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安徒生童話故事第130篇：夏日癡The Snowdrop
引導(dǎo)語：關(guān)于安徒生的童話故事，大家知道哪些?下面是小編整理的他的《夏日癡》，這是一首散文詩，它說明了花與詩的關(guān)系及創(chuàng)造詩的人的際遇，也說明安徒生可以從任何東西獲得寫童話的靈感。
這正是冬天。天氣是寒冷的，風(fēng)是銳利的;但是屋子里卻是舒適和溫暖的�；▋翰卦谖葑永铮核卦诘乩锖脱┫碌那蚋�。
有一天下起雨來。雨滴滲入積雪，透進(jìn)地里，接觸到花兒的球根，同時(shí)告訴它說，上面有一個(gè)光明的世界。不久一絲又細(xì)又尖的太陽光穿過積雪，射到花兒的球根上，把它撫摸了一下。
“請(qǐng)進(jìn)來吧!”花兒說。
“這個(gè)我可做不到，”太陽光說。“我還沒有足夠的氣力把門打開。到了夏天我就會(huì)有氣力了。”
“什么時(shí)候才是夏天呢?”花兒?jiǎn)�。每次太陽光一射進(jìn)來，它就重復(fù)地問這句話。不過夏天還早得很。地上仍然蓋著雪;每天夜里水上都結(jié)了冰。
“夏天來得多么慢啊!夏天來得多么慢啊!”花兒說。“我感到身上發(fā)癢，我要伸伸腰，動(dòng)一動(dòng)，我要開放，我要走出去，對(duì)太陽說一聲'早安'!那才痛快呢?”
花兒伸了伸腰，抵著薄薄的外皮掙了幾下。外皮已經(jīng)被水浸得很柔軟，被雪和泥土溫暖過，被太陽光撫摸過。它從雪底下冒出來，綠梗子上結(jié)著淡綠的花苞，還長(zhǎng)出又細(xì)又厚的葉子——它們好像是要保衛(wèi)花苞似的。雪是很冷的，但是很容易被沖破。這時(shí)太陽光射進(jìn)來了，它的力量比從前要強(qiáng)大得多。
花兒伸到雪上面來了，見到了光明的世界。“歡迎!歡迎!”每一線陽光都這樣唱著。
陽光撫摸并且吻著花兒，叫它開得更豐滿。它像雪一樣潔白，身上還飾著綠色的條紋。它懷著高興和謙虛的心情昂起頭來。
“美麗的花兒啊!”陽光歌唱著。“你是多么新鮮和純潔啊!你是第一朵花，你是唯一的花!你是我們的寶貝!你在田野里和城里預(yù)告夏天的到來!——美麗的夏天!所有的雪都會(huì)融化!冷風(fēng)將會(huì)被驅(qū)走!我們將統(tǒng)治著!一切將會(huì)變綠!那時(shí)你將會(huì)有朋友：紫丁香和金鏈花，最后還有玫瑰花。但是你是第一朵花——那么細(xì)嫩，那么可愛!”
這是最大的愉快�？諝夂孟袷窃诔韬妥嘀鴺�，陽光好像鉆進(jìn)了它的葉子和梗子。它立在那兒，是那么柔嫩，容易折斷，但同時(shí)在它青春的愉快中又是那么健壯。它穿著帶有綠條紋的短外衣，它稱贊著夏天。但是夏天還早得很呢：雪塊把太陽遮住了，寒風(fēng)在花兒上吹。
“你來得太早了一點(diǎn)，”風(fēng)和天氣說。“我們?nèi)匀辉诮y(tǒng)治著;你應(yīng)該能感覺得到，你應(yīng)該忍受!你最好還是待在家里，不要跑到外面來表現(xiàn)你自己吧。時(shí)間還早呀!”
天氣冷得厲害!日子一天一天地過去，一直沒有一絲陽光。對(duì)于這樣一朵柔嫩的小花兒說來，這樣的天氣只會(huì)使它凍得裂開。但是它是很健壯的，雖然它自己并不知道。它從快樂中，從對(duì)夏天的信心中獲得了力量。夏天一定會(huì)到來的，它渴望的心情已經(jīng)預(yù)示著這一點(diǎn)，溫暖的陽光也肯定了這一點(diǎn)。因此它滿懷信心地穿著它的白衣服，站在雪地上。當(dāng)密集的雪花一層層地壓下來的時(shí)候，當(dāng)刺骨的寒風(fēng)在它身上掃過去的時(shí)候，它就低下頭來。
“你會(huì)裂成碎片!”它們說，“你會(huì)枯萎，會(huì)變成冰。你為什么要跑出來呢?你為什么要受誘惑呢?陽光騙了你呀!你這個(gè)夏日癡!”
“夏日癡!”有一個(gè)聲音在寒冷的早晨回答說。
“夏日癡!”有幾個(gè)跑到花園里來的孩子興高采烈地說。
“這朵花是多么可愛啊，多么美麗啊!它是唯一的頭一朵花!”
這幾句話使這朵花兒感到真舒服;這幾句話簡(jiǎn)直就像溫暖的陽光。在快樂之中，這朵花兒一點(diǎn)也沒有注意到已經(jīng)被人摘下來了。它躺在一個(gè)孩子的手里，孩子的小嘴吻著，帶它到一個(gè)溫暖的房間里去，用溫柔的眼睛觀看，并浸在水里——因此它獲得了更強(qiáng)大的力量和生命。這朵花兒以為它已經(jīng)進(jìn)入夏天了。
這一家的女兒——一個(gè)年輕的女孩子——剛剛受過堅(jiān)信禮。她有一個(gè)親愛的朋友;他也是剛剛受過堅(jiān)信禮的。“他將是我的夏日癡!”她說。她拿起這朵柔嫩的小花，把它放在一張芬芳的紙上，紙上寫著詩——關(guān)于這朵花的詩。這首詩是以“夏日癡”開頭，也以“夏日癡”結(jié)尾的。“我的小朋友，就作一個(gè)冬天的癡人吧!”她用夏天來跟它開玩笑。是的，它的周圍全是詩。它被裝進(jìn)一個(gè)信封。這朵花兒躺在里面，四周是漆黑一團(tuán)，它正如躺在花球根里的時(shí)候一樣。這朵花兒開始在一個(gè)郵袋里旅行，它被擠著，壓著。這都是很不愉快的事情，但是任何旅程總是有一個(gè)結(jié)束的。
旅程完了以后，信就被拆開了，被那位親愛的朋友讀著。他是那么高興，他吻著這朵花兒;把花兒跟詩一起放在一個(gè)抽屜里。抽屜里裝著許多可愛的信，但就是缺少一朵花。它正像太陽光所說的，那唯一的、第一朵花。它一想起這事情就感到非常愉快。
它可以有許多時(shí)間來想這件事情。它想了一整個(gè)夏天。漫長(zhǎng)的冬天過去了，現(xiàn)在又是夏天。這時(shí)它被取出來了。不過這一次那個(gè)年輕人并不是十分快樂的。他一把抓著那張信紙，連詩一道扔到一邊，弄得這朵花兒也落到地上了。它已經(jīng)變得扁平了，枯萎了，但是它不應(yīng)該因此就被扔到地上呀。不過比起被火燒掉，躺在地上還算是很不壞的。那些詩和信就是被火燒掉的。究竟為了什么事情呢?嗨，就是平時(shí)常有的那種事情。這朵花兒曾經(jīng)愚弄過他——這是一個(gè)玩笑。她在六月間愛上了另一位男朋友了。
太陽在早晨照著這朵壓迫了的“夏日癡”。這朵花兒看起來好像是被繪在地板上似的。掃地的女傭人把它撿起來，把它夾在桌上的一本書里。她以為它是在她收拾東西的時(shí)候落下來的。這樣，這朵花兒就又回到詩——印好的詩——中間去了。這些詩比那些手寫的要偉大得多——最低限度，它們是花了更多的錢買來的。
許多年過去了。那本書立在書架上。最后它被取下來，翻開，讀著。這是一本好書：里面全是丹麥詩人安卜洛休斯·斯杜卜②所寫的詩和歌。這個(gè)詩人是值得認(rèn)識(shí)的。讀這書的人翻著書頁。
“哎呀，這里有一朵花!”他說，“一朵‘夏日癡’!它躺在這兒決不是沒有什么用意的�？蓱z的安卜洛休斯·斯杜卜!他也是一朵‘夏日癡’，一個(gè)‘癡詩人’!他出現(xiàn)得太早了，所以就碰上了冰雹和刺骨的寒風(fēng)。他在富恩島上的一些大人先生們中間只不過像是瓶里的一朵花，詩句中的一朵花。他是一個(gè)‘夏日癡’，一個(gè)‘冬日癡’，一個(gè)笑柄和傻瓜;然而他仍然是唯一的，第一個(gè)年輕而有生氣的丹麥詩人。是的，小小的‘夏日癡’，你就躺在這書里作為一個(gè)書簽吧!把你放在這里面是有用意的。”
這朵“夏日癡”于是便又被放到書里去了。它感到很榮幸和愉快。因?yàn)樗�，它是一本美麗的詩集里的一個(gè)書簽，而當(dāng)初歌唱和寫出這些詩的人也是一個(gè)“夏日癡”，一個(gè)在冬天里被愚弄的人。這朵花兒懂得這一點(diǎn)，正如我們也懂得我們的事情一樣。
這就是“夏日癡”的故事。
�、龠@是照原文Sommergjaekken直譯出來的。“夏日癡”是丹麥人對(duì)于雪花蓮所取的俗名。雪花蓮在冬天癡想以為夏天來了，所以在大雪天里開出花來。
�、诎膊仿逍菟�·斯杜卜(1705-1758)是一個(gè)杰出的抒情詩人。他的作品一直被人忽視，直到1850年才引起大家重視。
《夏日癡》英文版
The Snowdrop
IT was winter-time; the air was cold, the wind was sharp, but within the closed doors it was warm and comfortable, and within the closed door lay the flower; it lay in the bulb under the snow-covered earth.
One day rain fell. The drops penetrated through the snowy covering down into the earth, and touched the flower-bulb, and talked of the bright world above. Soon the Sunbeam pierced its way through the snow to the root, and within the root there was a stirring.
“Come in,” said the flower.
“I cannot,” said the Sunbeam. “I am not strong enough to unlock the door! When the summer comes I shall be strong!”
“When will it be summer?” asked the Flower, and she repeated this question each time a new sunbeam made its way down to her. But the summer was yet far distant. The snow still lay upon the ground, and there was a coat of ice on the water every night.
“What a long time it takes! what a long time it takes!” said the Flower. “I feel a stirring and striving within me; I must stretch myself, I must unlock the door, I must get out, and must nod a good morning to the summer, and what a happy time that will be!”
And the Flower stirred and stretched itself within the thin rind which the water had softened from without, and the snow and the earth had warmed, and the Sunbeam had knocked at; and it shot forth under the snow with a greenish-white blossom on a green stalk, with narrow thick leaves, which seemed to want to protect it. The snow was cold, but was pierced by the Sunbeam, therefore it was easy to get through it, and now the Sunbeam came with greater strength than before.
“Welcome, welcome!” sang and sounded every ray, and the Flower lifted itself up over the snow into the brighter world. The Sunbeams caressed and kissed it, so that it opened altogether, white as snow, and ornamented with green stripes. It bent its head in joy and humility.
“Beautiful Flower!” said the Sunbeams, “how graceful and delicate you are! You are the first, you are the only one! You are our love! You are the bell that rings out for summer, beautiful summer, over country and town. All the snow will melt; the cold winds will be driven away; we shall rule; all will become green, and then you will have companions, syringas, laburnums, and roses; but you are the first, so graceful, so delicate!”
That was a great pleasure. It seemed as if the air were singing and sounding, as if rays of light were piercing through the leaves and the stalks of the Flower. There it stood, so delicate and so easily broken, and yet so strong in its young beauty; it stood there in its white dress with the green stripes, and made a summer. But there was a long time yet to the summer-time. Clouds hid the sun, and bleak winds were blowing.
“You have come too early,” said Wind and Weather. “We have still the power, and you shall feel it, and give it up to us. You should have stayed quietly at home and not have run out to make a display of yourself. Your time is not come yet!”
It was a cutting cold! The days which now come brought not a single sunbeam. It was weather that might break such a little Flower in two with cold. But the Flower had more strength than she herself knew of. She was strong in joy and in faith in the summer, which would be sure to come, which had been announced by her deep longing and confirmed by the warm sunlight; and so she remained standing in confidence in the snow in her white garment, bending her head even while the snow-flakes fell thick and heavy, and the icy winds swept over her.
“You’ll break!” they said, “and fade, and fade! What did you want out here? Why did you let yourself be tempted? The Sunbeam only made game of you. Now you have what you deserve, you summer gauk.”
“Summer gauk!” she repeated in the cold morning hour.
“O summer gauk!” cried some children rejoicingly; “yonder stands one—how beautiful, how beautiful! The first one, the only one!”
These words did the Flower so much good, they seemed to her like warm sunbeams. In her joy the Flower did not even feel when it was broken off. It lay in a child’s hand, and was kissed by a child’s mouth, and carried into a warm room, and looked on by gentle eyes, and put into water. How strengthening, how invigorating! The Flower thought she had suddenly come upon the summer.
The daughter of the house, a beautiful little girl, was confirmed, and she had a friend who was confirmed, too. He was studying for an examination for an appointment. “He shall be my summer gauk,” she said; and she took the delicate Flower and laid it in a piece of scented paper, on which verses were written, beginning with summer gauk and ending with summer gauk. “My friend, be a winter gauk.” She had twitted him with the summer. Yes, all this was in the verses, and the paper was folded up like a letter, and the Flower was folded in the letter, too. It was dark around her, dark as in those days when she lay hidden in the bulb. The Flower went forth on her journey, and lay in the post-bag, and was pressed and crushed, which was not at all pleasant; but that soon came to an end.
The journey was over; the letter was opened, and read by the dear friend. How pleased he was! He kissed the letter, and it was laid, with its enclosure of verses, in a box, in which there were many beautiful verses, but all of them without flowers; she was the first, the only one, as the Sunbeams had called her; and it was a pleasant thing to think of that.
She had time enough, moreover, to think about it; she thought of it while the summer passed away, and the long winter went by, and the summer came again, before she appeared once more. But now the young man was not pleased at all. He took hold of the letter very roughly, and threw the verses away, so that the Flower fell on the ground. Flat and faded she certainly was, but why should she be thrown on the ground? Still, it was better to be here than in the fire, where the verses and the paper were being burnt to ashes. What had happened? What happens so often:—the Flower had made a gauk of him, that was a jest; the girl had made a fool of him, that was no jest, she had, during the summer, chosen another friend.
Next morning the sun shone in upon the little flattened Snowdrop, that looked as if it had been painted upon the floor. The servant girl, who was sweeping out the room, picked it up, and laid it in one of the books which were upon the table, in the belief that it must have fallen out while the room was being arranged. Again the flower lay among verses—printed verses—and they are better than written ones—at least, more money has been spent upon them.
And after this years went by. The book stood upon the book-shelf, and then it was taken up and somebody read out of it. It was a good book; verses and songs by the old Danish poet, Ambrosius Stub, which are well worth reading. The man who was now reading the book turned over a page.
“Why, there’s a flower!” he said; “a snowdrop, a summer gauk, a poet gauk! That flower must have been put in there with a meaning! Poor Ambrosius Stub! he was a summer fool too, a poet fool; he came too early, before his time, and therefore he had to taste the sharp winds, and wander about as a guest from one noble landed proprietor to another, like a flower in a glass of water, a flower in rhymed verses! Summer fool, winter fool, fun and folly—but the first, the only, the fresh young Danish poet of those days. Yes, thou shalt remain as a token in the book, thou little snowdrop: thou hast been put there with a meaning.”
And so the Snowdrop was put back into the book, and felt equally honored and pleased to know that it was a token in the glorious book of songs, and that he who was the first to sing and to write had been also a snowdrop, had been a summer gauk, and had been looked upon in the winter-time as a fool. The Flower understood this, in her way, as we interpret everything in our way.
That is the story of the Snowdrop.
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