English Original
In the street stood an old, very old house—almost three hundred years old. The date was carved on a great beam, along with tulips, hop-binds, and verses in old-fashioned spelling. Over each window, a distorted face was cut into the wood. The upper story jutted far out over the lower one, and under the eaves hung a leaden spout with a dragon's head. The rainwater should have run from its mouth, but it ran from its belly instead, for there was a hole in the spout.
All the other houses in the street were new and neat, with large window panes and smooth walls. They seemed to have nothing to do with the old house. They certainly thought, "How long must that old, decayed thing stand here as a spectacle? Its projecting windows block our view! Its steps are as broad as a palace's and as high as a church tower. Its iron railings look like the door to a family vault, with those stupid brass tops!"
On the other side of the street were also new, neat houses, and they thought the same. But in a window opposite the old house sat a little boy with rosy cheeks and bright, beaming eyes. He liked the old house best, both in sunshine and moonshine. Gazing at its crumbling wall, he could imagine the strangest figures—the street as it once was, with steps, projecting windows, and pointed gables. He saw soldiers with halberds and spouts shaped like dragons and serpents. That was a house worth looking at!
An old man lived there, wearing plush breeches, a coat with large brass buttons, and a wig that was clearly real. Every morning, an old servant came to tidy his rooms and run errands. Otherwise, the old man was quite alone. Now and then, he came to the window and looked out. The little boy nodded to him, and the old man nodded back. So they became acquaintances, then friends, though they never spoke a word. The boy heard his parents say, "The old man opposite is very well off, but he is so very, very lonely!"
The following Sunday, the boy wrapped something in paper, went downstairs, and stood in the doorway. When the errand-man passed, the boy said, "Master! Will you give this to the old man across the way from me? I have two pewter soldiers—this is one of them. He shall have it, for I know he is so very, very lonely."
The old servant looked pleased, nodded, and took the pewter soldier to the old house. Later, a message came inviting the boy to visit. With his parents' permission, he went over.
The brass balls on the iron railings shone brighter than ever, as if polished for the occasion. The carved trumpeters on the door—standing in tulips—seemed to blow with all their might, their cheeks rounder than before. Yes, they blew—"Trateratra! The little boy comes! Trateratra!"—and the door opened.
The passage was hung with portraits of knights in armor and ladies in silken gowns. The armor rattled, and the gowns rustled! Then came a flight of stairs that went up a good way and down a little, leading to a dilapidated balcony full of holes and long crevices. Grass and leaves grew there, for the whole balcony, yard, and walls were overgrown with green, making it look like a garden—though it was only a balcony. Old flower-pots with faces and asses' ears stood about, the flowers growing as they pleased. One pot was overrun with pinks (the green part, that is). Shoot stood by shoot, and it said distinctly, "The air has cherished me, the sun has kissed me, and promised me a little flower on Sunday!"
They entered a chamber where the walls were covered with hog's leather, printed with gold flowers.
"The gilding decays,
But hog's leather stays!"
said the walls.
Easy-chairs with high, carved backs and arms stood about. "Sit down! sit down!" they said. "Ugh! how I creak; now I shall certainly get the gout, like the old clothespress, ugh!"
The boy entered the room with the projecting windows, where the old man sat.
"I thank you for the pewter soldier, my little friend!" said the old man. "And I thank you for coming to see me."
"Thankee! thankee!" or "cranky! cranky!" sounded from all the furniture. There was so much of it that each article got in the other's way to look at the boy.
In the middle of the wall hung a picture of a beautiful lady, young and glad, but dressed in old-fashioned clothes, with stiff garments and powdered hair. She said neither "thankee" nor "cranky" but looked at the boy with mild eyes. He asked the old man, "Where did you get her?"
"Yonder, at the broker's," said the old man. "Where so many pictures hang. No one knows or cares about them, for they are all buried. But I knew her in bygone days. She has been dead these fifty years!"
Under the picture, in a glazed frame, hung a bouquet of withered flowers, almost fifty years old. They looked so very old!
The pendulum of the great clock swung to and fro, the hands turned, and everything in the room grew still older, though no one noticed.
"They say at home that you are so very, very lonely!" said the boy.
"Oh!" said he. "Old thoughts, with what they may bring, come to visit me, and now you come too! I am very well off!"
He took a picture book from the shelf, showing long processions and pageants with strange characters no longer seen: soldiers like the knave of clubs, citizens with waving flags. The tailors' flag had a pair of shears held by two lions; the shoemakers' had a two-headed eagle (for shoemakers must have everything in pairs!). Yes, it was a picture book!
The old man went to fetch preserves, apples, and nuts. It was delightful there in the old house.
"I cannot bear it any longer!" said the pewter soldier on the drawers. "It is so lonely and melancholy here! When one has known a family circle, one cannot get used to this life! The days are long, the evenings longer! It's not like your home, where your parents speak pleasantly and you children make a delightful noise. Nay, how lonely the old man is! Do you think he gets kisses? Mild looks? A Christmas tree? He will get nothing but a grave! I cannot bear it!"
"You must not grieve so," said the boy. "I find it delightful here, and all the old thoughts come to visit."
"Yes, but I see nothing of them, and I don't know them!" said the soldier. "I cannot bear it!"
"But you must!" said the boy.
Then the old man returned with a pleased face and delicious preserves, apples, and nuts, so the boy thought no more of the soldier.
The boy returned home happy. Weeks passed, with nods exchanged between the houses. Then the boy visited again.
The carved trumpeters blew, "Trateratra! There is the little boy! Trateratra!" The swords and armor rattled, the silk gowns rustled; the hog's leather spoke, and the old chairs complained of gout and rheumatism. It was exactly like the first time, for there one day was just like another.
"I cannot bear it!" said the pewter soldier. "I have shed pewter tears! It is too melancholy! I'd rather go to war and lose limbs—at least that's a change. Now I know what it means to be visited by old thoughts! I've had a visit from mine, and it's no pleasant thing. I was about to jump down.
"I saw you all at home so clearly, as if you were here. It was that Sunday morning again; you children stood before the table singing your Psalms, devoutly, with folded hands. Father and mother were just as pious. Then the door opened, and little sister Mary, not yet two, who always dances to music, was brought in. She began to dance but couldn't keep time because the tones were so long. She stood first on one leg, bending her head forward, then on the other—but it was no use. You all stood seriously, though it was hard. I laughed to myself, then fell off the table and got a bump I still have—for it was wrong to laugh. But it all passes before me again—these are the old thoughts.
"Tell me, do you still sing on Sundays? Tell me about little Mary! And how is my comrade, the other pewter soldier? He is happy enough, I'm sure! I cannot bear it!"
"You were given as a present!" said the boy. "You must stay. Can't you understand?"
The old man came with a drawer containing "tin boxes," "balsam boxes," old cards, large and gilded, unlike any seen now. He opened several drawers and the piano, which had landscapes inside its lid and sounded hoarse when he played. Then he hummed a song.
"Yes, she could sing that!" he said, nodding to the portrait from the broker's. His eyes shone brightly.
"I will go to the wars! I will go to the wars!" shouted the pewter soldier, throwing himself off the drawers onto the floor. What became of him? The old man and the boy searched, but he was gone.
"I shall find him!" said the old man, but he never did. The floor was too open—the soldier had fallen through a crevice and lay as in an open tomb.
That day passed, and the boy went home. Weeks passed. The windows frosted over, and the boy had to breathe on them to peek at the old house. Snow filled the carvings and inscriptions, covering the steps as if no one lived there—and no one did. The old man was dead!
That evening, a hearse stood before the door. The old man was borne out in his coffin, driven to the country to lie in his grave. No one followed; all his friends were dead. The boy kissed his hand to the coffin as it drove away.
Days later, there was an auction at the old house. From his window, the boy saw the old knights and ladies, the flower-pots with long ears, the old chairs and clothes-presses carried away. Something went here, something there. The portrait from the broker's returned to the broker's and hung there, for no one knew her anymore—no one cared for the old picture.
In spring, they pulled the house down, for people said it was a ruin. From the street, one could see into the room with the slashed and torn hog's-leather hanging. The green grass and leaves on the balcony hung wild about the falling beams. Then the site was cleared.
"That was a relief," said the neighboring houses.
A fine house was built there, with large windows and smooth white walls. But where the old house had stood, a little garden was laid out. A wild grapevine ran up the neighboring wall. Before the garden was a large iron railing with an iron door, looking quite splendid. People stopped to peep in. Sparrows hung by scores in the vine, chattering away, but not about the old house—they could not remember it.
So many years had passed that the little boy had grown into a man, clever and a pleasure to his parents. He had just married and, with his wife, come to live in the house with the garden. He stood by her as she planted a pretty field-flower, pressing the earth around it with her fingers. Oh! What was that? She had stuck herself. Something pointed sat straight out of the soft mould.
It was—yes, guess! It was the pewter soldier, lost at the old man's, who had tumbled among timber and rubbish and lain for years in the ground.
The young wife wiped the dirt off the soldier with a green leaf, then with her fine handkerchief—it smelled so delightful that to the soldier it was like awaking from a trance.
"Let me see him," said the young man. He laughed and shook his head. "Nay, it cannot be he, but he reminds me of a story about a pewter soldier I had as a boy!" He told his wife about the old house, the old man, and the pewter soldier he sent over because the man was so very lonely. He told it correctly, so that tears came to his young wife's eyes for the old house and the old man.
"It may be the same pewter soldier!" she said. "I will take care of it and remember your story. But you must show me the old man's grave!"
"I do not know it," said he. "No one knows it! All his friends were dead, no one tended it, and I was just a little boy then."
"How very, very lonely he must have been!" said she.
"Very, very lonely!" said the pewter soldier. "But it is delightful not to be forgotten!"
"Delightful!" shouted something close by. Only the soldier saw it was a piece of the hog's-leather hangings. It had lost all its gilding and looked like wet clay, but it had an opinion:
"The gilding decays,
But hog's leather stays!"
The pewter soldier did not believe it.
中文翻译
街上矗立着一幢很老很老的房子——几乎有三百年历史了。年份刻在一根大梁上，旁边还有郁金香、啤酒花藤蔓以及用古老拼写方式刻下的诗句。每个窗户上方的木梁都刻着一张扭曲的脸。上层楼远远地突出在下层楼之上，屋檐下挂着一个铅制的排水口，上面雕着龙头。雨水本该从龙嘴里流出，却从它的肚子里冒了出来，因为排水口上有个洞。
街上所有其他的房子都崭新而整洁，有着大玻璃窗和平滑的墙壁。它们似乎与老房子毫无瓜葛。它们肯定在想：“那个老旧腐朽的东西还得在这里当街景多久？它凸出的窗户挡住了我们的视线！它的台阶像宫殿一样宽，像教堂塔楼一样高。它的铁栏杆看起来像家族墓穴的门，还有那些愚蠢的黄铜球顶！”
街对面也是崭新整洁的房子，想法也一样。但在老房子对面的一扇窗户里，坐着一个脸颊红润、眼睛明亮有神的小男孩。他最喜欢这幢老房子，无论在阳光下还是月光下都是如此。凝视着它斑驳的墙壁，他能想象出最奇特的景象——街道昔日的模样，台阶、凸窗和尖尖的山形墙。他看见拿着戟的士兵，以及形状像龙和蛇的排水口。那真是一幢值得一看的房子！
一位老人住在里面，穿着天鹅绒马裤、带有大黄铜扣子的外套，还戴着一顶明显是真正的假发。每天早晨，一个老仆人来为他打扫房间和跑腿。除此之外，老人就完全孤独一人了。他不时走到窗前向外望。小男孩向他点头，老人也点头回应。于是他们成了熟人，然后是朋友，尽管他们从未说过一句话。男孩听到父母说：“对面的老人很富有，但他非常、非常孤独！”
接下来的星期天，男孩用纸包了样东西，走下楼，站在门口。当跑腿的仆人经过时，男孩说：“先生！您能把这个带给对面的老人吗？就说是我送的。我有两个锡兵——这是其中一个。他应该得到它，因为我知道他非常、非常孤独。”
老仆人显得很高兴，点点头，把锡兵带到了老房子。后来，传来口信邀请男孩去拜访。得到父母允许后，他过去了。
铁栏杆上的黄铜球比以往任何时候都更亮，仿佛是为这次拜访特意擦亮的。门上雕刻的号手——站在郁金香丛中——似乎用尽全力在吹奏，脸颊比以前更圆了。是的，他们在吹——“嗒嗒啦啦！小男孩来了！嗒嗒啦啦！”——门开了。
走廊里挂满了穿着铠甲的骑士和穿着丝绸长裙的女士的肖像。铠甲哐当作响，长裙沙沙作响！接着是一段楼梯，向上延伸很长，又向下一点，通向一个破败的阳台，满是洞和长长的裂缝。那里长着草和叶子，因为整个阳台、院子和墙壁都爬满了绿色植物，使它看起来像个花园——尽管它只是个阳台。周围摆着些旧花盆，上面有脸和驴耳朵的图案，花儿随意生长。一个花盆完全被石竹花（指的是绿色部分）覆盖了。嫩芽挨着嫩芽，它清晰地说道：“空气抚育了我，太阳亲吻了我，答应在星期天给我一朵小花！”
他们走进一个房间，墙壁上覆盖着猪皮，印着金色的花朵。
“镀金会消逝，
猪皮永留存！”
墙壁说道。
周围摆着高背安乐椅，椅背很高，雕刻精美，两边有扶手。“坐下！坐下！”它们说。“唉！我吱嘎作响；现在我肯定要像那个旧衣橱一样得痛风了，唉！”
男孩走进有凸窗的房间，老人就坐在那里。
“谢谢你送我的锡兵，小朋友！”老人说。“也谢谢你来看我。”
“谢谢！谢谢！”或者“嘎吱！嘎吱！”的声音从所有家具那里传来。家具太多了，每件都挤着要看男孩。
墙壁中央挂着一幅美丽女士的画像，年轻而快乐，但穿着旧时的衣服，衣服笔挺，头发上扑着粉。她既不说“谢谢”，也不说“嘎吱”，只是用温和的眼睛看着男孩。男孩问老人：“您从哪里得到她的？”
“那边，旧货商那里，”老人说。“那里挂着许多画。没人认识或关心它们，因为它们都被遗忘了。但我过去认识她。她已经去世五十年了！”
画像下方，在一个玻璃相框里，挂着一束枯萎的花，几乎有五十年了。它们看起来非常古老！
大钟的钟摆来回摆动，指针转动，房间里的一切都变得更老了，尽管没人注意到。
“家里人说您非常、非常孤独！”男孩说。
“哦！”他说。“旧时的思绪，连同它们可能带来的东西，都来拜访我，现在你也来了！我过得很好！”
他从书架上取下一本图画书，里面是长长的游行队伍和庆典场面，有着如今再也见不到的奇怪人物：像梅花杰克一样的士兵，挥舞着旗子的市民。裁缝的旗子上有一把由两只狮子举着的大剪刀；鞋匠的旗子上有一只双头鹰（因为鞋匠必须让所有东西成双成对！）。是的，这是一本图画书！
老人去拿蜜饯、苹果和坚果。老房子里真是令人愉快。
“我再也受不了了！”抽屉上的锡兵说。“这里太孤独、太忧郁了！一个人如果习惯了家庭生活，就无法适应这里！白天很长，夜晚更长！这里一点也不像你家，你父母愉快地交谈，你们孩子们发出欢快的声音。不，这老人多么孤独啊！你以为他能得到亲吻吗？温和的目光吗？圣诞树吗？他除了坟墓什么也得不到！我受不了了！”
“你别这么难过，”男孩说。“我觉得这里很愉快，所有旧时的思绪都来拜访。”
“是的，但我看不见它们，也不认识它们！”士兵说。“我受不了了！”
“但你必须忍受！”男孩说。
这时老人回来了，脸上带着喜悦的神情，还有美味的蜜饯、苹果和坚果，于是男孩不再想那个士兵了。
男孩高兴地回到家。几周过去了，两栋房子之间点头致意。然后男孩再次拜访。
雕刻的号手吹奏着：“嗒嗒啦啦！小男孩来了！嗒嗒啦啦！”剑和铠甲哐当作响，丝绸长裙沙沙作响；猪皮开口说话，旧椅子抱怨着痛风和风湿。和第一次一模一样，因为在那里，每一天、每一刻都完全相同。
“我受不了了！”锡兵说。“我已经流出了锡眼泪！太忧郁了！我宁愿上战场失去手脚——至少那是个变化。现在我明白被旧时思绪拜访是什么滋味了！我的思绪也来拜访了我，那绝不是愉快的事。我差点就要跳下去了。
“我把你们在家里的情景看得清清楚楚，仿佛你们就在这里。又是那个星期天早晨；你们孩子们站在桌前唱圣诗，虔诚地，双手合十。父亲和母亲也同样虔诚。然后门开了，还不到两岁的小妹妹玛丽被带了进来，她一听到音乐就会跳舞。她开始跳舞，但跟不上拍子，因为音调太长了。她先单腿站着，头向前弯，然后换另一条腿——但都没用。你们都严肃地站着，尽管这很难。我心里笑了，然后从桌子上掉下来，摔了个包，我现在还有——因为笑是不对的。但这一切又在我眼前重现——这些就是旧时的思绪。
“告诉我，你们星期天还唱歌吗？告诉我小玛丽怎么样了！我的战友，另一个锡兵，过得怎么样？他肯定很快乐，我确定！我受不了了！”
“你是被当作礼物送出去的！”男孩说。“你必须留下。难道你不明白吗？”
老人拿着一个抽屉过来，里面装着“锡盒子”、“香膏盒子”、旧卡片，又大又镀金，和现在看到的不一样。他打开几个抽屉和钢琴，钢琴盖内侧有风景画，他弹奏时声音嘶哑。然后他哼起一首歌。
“是的，她会唱这首歌！”他说着，朝从旧货商那里买来的画像点了点头。他的眼睛闪闪发亮。
“我要去打仗！我要去打仗！”锡兵用尽全力喊道，从抽屉上跳下来摔在地板上。他怎么样了？老人和男孩寻找着，但他不见了。
“我会找到他的！”老人说，但他始终没找到。地板缝隙太多——士兵掉进了一条裂缝里，躺在那里，如同在一个敞开的坟墓中。
那天过去了，男孩回了家。几周过去了。窗户结了霜，男孩不得不对着窗户哈气，才能窥视老房子。雪花填满了雕刻和铭文，覆盖了台阶，仿佛没人住在那里——也确实没人了。老人去世了！
那天晚上，一辆灵车停在门前。老人被放进棺材抬了出来，运到乡下去安葬。没有人跟随；他所有的朋友都去世了。男孩对着驶离的灵车飞吻告别。
几天后，老房子举行了拍卖。男孩从窗户看到古老的骑士和女士画像、长耳朵的花盆、旧椅子和旧衣橱被搬走。有的搬到这里，有的搬到那里。从旧货商那里得来的画像又回到了旧货商那里，挂在那里，因为再也没人认识她——没人关心这幅旧画了。
春天，他们拆掉了房子，因为人们说它是一堆废墟。从街上可以直接看到那个挂着猪皮的房间，猪皮已被划破撕裂。阳台上的绿草和叶子凌乱地垂在倒塌的梁木间。然后场地被清理了。
“这下可轻松了，”周围的房子说。
一幢漂亮的房子在那里建了起来，有着大窗户和平滑的白墙。但在老房子曾经矗立的地方，布置了一个小花园。一棵野葡萄藤爬上了邻居的墙壁。花园前是一道大铁栏杆和一扇铁门，看起来相当气派。人们停下来向里窥视。成群的麻雀挂在藤蔓上，叽叽喳喳地交谈，但不是关于老房子——它们记不得了。
许多年过去了，小男孩已长大成人，聪明伶俐，是父母的骄傲。他刚刚结婚，和妻子一起搬进了带花园的这所房子。他站在她身边，看着她种下一朵她觉得漂亮的野花，用手指把泥土按紧。哦！那是什么？她被什么东西扎了一下。一个尖尖的东西从松软的泥土里冒了出来。
它是——是的，猜猜看！是那个锡兵，在老房子里丢失的那个，他在木料和垃圾中翻滚，最后在土里躺了许多年。
年轻的妻子先用一片绿叶，然后用她精致芬芳的手帕擦掉士兵身上的泥土——手帕的香味如此宜人，对锡兵来说，就像从恍惚中醒来。
“让我看看他，”年轻人说。他笑了，摇摇头。“不，这不可能是他，但他让我想起了我小时候一个关于锡兵的故事！”他告诉妻子关于老房子、老人以及他因为老人非常孤独而送去的锡兵的故事。他讲得准确无误，以至于年轻的妻子为老房子和老人流下了眼泪。
“这可能就是同一个锡兵！”她说。“我会好好保管它，记住你的故事。但你必须带我去看老人的坟墓！”
“我不知道它在哪儿，”他说。“没人知道！他所有的朋友都死了，没人照看它，而那时我只是个小男孩。”
“他一定非常、非常孤独！”她说。
“非常、非常孤独！”锡兵说。“但没被遗忘真是令人高兴！”
“高兴！”近旁有个东西喊道。只有士兵看出那是猪皮挂毯的一块碎片。它失去了所有镀金，看起来像一块湿泥巴，但它有自己的见解：
“镀金会消逝，
猪皮永留存！”
锡兵不相信这套理论。