安徒生童話故事第123篇：民歌的鳥兒The Bird of Popular Song
引導(dǎo)語：小鳥是我們?nèi)祟惖暮门笥�，我們要愛護(hù)他們，那么我們一起來學(xué)習(xí)一篇關(guān)于《民歌的鳥兒》安徒生童話，歡迎大家閱讀!
這正是冬天。蓋滿了雪的大地，看起來很像從石山雕刻出來的一塊大理石。天很高，而且晴朗。寒風(fēng)像妖精煉出的一把鋼刀，非常尖銳。樹木看起來像珊瑚或盛開的杏樹的枝子。這兒的空氣是像阿爾卑斯山上的那樣清新。
北極光和無數(shù)閃耀著的星星，使這一夜顯得非常美麗。
暴風(fēng)吹起來了。飛行的云塊撒下一層天鵝的絨毛。漫天飛舞的雪花，蓋滿了寂寞的路、房子、空曠的田野和無人的街。但是我們坐在溫暖的房間里，坐在熊熊的火爐邊，談?wù)撝艜r候的事情。我們聽到了一個故事：
在大海邊有一座古代戰(zhàn)士的墳?zāi)�。墳�(zāi)股献@位埋在地下的英雄的幽靈。他曾經(jīng)是一個國王。他的額上射出一道金色的光圈，長發(fā)在空中飛舞，全身穿著鎧甲。他悲哀地垂著頭，痛苦地嘆著氣——像一個沒有得救的靈魂。
這時有一艘船在旁邊經(jīng)過。水手們拋下錨，走到陸地上來。他們中間有一個歌手①。他走近這位皇家的幽靈，問道：
“你為什么要這樣悲哀和難過呢?”
幽靈回答說：
“誰也沒有歌唱過我的一生的事跡。這些事跡現(xiàn)在死亡了，消逝了。沒有什么歌把它們傳播到全國，把它們送到人民的心里去。因此我得不到安寧，得不到休息。”
于是這個人就談起他的事業(yè)和他的偉大的功績。他的同時代的人都知道這些事情，不過沒有人把它們唱出來，因為他們之中沒有歌手。
這位年老的彈唱詩人撥動他的豎琴上的琴弦。他歌唱這個英雄青年時代的英勇，壯年時代的威武，和他的偉大的事跡。幽靈的面孔射出了光彩，像反映著月光的云彩。幽靈在光華燦爛的景象中，懷著愉快和幸福的心情，站起來，接著就像一道北極光似地不見了。除了一座蓋滿了綠草的土丘以外，現(xiàn)在什么也沒有了——連一塊刻有龍尼文字②的石碑也沒有。但是當(dāng)琴弦發(fā)出最后的聲音的時候，忽然有一只歌鳥飛出來——好像是直接從豎琴里飛出來似的。它是一只非常美麗的歌鳥。它有畫眉一樣響亮的聲調(diào)，人心一樣搏動的顫音和那種使人懷鄉(xiāng)的、候鳥所帶來的家鄉(xiāng)的謠曲。這只歌鳥越過高山和深谷，越過田野和森林，飛走了。它是一只民歌的鳥，它永遠(yuǎn)不會死亡。
我們聽到它的歌。我們在房間里，在一個冬天的晚上，聽到它的歌。這只鳥兒不僅僅唱著關(guān)于英雄的頌歌，它還唱著甜蜜的、溫柔的、豐富多樣的愛情的頌歌。它還歌頌北國的純樸的風(fēng)氣。它可以用字句和歌調(diào)講出許多故事。它知道許多諺語和詩的語言。這些語言，像藏在死人舌頭底下的龍尼詩句一樣，使它不得不唱出來。這樣，“民歌的鳥兒”就使我們能夠認(rèn)識我們的祖國。
在異教徒的時代，在威金人的時代，它的窠是筑在豎琴詩人的豎琴上的。在騎士的時代里，拳頭掌握著公理的尺度，武力就是正義，農(nóng)民和狗處于同等的地位——在這個時代里，這只歌鳥到什么地方去找避難所呢?暴力和愚蠢一點也不考慮它的這個問題。
但是騎士堡寨里的女主人坐在堡寨的窗前，把她舊時的回憶，在她面前的羊皮紙上寫成故事和歌。在一個茅屋里，有一個旅行的小販坐在一個農(nóng)家婦人身邊的凳子上講故事。正在這時候，這只歌鳥就在他們頭上飛翔，喃喃地叫著，唱著。只要大地上還有一塊它可以立足的山丘，這只“民歌的鳥兒”就永遠(yuǎn)不會死亡。
它現(xiàn)在對我們坐在屋子里的人唱。外面是暴風(fēng)雪和黑夜。它把龍尼文的詩句放在我們的舌頭底下，于是我們就認(rèn)識了我們祖先的國土。上帝通過“民歌的鳥兒”的歌調(diào)，對我們講著我們母親的語言。古時的記憶復(fù)活了，黯淡的顏色發(fā)出新的光彩。傳說和民歌像幸福的美酒，把我們的靈魂和思想陶醉了，使這一晚變成了一個耶穌圣誕的節(jié)日。
雪花在飛舞，冰塊在碎裂。外面在飄著風(fēng)暴。風(fēng)暴有巨大的威力，它主宰著一切——但它不是我們的上帝。
這正是冬天。寒風(fēng)像妖精煉出的一把鋼刀。雪花在亂飛——在我們看起來，似乎飛了好幾天和好幾個星期。它像一座巨大的雪山壓在整個城市上，它像一個冬夜里的沉重的夢。地上的一切東西都被掩蓋住了，只有教堂的金十字架——信心的象征——高高地立在這個雪冢上，在藍(lán)色的空中，在光明的太陽光里，射出光輝。
在這個被埋葬了的城市的上空，飛翔著大大小小的太空的鳥。每只鳥兒放開歌喉，盡情地歌唱，盡情地歌唱。
最先飛來的是一群麻雀：它們把大街小巷里、窠里和房子里的一切小事情全部講了出來。它們知道前屋里的事情，也知道后屋里的.事情。
“我們知道這個被埋葬了的城市，”它們說。“所有住在里面的人都在吱!吱!吱!”
黑色的大渡鴉和烏鴉在白雪上飛過。
“呱!呱!”它們叫著。“雪底下還有一些東西，一些可以吃的東西——這是最重要的事情。這是下面大多數(shù)人的意見。而這意見是對——對——對的!”
野天鵝颼颼地拍著翅膀飛來。它們歌唱著偉大和高貴的感情。這種感情將要從人的思想和靈魂中產(chǎn)生出來——這些人現(xiàn)在住在被雪埋著的城里。
那里面并沒有死亡，那里面仍然有生命存在。這一點我們可以從歌調(diào)中聽出來。歌調(diào)像是從教堂的風(fēng)琴中發(fā)出來的;它像妖山③上的鬧聲，像奧仙④的歌聲，瓦爾古里⑤的颼颼的拍翅聲，吸引住我們的注意力。多么和諧的聲音啊!這種和聲透進(jìn)我們的心的深處，使我們的思想變得高超——這就是我們聽到的“民歌的鳥兒”的歌聲!正在這時候，天空溫暖的氣息從上面吹下來。雪山裂開了，太陽光從裂縫里射進(jìn)去。春天來到了;鳥兒回來了;新的一代，心里帶著同樣的故鄉(xiāng)的聲音，也回來了。請聽這一年的故事吧：狂暴的風(fēng)雪，冬夜的惡夢!一切將會消逝，一切將會從不滅的“民歌的鳥兒”的悅耳的歌聲中獲得新的生命。
�、僭氖荢kjald。這是北歐古時的一種詩人。他專門寫歌頌英雄和英雄事跡的詩歌，并且親自把這些詩向聽眾朗誦。
�、谶@是北歐古代的一種象形文字。
�、壅垍⒖窗餐缴挕堆健�。
�、軍W仙(Ossian)是古代北歐的一個有名的吟唱詩人。
�、萃郀柟爬�(Valkyriens)是北歐神話中戰(zhàn)神奧丁的使者。他們在戰(zhàn)場上飛翔，專門挑出要死的戰(zhàn)士，帶到奧丁的宮殿里去。
《民歌的鳥兒》英文版：
The Bird of Popular Song
IT is winter-time. The earth wears a snowy garment, and looks like marble hewn out of the rock; the air is bright and clear; the wind is sharp as a well-tempered sword, and the trees stand like branches of white coral or blooming almond twigs, and here it is keen as on the lofty Alps.
The night is splendid in the gleam of the Northern Lights, and in the glitter of innumerable twinkling stars.
But we sit in the warm room, by the hot stove, and talk about the old times. And we listen to this story:
By the open sea was a giant’s grave; and on the grave-mound sat at midnight the spirit of the buried hero, who had been a king. The golden circlet gleamed on his brow, his hair fluttered in the wind, and he was clad in steel and iron. He bent his head mournfully, and sighed in deep sorrow, as an unquiet spirit might sigh.
And a ship came sailing by. Presently the sailors lowered the anchor and landed. Among them was a singer, and he approached the royal spirit, and said,
“Why mournest thou, and wherefore dost thou suffer thus?”
And the dead man answered,
“No one has sung the deeds of my life; they are dead and forgotten. Song doth not carry them forth over the lands, nor into the hearts of men; therefore I have no rest and no peace.”
And he spoke of his works, and of his warlike deeds, which his contemporaries had known, but which had not been sung, because there was no singer among his companions.
Then the old bard struck the strings of his harp, and sang of the youthful courage of the hero, of the strength of the man, and of the greatness of his good deeds. Then the face of the dead one gleamed like the margin of the cloud in the moonlight. Gladly and of good courage, the form arose in splendor and in majesty, and vanished like the glancing of the northern light. Nought was to be seen but the green turfy mound, with the stones on which no Runic record has been graven; but at the last sound of the harp there soared over the hill, as though he had fluttered from the harp, a little bird, a charming singing-bird, with ringing voice of the thrush, with the moving voice pathos of the human heart, with a voice that told of home, like the voice that is heard by the bird of passage. The singing-bird soared away, over mountain and valley, over field and wood—he was the Bird of Popular Song, who never dies.
We hear his song—we hear it now in the room while the white bees are swarming without, and the storm clutches the windows. The bird sings not alone the requiem of heroes; he sings also sweet gentle songs of love, so many and so warm, of Northern fidelity and truth. He has stories in words and in tones; he has proverbs and snatches of proverbs; songs which, like Runes laid under a dead man’s tongue, force him to speak; and thus Popular Song tells of the land of his birth.
In the old heathen days, in the times of the Vikings, the popular speech was enshrined in the harp of the bard.
In the days of knightly castles, when the strongest fist held the scales of justice, when only might was right, and a peasant and a dog were of equal importance, where did the Bird of Song find shelter and protection? Neither violence nor stupidity gave him a thought.
But in the gabled window of the knightly castle, the lady of the castle sat with the parchment roll before her, and wrote down the old recollections in song and legend, while near her stood the old woman from the wood, and the travelling peddler who went wandering through the country. As these told their tales, there fluttered around them, with twittering and song, the Bird of Popular Song, who never dies so long as the earth has a hill upon which his foot may rest.
And now he looks in upon us and sings. Without are the night and the snow-storm. He lays the Runes beneath our tongues, and we know the land of our home. Heaven speaks to us in our native tongue, in the voice of the Bird of Popular Song. The old remembrances awake, the faded colors glow with a fresh lustre, and story and song pour us a blessed draught which lifts up our minds and our thoughts, so that the evening becomes as a Christmas festival.
The snow-flakes chase each other, the ice cracks, the storm rules without, for he has the might, he is lord—but not the LORD OF ALL.
It is winter time. The wind is sharp as a two-edged sword, the snow-flakes chase each other; it seems as though it had been snowing for days and weeks, and the snow lies like a great mountain over the whole town, like a heavy dream of the winter night. Everything on the earth is hidden away, only the golden cross of the church, the symbol of faith, arises over the snow grave, and gleams in the blue air and in the bright sunshine.
And over the buried town fly the birds of heaven, the small and the great; they twitter and they sing as best they may, each bird with his beak.
First comes the band of sparrows: they pipe at every trifle in the streets and lanes, in the nests and the houses; they have stories to tell about the front buildings and the back buildings.
“We know the buried town,” they say; “everything living in it is piep! piep! piep!”
The black ravens and crows flew on over the white snow.
“Grub, grub!” they cried. “There’s something to be got down there; something to swallow, and that’s most important. That’s the opinion of most of them down there, and the opinion is goo-goo-good!”
The wild swans come flying on whirring pinions, and sing of the noble and the great, that will still sprout in the hearts of men, down in the town which is resting beneath its snowy veil.
No death is there—life reigns yonder; we hear it on the notes that swell onward like the tones of the church organ, which seize us like sounds from the elf-hill, like the songs of Ossian, like the rushing swoop of the wandering spirits’ wings. What harmony! That harmony speaks to our hearts, and lifts up our souls! It is the Bird of Popular Song whom we hear.
And at this moment the warm breath of heaven blows down from the sky. There are gaps in the snowy mountains, the sun shines into the clefts; spring is coming, the birds are returning, and new races are coming with the same home sounds in their hearts.
Hear the story of the year: “The night of the snow-storm, the heavy dream of the winter night, all shall be dissolved, all shall rise again in the beauteous notes of the Bird of Popular Song, who never dies!”
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