English Original
There was once a sculptor named Alfred. Having won a gold medal and a traveling scholarship, he went to Italy and later returned to his native land. On his return, he visited a small town in Zealand. The town's richest man gave a party in his honor, inviting all notable citizens. The event was so well-known that no public announcement was needed.
Apprentices and the poor stood outside the house, watching the lit windows. Inside, the sculptor told anecdotes, and everyone listened with pleasure and awe. None showed more respect than the elderly widow of a naval officer. She absorbed his every word like blotting paper, appreciative yet incredibly ignorant.
"I should like to see Rome," she said. "Describe it. How does it look when you enter the gate?"
"You enter a large open space," the sculptor replied, "with a thousand-year-old obelisk in the center."
"An organist!" exclaimed the lady, mishearing the word. Guests stifled laughter. The sculptor's smile faded as he noticed a pair of dark-blue eyes beside the inquisitive lady—her daughter. Surely, he thought, the mother of such a daughter could not be entirely silly. The mother was a fountain of questions; the silent daughter seemed the beautiful maid of the fountain. She was charming, a study for the sculptor to contemplate, but not to converse with.
"Has the pope a great family?" the widow asked.
"No, he does not come from a great family," Alfred answered tactfully.
"I mean, has he a wife and children?"
"The pope is not allowed to marry."
"I don't like that," she remarked.
Alfred spoke of Italy's glorious colors: purple hills, the deep blue Mediterranean, azure skies, whose beauty was only surpassed in the north by the deep-blue eyes of a maiden. He said this with peculiar intonation, but she seemed unaware, which he found charming.
Guests sighed, "Beautiful Italy! Oh, to travel there!"
The widow declared, "If I win the lottery, my daughter and I will travel, and you, Mr. Alfred, must be our guide. We'll keep to Rome, where the roads are safe."
Her daughter sighed gently. Alfred attributed deep meaning to that sigh. Those eyes, lit up for him, must conceal treasures of heart and mind richer than Rome's glories. That night, he was completely lost to the young lady.
Alfred began visiting the widow's house frequently, soon making it clear his interest lay in the daughter, Kaela. She was beautiful but considered rather dull, sleeping late. "She is a beauty," her mother explained. "They are always easily tired. It makes her eyes clear."
Alfred felt the truth of "Still waters run deep." He often shared his adventures, and the mother remained as simple and eager as on their first meeting. He showed colored plates of Naples and spoke of Mount Vesuvius's eruptions.
"Good heavens! A burning mountain! Is it not dangerous?" she exclaimed.
"Whole cities have been destroyed," he said, mentioning Herculaneum and Pompeii.
He showed a pencil sketch of an eruption. Overwhelmed by the colored plates, the mother glanced at the pale drawing and cried, "What, did you see it throw up white fire?"
For a moment, Alfred's respect for her lessened considerably. But, dazzled by Kaela, he soon found it natural the old lady had no eye for color. After all, she possessed Kaela.
Alfred and Kaela were betrothed. The announcement appeared in the local paper; the mother bought thirty copies to send to friends. She was happy, feeling connected to the great sculptor Thorvaldsen. "You are his true successor," she told Alfred.
Kaela was silent, but her eyes shone, her lips smiled, every movement was graceful. Alfred decided to sculpt busts of both mother and daughter. As he worked the clay, he spoke of nature's beauty and the sculptor's task: to seize the beauty of the mind and display it in outward form. Kaela nodded in silent approbation. Her mother confessed, "It is difficult to follow you; my head whirls. Still, I contrive to lay hold on some of it."
Kaela's beauty held Alfred in thrall. He spoke only to her, thought only of her. They were married in a gay wedding. "Pygmalion loved his Galatea," sang one of the guests.
The young couple moved to Copenhagen, accompanied by the mother-in-law to manage the "coarse work" of domestic arrangements. Kaela looked like a doll in a doll's house. Alfred, however, felt like a swan among geese. The magic of form had enchanted him; he had admired the casket without inquiring about its contents—an omission that often brings unhappiness to married life.
The young couple often sat hand in hand. He talked; she seldom spoke, though her voice was melodious. A mental relief came with a visit from Sophy, a friend of Kaela's. Sophy was not pretty—Kaela said she was a little crooked—but she was sensible. Her presence brought a needed new atmosphere to the doll's house. Feeling the need for a change, the family traveled to Italy.
Returning after a year, the mother and daughter said, "Thank heaven we are home! There's no real pleasure in traveling; it's wearisome and expensive." The mother complained about the galleries and the food. The journey had tired Kaela, who was always fatigued.
They sent for Sophy to live with them. She proved a clever, accomplished, and faithful friend, especially when Kaela fell ill. "When the casket is everything, the casket should be strong," the narrator observes. The casket was not strong enough; Kaela died.
"She was beautiful," her mother said. "A perfect beauty."
Alfred and the mother mourned. In time, Alfred married Sophy, whom the mother-in-law considered ugly. "He has gone from the most beautiful to the ugliest," she lamented. "Men have no constancy."
Alfred reflected, "'Pygmalion loved his Galatea' was sung at my first wedding. I fell in love with a beautiful statue that awoke to life in my arms. But the kindred soul, the angel who can feel and sympathize and elevate us, I have not found till now. You came, Sophy, not in the glory of outward beauty. You came to teach the sculptor that his work is but dust and clay, and that we should seek the ethereal essence of mind and spirit. Poor Kaela! Our life was but a meeting by the wayside."
"That was not a loving speech," said Sophy, "nor spoken like a Christian. In a future state, souls are attracted by sympathy. There, everything beautiful develops and is raised higher. Her soul will acquire such completeness that it may harmonize with yours even more than mine. You will then once more utter, 'Beautiful, most beautiful!'
中文翻译
从前有一位名叫阿尔弗雷德的雕塑家。他赢得了一枚金奖和一笔游学奖学金，去了意大利，后来回到了故乡。回国后，他访问了西兰岛上的一个小镇。镇上最富有的人为他举办了一场宴会，邀请了所有有头有脸的市民。这件事人尽皆知，无需公告。
学徒和穷人站在屋外，望着灯火通明的窗户。屋内，雕塑家讲述着轶事，每个人都带着愉悦和敬畏聆听。没有人比那位海军军官的遗孀老妇人表现出更多的敬意。她像吸墨纸一样吸收着他的每一句话，充满欣赏却又极其无知。
“我想看看罗马，”她说。“描述一下它。当你走进城门时，城市是什么样子？”
“你进入一个宽阔的广场，”雕塑家回答，“中央矗立着一座有千年历史的方尖碑。”
“一位风琴手！”夫人惊呼道，听错了这个词。客人们忍俊不禁。雕塑家的笑容消失了，因为他注意到这位好奇的夫人旁边有一双深蓝色的眼睛——那是她的女儿。他想，有这样女儿的母亲，总不会太傻。母亲是问题的源泉；而沉默的女儿仿佛是泉边美丽的少女。她很迷人，是雕塑家可以凝思的对象，却无法与之交谈。
“教皇有一个大家庭吗？”寡妇问道。
“不，他不是来自一个大家族，”阿尔弗雷德圆滑地回答。
“我是说，他有妻子和孩子吗？”
“教皇是不允许结婚的。”
“我不喜欢这样，”她说。
阿尔弗雷德谈起意大利绚丽的色彩：紫色的山丘、深蓝色的地中海、蔚蓝的天空，其美丽唯有北方少女的深蓝色眼睛可以超越。他说这话时带着特别的语调，但她似乎并未察觉，这让他觉得可爱。
客人们叹息道：“美丽的意大利！哦，真想去那里旅行！”
寡妇宣称：“如果我中了彩票，我和我女儿就去旅行，而你，阿尔弗雷德先生，必须做我们的向导。我们只待在罗马，那里的公路是安全的。”
她的女儿轻轻叹了口气。阿尔弗雷德从这声叹息中读出了深意。那双为他而亮的眼睛，一定隐藏着比罗马所有荣耀更丰富的心灵宝藏。那晚，他完全为这位年轻女士倾倒了。
阿尔弗雷德开始频繁拜访寡妇的家，很快表明他的兴趣在于女儿凯拉。她很美，但被认为有些迟钝，早上起得晚。“她是个美人，”她母亲解释道。“美人总是容易疲倦。这使她的眼睛如此清澈。”
阿尔弗雷德体会到了“静水流深”的真谛。他经常分享他的冒险经历，而母亲仍像第一次见面时那样单纯而热切。他展示了那不勒斯的彩色版画，并讲述了维苏威火山的喷发。
“天哪！一座燃烧的山！难道不危险吗？”她惊呼。
“整座城市都被摧毁了，”他说，提到了赫库兰尼姆和庞贝。
他展示了一幅火山喷发的铅笔素描。被彩色版画震撼到的母亲瞥了一眼苍白的素描，叫道：“什么，你看到它喷出白色的火了吗？”
一时间，阿尔弗雷德对她的敬意大打折扣。但是，被凯拉的光芒所眩惑，他很快觉得这位老太太对色彩没有鉴赏力是很自然的。毕竟，她拥有凯拉。
阿尔弗雷德和凯拉订婚了。公告登在当地报纸上；母亲买了三十份寄给朋友。她很高兴，感觉自己与伟大的雕塑家托瓦尔森有了联系。“你是他真正的继承人，”她对阿尔弗雷德说。
凯拉沉默着，但她的眼睛闪亮，嘴唇微笑，每一个动作都优雅动人。阿尔弗雷德决定为母女俩制作半身像。当他揉捏粘土时，他谈到了自然之美以及雕塑家的任务：捕捉心灵之美，并将其展现在外在形式上。凯拉默默点头表示赞同。她的母亲承认：“很难跟上你的思路；我的头都晕了。不过，我还是设法抓住了一些。”
凯拉的美丽牢牢抓住了阿尔弗雷德。他只对她说话，只想着她。他们举行了一场欢乐的婚礼。“皮格马利翁爱他的伽拉忒亚，”一位客人唱道。
这对年轻夫妇搬到了哥本哈根，岳母同行，负责管理被她称为“粗活”的家务。凯拉看起来像玩偶屋里的娃娃。然而，阿尔弗雷德却感觉像鹅群中的天鹅。形式的魔力迷惑了他；他只欣赏首饰盒，却不同里面装着什么——这种疏忽常常给婚姻生活带来不幸。
这对年轻夫妇经常手拉手坐着。他说话；她很少开口，尽管她的声音很悦耳。凯拉的朋友索菲的来访带来了精神上的慰藉。索菲不漂亮——凯拉说她有点驼背——但她很理智。她的存在给这个玩偶之家带来了需要的新鲜空气。感到需要换换环境，这家人去意大利旅行了。
一年后归来，母亲和女儿说：“谢天谢地，我们回家了！旅行没有真正的乐趣；它令人厌倦而且昂贵。”母亲抱怨画廊和食物。旅行让凯拉疲惫不堪，她总是很疲劳。
他们请索菲来同住。她证明了自己是一位聪明、有才艺且忠实的朋友，尤其是在凯拉生病期间。“当首饰盒就是一切时，首饰盒应该坚固，”叙述者评论道。首饰盒不够坚固；凯拉去世了。
“她很美，”她母亲说。“一个完美的美人。”
阿尔弗雷德和母亲哀悼着。随着时间的推移，阿尔弗雷德娶了索菲，岳母认为她很丑。“他从最美的人走到了最丑的人，”她哀叹道。“男人没有恒心。”
阿尔弗雷德反思道：“‘皮格马利翁爱他的伽拉忒亚’在我第一次婚礼上唱过。我爱上了一座美丽的雕像，她在我的臂弯中获得了生命。但那个能感受、同情并提升我们的知心灵魂、天使，我直到现在才找到。你来了，索菲，并非带着外在美的荣耀而来。你来是为了教导雕塑家，他的作品不过是尘土和粘土，我们应该寻求心灵与精神的空灵本质。可怜的凯拉！我们的生活不过是路边的邂逅。”
“这不是充满爱意的话，”索菲说，“也不像基督徒说的。在未来的境界里，灵魂因共鸣而相互吸引。在那里，一切美的事物都会发展并提升到更高的存在状态。她的灵魂将获得如此的完满，甚至可能比我的灵魂更与你的和谐共鸣。那时，你将再次说出你第一次狂喜的爱情呼喊：‘美啊，最美的人！’”