴，砍柴！
唉，唉！这些单身汉真孤独，
他们戴着一顶睡帽去睡觉，
他只好自己生起炉火。
是的，这就是人们所唱的关于他们的歌！人们这样开一个单身汉和他的睡帽的玩笑，完全是因为他们既不理解单身汉，也不了解他的睡帽的缘故。唉！这种睡帽谁也不愿意戴上！为什么不呢？我们且听吧：
在很古的时候，这条小房子街上没有铺上石块；人们把脚从这个坑里拖出来，又踏进另一个坑里去，好像是在一条人迹罕至的偏僻小路上走一样；而且它还是狭窄得很。那些小房子紧挨在一起，和对面的距离很短，所以在夏天就常常有人把布篷从这个屋子扯到对面的屋子上去。在这种情况下，胡椒、番红花和生姜的气味就比平时要特别厉害了。
柜台后面站着的没有很多年轻人；不，他们大多数都是老头儿。但是他们并不是像我们所想象的那些人物：他们并没有戴着假发和睡帽，穿着紧腿裤，把背心和上衣的扣子全都扣上。不是的，祖父的曾祖父可能是那个样儿——肖像上是这样绘着的；但是“胡椒朋友”却没有钱来画他们的肖像。这也实在可惜：如果曾经有人把他们某一位站在柜台后或在礼拜天到教堂去做礼拜的那副样儿画出一张来，现在一定是很有价值的。他们的帽子总是有很高的顶和很宽的边。最年轻的伙计有时还喜欢在帽子上插一根羽毛。羊毛衬衫被烫得很平整的布领子掩着；窄上衣紧紧地扣着，大氅松松地披在身上，裤脚一直扎进宽口鞋里——因为这些伙计们都不穿袜子；他们的腰带上挂着一把吃饭用的刀子和汤匙；同时为了自卫起见，还插着一把较大的刀子——这个武器在那个时候常常是不可缺少的。
安东——小房子街上一位年纪最大的店员——他节日的装束就是这样。他只是没有戴高顶帽子，而戴了一种无边帽。在这帽子底下还有一顶手织的便帽——一顶不折不扣的睡帽。他戴惯了它，所以它就老是在他的头上。他有两顶这样的帽子。他真是一个值得画一下的人物，他瘦得像一根棍子，他的眼睛和嘴巴的四周全是皱纹；他的手指很长，全是骨头；他的眉毛是灰色的，密得像灌木丛。他的左眼上悬得有一撮头发——这并不使他显得漂亮，但却引起人对他的注意。人们都知道，他是来自卜列门；可是这并不是他的故乡，只是他的老板住在那儿。他的老家是在杜林吉亚——在瓦尔特堡附近的爱塞纳哈城。老安东不大谈到它，但这更使他想念它。
这条街上的老伙计们不常碰到一起。每人呆在自己的店里。晚间很早店就关上门了，因此街上也显得相当黑暗。只有一丝微光从屋顶上镶着角的窗子透露进来。在这里面，老单身汉一般地是坐在床上，手里拿着一本德文《圣诗集》，口中吟着晚祷诗；要不然他就在屋子里东摸西摸，忙这忙那，一直忙到深夜，这种生活当然不是很有趣的。在他乡作为一个异国人是一种悲惨的境遇：谁也不管你，除非你妨害到别人。
当外面是黑夜，下着雪或雨的时候，这地方就常常显得极端阴暗和寂寞。这儿看不见什么灯，只有挂在墙上的那个圣母像面前有一个孤独的小亮。[在街的另一头，]在附近一个渡口的木栏栅那儿，水声这时也可以清楚地听得见。这样的晚上是既漫长而又孤寂，除非人们能找些事情来做。打包裹和拆包裹并非是天天有的事情；而人们也不能老是擦着秤或者做着纸袋。所以人们还得找点别的事情来做。老安东正是这样打发他的时间。他缝他的衣服，补他的皮鞋。当他最后上床睡觉的时候，他就根据他的习惯在头上保留着他的睡帽。他把它拉得很低，但是不一会儿他又把它推上去，看看灯是不是完全吹熄了，他把灯摸一下，把灯芯捻一下，然后翻个身躺下去，又把睡帽拉下一点。这时他心里又疑虑起来：是不是下面那个小火钵里的每一颗炭都熄了和压灭了——可能还有一颗小小的火星没有灭，它可以使整钵的火又燃起来，造成灾害。于是他就下床来，爬下梯子——因为我们很难把它叫做“楼”梯。当他来到那个火钵旁边的时候，一颗火星也看不见；他很可以转身就回去的。但是当他走了一半的时候，他又想起门闩可能没有插好，窗扉可能没有关牢。是的，他的那双瘦腿又只好把他送到楼下来。当他又爬到床上去的时候，他全身已经冻冰了，他的牙齿在嘴里发抖，因为当寒冷知道自己呆不了多久的时候，它也就放肆起来。他把被子往上拉得更紧一点，把睡帽拉得更低一点，直盖到眉毛上，然后他的思想便从生意和这天的烦恼转到别的问题上去。但是这也不是愉快的事情，因为这时许多回忆就来了，在他周围放下一层帘子，而这些帘子上常常是有尖针的，人们常常用这些针来刺自己，叫出一声“哦！”这些刺就刺进肉里去，使人发烧，还使人流出眼泪。老安东就常常是这个样子——流出热泪来。大颗的泪珠一直滚到被子上或地板上。它们滴得很响，好像他痛苦的心弦已经断了似的。有时它们像火焰似地燎起来，在他面前照出一幅生命的图画——一幅在他心里永远也消逝不了的图画。如果他用睡帽把他的眼睛揩一下的话，这眼泪和图画的确就会破灭，但是眼泪的源泉却是一点也没有动摇，它仍然藏在他心的深处。这些图画并不根据它们实际发生的情况，一幕一幕地按照次序显现出来；最痛苦的情景常常是一齐到来；最快乐的情景也是一齐到来,但是它们总是撒下最深的阴影。
“丹麦的山毛榉林子是美丽的！”人们说，但是杜林吉亚的山毛榉林子，在安东的眼中，显得更美丽得多。那个巍峨的骑士式的宫殿旁长着许多老栎树。它们在他的眼中也要比丹麦的树威严和庄重得多。石崖上长满了长春藤；苹果树上开满了花：它们要比丹麦的香得多。他生动地记起了这些情景。于是一颗亮晶晶的眼泪滚到他脸上来了；在这颗眼泪里面，他可以清楚地看到两个孩子在玩耍——一个男孩和一个女孩。男孩有一副鲜红的脸，金黄的卷发和诚实的蓝眼睛。他是一个富有商人的儿子小安东——就是他自己。女孩有棕色的眼珠、黑发和聪明伶俐的外表。她是市长的女儿茉莉。这两个孩子在玩着一个苹果。他们摇着这苹果，倾听里面的苹果子发出什么响声。他们把它切成两半；每个人分一半。他们把苹果子也平均地分了，而且都吃掉了，只剩下一颗。小女孩提议把这颗子埋在土里，她说：
“那么你就可以看到会有什么东西长出来。那将是你料想不到的一件东西。一棵完整的苹果树将会长出来，但是它不会马上就长的。”
于是他们就把这苹果子埋在一个花钵里。两个人为它热心地忙了一阵。男孩用手指在土里挖了一个洞，小女孩把子放进去；然后他们两人就一起用土把它盖好。
“不准明天把它挖出来，看它有没有长根，”茉莉说。“这样可就不行！我以前对我的花儿也这样做过，不过只做过两次。我想看看它们是不是在生长；那时我也不太懂，结果花儿全都死了。”
安东把这花钵搬到自己家里去。有一整个冬天，他每天早晨去看它。可是除了黑土以外，他什么也看不见。接着春天到来了；太阳照得很温暖。最后有两片绿叶子从钵子里冒出来。
“它们就是我和茉莉！”安东说。“这真是美！这真是妙极了！”
不久第三片叶子又冒出来了。这一片代表谁呢？是的，另外一片叶儿也长出来了，接着又是另外一片！一天一天地，一星期一星期地，它们长宽了。这植物开始长成一棵树。这一切现在映在一颗泪珠里——于是被揩掉了，不见了；但是它可以从源泉里再涌出来——从老安东的心里再涌出来。
在爱塞纳哈的附近有一排石山。它们中间有一座是分外地圆，连一棵树，一座灌木林，一根草也没有。它叫做维纳斯山，因为在它里面住着维纳斯夫人——异教徒时代的神祗之一。她又叫做荷莱夫人。住在爱塞纳哈的孩子们，过去和现在都知道关于她的故事。把那个高贵的骑士和吟游诗人但霍依塞尔从瓦尔特堡宫的歌手群中引诱到这山里去的人就正是她。
小茉莉和安东常常站在这山旁边。有一次茉莉说：
“你敢敲敲这山，说：‘荷莱夫人！荷莱夫人！请把门打开，但霍依塞尔来了’吗？”但是安东不敢。茉莉可是敢了，虽然她只是高声地、清楚地说了这几个字：“荷莱夫人！荷莱夫人！”其余的几个字她对着风说得那么含糊，连安东都不相信她真的说过什么话。可是她做出一副大胆和淘气的神气——淘气得像她平时带些小女孩子到花园里来逗他的那个样儿；那时因为他不愿意被人吻，同时想逃避她们，她们就更想要吻他；只有她是唯一敢吻他的人。
“我可以吻他！”她骄傲地说。［于是她便搂着他的脖子。]这是她的虚荣的表现。安东只有屈服了，对于这事也不深究。
茉莉是多么可爱，多么大胆啊！住在山里的荷莱夫人据说也是很美丽的，不过那是一种诱惑人的恶魔的美。最美丽、最优雅的要算是圣·伊丽莎白的那种美。她是这地方的守护神，杜林吉亚的虔诚的公主；她的善行被编成了传说和故事，在许多地方被人歌颂。她的画像挂在教堂里，四周悬着许多银灯。但是她一点也不像茉莉。
这两个孩子所种的苹果树一年一年地在长大。它长得那么高，他们不得不把它移植到花园里去，让它能有新鲜空气、露水和温暖的太阳。这树长得很结实，能够抵御冬天的寒冷。
它似乎在等待严寒过去，以便它能开出春天的花朵而表示它的欢乐。它在秋天结了两个苹果——一个给茉莉，一个给安东。它不会结得少于这个数目。
这株树在欣欣向荣地生长。茉莉也像这样在生长。她是像一朵苹果花那样新鲜。可是安东欣赏这朵花的时间不长久。一切都起了变化！茉莉的父亲离开了老家，到很远的地方去了；茉莉也跟他一起去了。是的，在我们的这个时代里，火车把他们的旅行缩短成为几个钟头。但是在那个时候，从爱塞纳哈向东走，到杜林吉亚最远边境上的一个叫做魏玛的城市，却需要一天一夜以上的时间。
茉莉哭起来；安东也哭起来。他们的眼泪融成一颗泪珠，而这颗泪珠有一种快乐可爱的粉红颜色，因为茉莉告诉他，说她爱他——爱他胜过爱华丽的魏玛城。
一年、两年、三年过去了。在这期间他收到了两封信。一封是由一个信差带来的；另一封是由一个旅人带来的。路途是那么遥远而又艰难，同时还要曲曲折折地经过许多城市和村庄。
茉莉和安东常常听人谈起特里斯丹和依苏尔特的故事，而且他常常把这故事来比自己和茉莉。但是特里斯丹这个名字的意义是在“苦难中生长的”；这与安东的情况不相合，同时他也不能像特里斯丹那样。想象“她已经忘掉了我”。但是依苏尔特的确也没有忘掉他的意中人：当他们两人死后各躺在教堂一边的时候，他们坟上的菩提树就伸到教堂顶上去，把它们盛开的花朵交织在一起。安东觉得这故事很美丽，但是悲惨。不过他和茉莉之间的关系不可能是这样悲惨的吧。于是他就唱出一个吟游诗人维特·冯·德尔·佛格尔外得所写的一支歌：
在荒地上的菩提树下——
他特别觉得这一段很美丽：
从那沉静的山谷里，从那树林，
[哎哎哟！]
飘来夜莺甜美的歌声。
他常常唱着这支歌。当他骑着马走过深谷到魏玛去看茉莉的时候，他就在月明之夜唱着并且用口哨吹着这支歌。他要在她意料不到的时候来，而他也就在她意料不到的时候到来了。茉莉用满杯的酒，愉快的陪客，高雅的朋友来欢迎他；还为他准备好了一个漂亮的房间和一张舒服的床。然而这种招待跟他梦想的情形却有些不同。他不理解自己，也不能理解别人；但是我们可以理解！一个人可能被请到一家去，跟这家的人生活在一起，而不成为他们中的一员。一个人可以一起跟人谈话，像坐在马车里跟人谈话一样，可能彼此都认识，像在旅途上同行的人一样——彼此都感到不方便，彼此都希望自己或者这位好同伴赶快走开。是的，安东现在的感觉就是这样。
“我是一个诚实的女子，”茉莉对他说，“我想亲自把这一点告诉你！自从我们小的时候起，我们彼此有了许多变化——内在的和外在的变化。习惯和意志控制不了我们的感情。安东！我不希望叫你恨我，因为不久我就要离开此地。请相信我，我衷心希望你一切都好。不过叫我爱你——现在我所理解的对于男子的那种爱——那是不可能的了。你必须接受这事实。再会吧，安东！”
安东也就对她说了“再会”。他的眼里流不出什么眼泪，不过他感到他不再是茉莉的朋友了，白热的铁和冰冷的铁，只要我们吻它一下，在我们的嘴唇上所产生的感觉都是一样的。他的心里充满了恨，也充满了爱。
他这次没有花一天一夜的工夫，就回到爱塞纳哈来了，但是这种飞快的速度已经把他骑着的那匹马累坏了。
“有什么关系！”他说，“我也毁掉了。我要毁掉一切能使我记起她、荷莱姑娘或者那个女异教徒维纳斯的东西，我要把那棵苹果树砍断，把它连根挖起来，使它再也开不了花，结不了果！”
可是苹果树倒没有倒下来，而他自己却倒下来了：他躺在床上发烧，起不来了，什么东西可以使他再起床呢？这时他得到一剂药，可以产生这样的效果——一剂最苦的、会刺激他生病的身体和萎缩的灵魂的药：安东的父亲不再是富有的商人了。艰难的日子——考验的日子——现在来到门前了。倒楣的事情像汹涌的海浪一样，打进这曾经一度是豪富的屋子里来。他的父亲成了一个穷人。悲愁和苦难把他的精力折磨尽了。安东不能再老是想着他爱情的创伤和对茉莉的愤怒，他还要想点别的东西。他得成为这一家的主人——布置善后，维持家庭，亲自动手工作。他甚至还得自己投进这个茫茫的世界，去挣自己的面包。
安东到卜列门去。他在那里尝到了贫穷和艰难日子的滋味。这有时使得他的心硬，有时使得他的心软——常常是过于心软。
这世界是多么不同啊！实际的人生跟他在儿时所想象的是多么不同啊！吟游诗人的歌声现在对他有什么意义呢？那只不过是一种声音，一种废话罢了！是的，这正是他不时所起的感想；不过这歌声有时在他的灵魂里又唱起来，于是他的心就又变得温柔了。
“上帝的意志总是最好的！”他不免要这样说。“这倒也是对的：上帝不让我保留住茉莉的心，她不再真心爱我。好运既然离开了我，我们的关系发展下去又会有什么结果呢？在她还没有知道我破产以前，在她还想不到我的遭遇以前，她就放弃了我——这是上天给我的一种恩惠。一切都是为了一个最好的目的而安排的。这不能怪她——而我却一直在恨她，对她起了那么大的恶感！”
许多年过去了。安东的父亲死了；他的老屋已经有陌生人进去了。不过安东却要再看到它一次。他富有的主人因了某些生意要派他出去；他的职务又使他回到他的故乡爱塞纳哈城来。那座古老的瓦尔特堡宫和它的一些石刻的“修士和修女”，仍然立在山上，一点也没有改变。巨大的欧洲树把那些轮廓衬托得更鲜明，像在他儿时一样。那座维纳斯山赤裸裸地立在峡谷上，发着灰色的闪光。他倒很想喊一声：“荷莱夫人哟，荷莱夫人哟，请把山门打开吧，让我躺在我故乡的土里吧！”
这是一种罪恶的思想；他划了一个十字。这时有一只小鸟在一个丛林里唱起来；于是那支吟游诗人的歌又回到他心里来了：
在那沉静的山谷里，从那树林，
[哎哎哟！]
飘来夜莺甜美的歌声。
他现在含着眼泪来重看这座儿时的城市，他不禁记起了许多事情。他父亲的房子仍然跟以前一样，没有改变；但是那个花园却改观了：现在在它的一边开辟了一条小径；他没有毁掉的那棵苹果树仍然立在那儿，不过它的位置已经是在花园的外面，在小径的另一边。像往昔一样，太阳照在这苹果树上，露珠落到它身上；它结了那么多的果子，连枝丫都弯到地上来了。
“它长得真茂盛！”他说。“它可会长！”
虽然如此，它还是有一根枝子被折断了。这是一只残忍的手做的事情，因为它离开路旁那么近。
“人们把它的花朵折下来，连感谢都不说一声。——他们偷它的果子，折断它的枝条。我们谈到这棵树的时候，也可以像谈到某些人一样——当它在摇篮里的时候，谁也没有想到它会到这步田地！它的生活在开始的时候是多么光明啊！结果是怎样呢？它被人遗弃了，忘掉了——一棵花园的树，现在居然流落到荒郊，站在大路边！它立在那儿没有什么东西保护它；它任人劫掠和折断！它固然不会因此而死掉，但是它的花将会一年一年地变得稀少，它很快就会停止结果，最后——最后一切就都完了！”
这是安东在这树下所起的感想。这也是他在一个遥远的国度里，在哥本哈根的那个“小房子街”上的一座孤寂的木屋子里，在许多夜里，所起的感想。他被他富有的老板——一个卜列门的商人——送到这儿来，第一个条件是不准他结婚。
“结婚！哈！哈！”他对自己苦笑起来。
冬天来得很早；外面冻得厉害。一阵暴风雪在外面呼啸。凡是能呆在家里的人都呆在家里不出来。因此，住在对面的邻居也没有注意到安东有两天没有开过店门，他本人也没有出现，因为在这样的天气里，如果没有必要的事情，谁会走出来呢？
那是灰色的、阴沉的日子。在这些窗子的不是玻璃的房子里，平时只有黎明和黑夜这两种气氛。老安东有整整两天没有离开过他的床，因为他没有气力起来。天气的寒冷已经把他冻僵了。这个被世人遗忘了的单身汉在那儿，简直没有办法照料自己了。他亲自放在床边的一个水壶，他现在连拿它的气力都没有。现在它里面最后的一滴水已经喝光了。压倒他的东西倒不是发烧，也不是疾病，而是衰老。在他睡着的那块地方，他简直被漫长的黑夜吞没了。一只小小的蜘蛛——可是他看不见它——在兴高采烈地、忙忙碌碌地围着他的身体织了一层蛛网。它好像是在织一面丧旗，以便在这老单身汉闭上眼睛的那天可以挂起来。
时间过得非常慢，非常长，非常沉闷。他再没有眼泪可流，他也不感到痛楚。他心里也不再想起茉莉。他有一种感觉：这世界与它熙熙攘攘的声音和他再没有什么关系——他仿佛是躺在世界的外面。谁也没有想到他。他偶尔也感觉到有点饥渴。是的，他有这种感觉！但是没有谁来送给他茶水——没有谁。于是他想起那些饥饿的人；他想起圣伊丽莎白生前的事迹。她是他故乡和他儿童时代的守护神，杜林吉亚的公爵夫人，一个仁慈的少妇。她常常去拜访最贫寒的小屋、带食物和安慰给生病的人。她的一切虔诚的善行射进他的灵魂。他想起她带给苦痛的人们安慰的话语，她替受难的人们裹伤，带肉给饥饿的人吃，虽然她的严厉的丈夫常为这类的事情骂她。他记起那个关于她的传说：她有一次提着满满一篮的食物和酒；这时监视着她的脚步的丈夫就走过来，生气地问她提着的是什么东西；她害怕得抖起来，她回答说她篮子里盛的是她在花园里摘下的玫瑰花朵；他把那块白布从篮子上拉开，于是一件奇迹为这虔诚的妇人发生了：面包、酒和这篮子里的每件东西全都变成了玫瑰花！
老安东平静的心里现在充满了对于这位圣者的记忆。她现在就亲身在他沮丧的面孔前面立着，在丹麦国土上这个简陋木屋里的、他的床边立着。他把头伸出来，凝望着她那对温柔的眼睛，于是他周围的一切就变成了玫瑰和阳光。是的，好像是玫瑰在展开花瓣，喷出香气。这时他闻到一种甜蜜的、独特的苹果花的香味。于是他就看到一株开满了花朵的苹果树；它在他头上展开了一片青枝绿叶——这就是他和茉莉用苹果子共同种的那株树。
这树在他身上撒下它芬芳的花瓣，使他发热的前额感到清凉，这些花瓣落到他干渴的嘴唇上，像面包和酒似地提起他的精神。这些花瓣落到他的胸膛上，他于是感到轻松，想安静地睡过去。
“现在我要睡了！”他对自己低声说。“睡眠可以恢复精神。明天我将又可以起床了，又变得健康和强壮了。那才美呢，那才好呢！这株用真正的爱情所培养出来的苹果树，现在站在我面前，放射出天国的光辉！”
于是他就睡去了。
过了一天以后——这是他的店子关门的第三天——暴风雪停止了。对面的一个邻居到他的木屋子里来看这位一直还没有露面的老安东。安东直直地躺在床上——死了——他的双手紧紧地抓着他的那顶老睡帽！在他人殓的时候，人们没有把这顶睡帽戴在他的头上，因为他还有一顶崭新的白帽子。
他曾经流过的那些眼泪现在到什么地方去了呢？这些泪珠变成了什么呢？它们都装在他的睡帽里——真正的泪珠是没有办法洗掉的。
它们留在那顶睡帽里被人忘记了。不过那些旧时的回忆和旧时的梦现在保存在这顶“单身汉的睡帽”里，请你不要希望得到这顶帽子吧。
它会使你的前额烧起来，使你的脉搏狂跳，使你做起像真事一样的梦来。安东死后戴过这帽子的第一个人就有这样亲身的体会，虽然已经时隔半个世纪。这个人就是市长本人。他有一个太太和11个孩子，而且生活得很好。
他马上就做了许多梦，梦到失恋、破产和艰难的日子。
“乖乖！这帽子真是热得烫人！”他说，赶快把它从脑袋上拉掉。
一颗珠子滚出来，接着滚出第二颗，第三颗；它们滴出响声，发出闪光。
“一定是关节炎发作了！”市长说。“我的眼睛有些发花！”
这是半个世纪以前爱塞纳哈的老安东所撒下的泪珠。
从来无论什么人，只要戴上这顶睡帽，便会做出许多梦和看到许多幻影。他自己的生活便变成了安东的生活，而且成为一个故事；
事实上，成为许多的故事。不过我们可以让别人来讲它们。我们现在已经讲了头一个。我们最后的一句话是。请不要希望得到那顶“老单身汉的睡帽”。
这个故事，最初收进1858年出版的《新的童话和故事》第1卷第1部里。这个故事会使读者联想起另外两个故事：《柳树下的梦》和《依卜和克丽斯玎》，也会联想起安徒生本人——他也是个老单身汉，其所不同的是这三个故事中的男女主人公小时都是两小无猜，有过美丽的感情生活，但安徒生小时却没有这样的幸运——他没有任何美好的回忆。但安徒生一生的结束却又比那三个故事中的男主人公略胜一筹：他是躺在一个开杂货店的朋友家里呼吸他最后一口气的。但现在这个故事中的安东有整整两天没离开过他的床，因为他没有气力。天气的寒冷已经把他冻僵了……压倒他的东西倒不是发烧，也不是疾病，而是衰老。一只小小的蜘蛛——可是他看不见它。小蜘蛛兴高采烈地忙忙碌碌地围着他的身体织了一层蛛网。它好像在织一面丧旗以便在这老单身汉闭上眼睛的那天可以挂起来。没有人照料他，因为当初他的老板雇用他当店员的条件是不准他结婚。这篇故事事实上是对旧社会提出的一个强烈的控诉——虽然它的调子是那么低沉。