安徒生童話故事第55篇：一本不說話的書The Dumb Book
引導(dǎo)語：書，會(huì)說話?那么《一本不說話的書》這篇安徒生童話故事，大家會(huì)不會(huì)覺得很新奇呢?歡迎大家閱讀!
在公路旁的一個(gè)樹林里，有一個(gè)孤獨(dú)的農(nóng)莊。人們沿著公路可以一直走進(jìn)這農(nóng)家的大院子里去。太陽在這兒照著;所有的窗子都是開著的。房子里面是一起忙碌的聲音;但在院子里，在一個(gè)開滿了花的紫丁香組成的涼亭下，停著一口敞著的棺材。一個(gè)死人已經(jīng)躺在里面，這天上午就要入葬。棺材旁沒有守著任何一個(gè)悼念死者的人;沒有任何人對他流一滴眼淚。他的面孔是用一塊白布蓋著的，他的頭底下墊著一大本厚書。書頁是由一整張灰紙疊成的;每一頁上夾著一朵被忘記了的萎謝了的花。這是一本完整的植物標(biāo)本，在許多不同的地方搜集得來的。它要陪死者一起被埋葬掉，因?yàn)檫@是他的遺囑。每朵花都聯(lián)系到他生命的一章。
“死者是誰呢?"我們問�；卮鹗牵�"他是烏卜薩拉的一個(gè)老學(xué)生①。人們說：他曾經(jīng)是一個(gè)活潑的年輕人;他懂得古代的文學(xué)，他會(huì)唱歌，他甚至還寫詩。但是由于他曾經(jīng)遭遇到某種事故，他把他的思想和他的生命沉浸在燒酒里。當(dāng)他的健康最后也毀在酒里的時(shí)候，他就搬到這個(gè)鄉(xiāng)下來。別人供給他膳宿。只要陰郁的情緒不來襲擊他的時(shí)候，他是純潔得像一個(gè)孩子，因?yàn)檫@時(shí)他就變得非�；顫�，在森林里跑來跑去，像一只被追逐著的雄鹿。不過，只要我們把他喊回家來，讓他看看這本裝滿了干植物的書，他就能坐一整天，一會(huì)兒看看這種植物，一會(huì)兒看看那種植物。有時(shí)他的眼淚就沿著他的臉滾下來：只有上帝知道他在想什么東西!但是他要求把這本書裝進(jìn)他的棺材里去。因此現(xiàn)在它就躺在那里面。不一會(huì)兒棺材蓋子就會(huì)釘上，那么他將在墳?zāi)估锏玫剿陌蚕ⅰ?rdquo;
他的面布揭開了。死人的面上露出一種和平的表情。一絲太陽光射在它上面。一只燕子像箭似地飛進(jìn)涼亭里來，很快地掉轉(zhuǎn)身，在死人的頭上喃喃地叫了幾聲。
我們都知道，假如我們把我們年輕時(shí)代的舊信拿出來讀讀，我們會(huì)產(chǎn)生一種多么奇怪的感覺啊!整個(gè)的一生和這生命中的希望和哀愁都會(huì)浮現(xiàn)出來。我們在那時(shí)來往很親密的一些人，現(xiàn)在該是有多少已經(jīng)死去了啊!然而他們還是活著的，只不過我們長久沒有想到他們罷了。那時(shí)我們以為永遠(yuǎn)會(huì)跟他們親密地生活在一起，會(huì)跟他們一起共甘苦。
這書里面有一起萎枯了的'櫟樹葉子。它使這書的主人記起一個(gè)老朋友——一個(gè)老同學(xué)，一個(gè)終身的友伴。他在一個(gè)綠樹林里面把這片葉子插在學(xué)生帽上，從那時(shí)其他們結(jié)為"終身的"朋友�，F(xiàn)在他住在什么地方呢?這片葉子被保存了下來，但是友情已經(jīng)忘記了!
這兒有一棵異國的、在溫室里培養(yǎng)出來的植物;對于北國的花園說來，它是太嬌嫩了;它的葉子似乎還保留著它的香氣。這是一位貴族花園里的小姐把它摘下來送給他的。
這兒有一朵睡蓮。它是他親手摘下來的，并且用他的咸眼淚把它潤濕過——這朵在甜水里生長的睡蓮。
這兒有一根蕁麻——它的葉子說明什么呢?當(dāng)他把它采下來和把它保存下來的時(shí)候，他心中在想些什么呢?
這兒有一朵幽居在森林里的鈴蘭花;這兒有一朵從酒店的花盆里摘下來的金銀花;這兒有一起尖尖的草葉!
開滿了花的紫丁香在死者的頭上輕輕垂下它新鮮的、芬芳的花簇。燕子又飛過去了。"唧唧!唧唧!"這時(shí)人們拿著釘子和錘子走來了。棺材蓋在死者身上蓋下了——他的頭在這本不說話的書上安息。埋葬了——遺忘了!
�、贋醪匪_拉是瑞典一個(gè)古老的大學(xué)。這兒常常有些學(xué)生，到老還沒有畢業(yè)。
一本不說話的書英文版：
The Dumb Book
IN the high-road which led through a wood stood a solitary farm-house; the road, in fact, ran right through its yard. The sun was shining and all the windows were open; within the house people were very busy. In the yard, in an arbour formed by lilac bushes in full bloom, stood an open coffin; thither they had carried a dead man, who was to be buried that very afternoon. Nobody shed a tear over him; his face was covered over with a white cloth, under his head they had placed a large thick book, the leaves of which consisted of folded sheets of blotting-paper, and withered flowers lay between them; it was the herbarium which he had gathered in various places and was to be buried with him, according to his own wish. Every one of the flowers in it was connected with some chapter of his life.
“Who is the dead man?” we asked.
“The old student,” was the reply. “They say that he was once an energetic young man, that he studied the dead languages, and sang and even composed many songs; then something had happened to him, and in consequence of this he gave himself up to drink, body and mind. When at last he had ruined his health, they brought him into the country, where someone paid for his board and residence. He was gentle as a child as long as the sullen mood did not come over him; but when it came he was fierce, became as strong as a giant, and ran about in the wood like a chased deer. But when we succeeded in bringing him home, and prevailed upon him to open the book with the dried-up plants in it, he would sometimes sit for a whole day looking at this or that plant, while frequently the tears rolled over his cheeks. God knows what was in his mind; but he requested us to put the book into his coffin, and now he lies there. In a little while the lid will be placed upon the coffin, and he will have sweet rest in the grave!”
The cloth which covered his face was lifted up; the dead man’s face expressed peace—a sunbeam fell upon it. A swallow flew with the swiftness of an arrow into the arbour, turning in its flight, and twittered over the dead man’s head.
What a strange feeling it is—surely we all know it—to look through old letters of our young days; a different life rises up out of the past, as it were, with all its hopes and sorrows. How many of the people with whom in those days we used to be on intimate terms appear to us as if dead, and yet they are still alive—only we have not thought of them for such a long time, whom we imagined we should retain in our memories for ever, and share every joy and sorrow with them.
The withered oak leaf in the book here recalled the friend, the schoolfellow, who was to be his friend for life. He fixed the leaf to the student’s cap in the green wood, when they vowed eternal friendship. Where does he dwell now? The leaf is kept, but the friendship does no longer exist. Here is a foreign hothouse plant, too tender for the gardens of the North. It is almost as if its leaves still smelt sweet! She gave it to him out of her own garden—a nobleman’s daughter.
Here is a water-lily that he had plucked himself, and watered with salt tears—a lily of sweet water. And here is a nettle: what may its leaves tell us? What might he have thought when he plucked and kept it? Here is a little snowdrop out of the solitary wood; here is an evergreen from the flower-pot at the tavern; and here is a simple blade of grass.
The lilac bends its fresh fragrant flowers over the dead man’s head; the swallow passes again—“twit, twit;” now the men come with hammer and nails, the lid is placed over the dead man, while his head rests on the dumb book—so long cherished, now closed for ever!
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