安徒生童话故事第1十四篇)：蜗牛和玫瑰树The Snail and the Rose-Tr

安徒生童话故事第114篇：蜗牛和玫瑰树The Snail and the Rose-Tr

　　引导语：每一个童话故事都会教给大家一个道理,我们一起来阅读学习安徒生的童话故事《蜗牛和玫瑰树》，还有英文版的，欢迎大家阅读!

　　在一个花园的周围，有一排榛树编的篱笆。篱笆的外面是田地和草场，上面有许多母牛和羊。不过在花园的中央有一株开着花的玫瑰树。树底下住着一只蜗牛。他的壳里面有一大堆东西——那就是他自己。

　　“等着，到时候看吧!”他说，“我将不止开几次花，或结几个果子，或者像牛和羊一样，产出一点儿奶。”

　　“我等着瞧你的东西倒是不少呢!”玫瑰树说。“我能不能问你一下，你的话什么时候能够兑现呢?”

　　“我心里自然有数，”蜗牛说。“你老是那么急!一急就把我弄得紧张起来了。”

　　到了第二年，蜗牛仍然躺在原来的地方，在玫瑰树下面晒太阳。玫瑰树倒是冒出了花苞，开出了那永远新鲜的'花朵。蜗牛伸出一半身子，把触角探了一下，接着就又缩回去了。一切东西跟去年完全一样!没有任何进展。玫瑰树仍然开着玫瑰花;他没有向前迈一步!”

　　夏天过去了，秋天来了。玫瑰老是开着花，冒出花苞，一直到雪花飘下来，天气变得阴森寒冷为止。这时玫瑰树就向地下垂着头，蜗牛也钻进土里去。

　　新的一年又开始了，玫瑰花开出来了，蜗牛也爬出来了。

　　“你现在成了一株老玫瑰树了!”蜗牛说，“你应该早点准备寿终正寝了，你所能拿出来的东西全部拿出来了;这些东西究竟有什么用处，是一个问题。我现在也没有时间来考虑。不过有一点是很清楚的，你没有对你个人的发展做过任何努力，否则你倒很可能产生出一点别的像样的东西呢。你能回答这问题吗?你很快就会只剩下一根光杆了!你懂得我的意思吗?”

　　“你简直吓死我!”玫瑰树说。“我从来没有想到过这一点。”

　　“是的，你从来不费点脑筋来考虑问题。你可曾研究一下，你为什么要开花，你的花是怎样开出来的——为什么是这样，而不是别样吗?”

　　“没有，”玫瑰树说。“我在欢乐中开花，因为我非开不可。太阳是那么温暖，空气是那么清爽。我喝着纯洁的露水和大滴的雨点。我呼吸着，我生活着!我从土中得到力量，从高空吸取精气;我感到一种快乐在不停地增长;结果我就不得不开花，开完了又开。这是我的生活，我没有别的办法!”

　　“你倒是过着非常轻快的日子啦。”蜗牛说道。

　　“一点也不错。我什么都有!”玫瑰树说。“不过你得到的东西更多!你是那种富于深思的人物，那种得天独厚的、使整个世界惊奇的人物。”

　　“我从来没有想到这类事儿，”蜗牛说。“世界不关心我!我跟世界又有什么关系呢?我自己和我身体里所有的东西已经足够了。”

　　“不过，在这个世界上，难道我们不应该把我们最好的东西，把我们能力所能办到的东西都拿出来么?当然，我只能拿出玫瑰花来。可是你?……你是那么得天独厚，你拿出什么东西给这世界呢?你打算拿出什么东西来呢?”

　　“我拿出什么东西呢?拿出什么东西?我对世界吐一口唾沫!世界一点用也没有，它和我没有什么关系。你拿出你的玫瑰花来吧，你做不出什么别的事情来!让榛树结出果子吧，让牛和羊产出奶吧;它们各有各的群众，但是我身体里也有我的群众!我缩到我身体里去，我住在那儿。世界和我没有什么关系!”

　　蜗牛就这样缩进他的屋子里去了，同时把门带上。

　　“这真是可悲!”玫瑰树说。“即使我愿意，我也缩不进我的身体里面去——我得不停地开着花，开出玫瑰花。花瓣落下来，在风里飞翔!虽然如此，我还看到一朵玫瑰夹在一位主妇的圣诗集里，我自己也有一朵玫瑰被藏在一个美丽年轻的女子的怀里，另一朵被一个充满了欢乐的孩子拿去用嘴唇吻。我觉得真舒服，这是真正的幸福。这就是我的回忆——我的生活!”

　　于是玫瑰老是天真地开着花。而那只蜗牛则懒散地呆在他的屋子里，世界和他没有什么关系。

　　许多年过去了。

　　蜗牛成了泥土中的泥土，玫瑰树也成了泥土中的泥土，那本圣诗集里作为纪念的玫瑰也枯萎了;可是花园里又开出新的玫瑰花来;花园里又爬出新的蜗牛来。这些蜗牛钻进他们的屋子里去，吐出唾沫，这个世界跟他们没有什么关系。

　　我们要不要把这故事从头再读一遍?……它决不会有什么两样。

 

　　蜗牛和玫瑰树英文版：

　　The Snail and the Rose-Tree

　　ROUND about the garden ran a hedge of hazel-bushes; beyond the hedge were fields and meadows with cows and sheep; but in the middle of the garden stood a Rose-tree in bloom, under which sat a Snail, whose shell contained a great deal—that is, himself.

　　“Only wait till my time comes,” he said; “I shall do more than grow roses, bear nuts, or give milk, like the hazel-bush, the cows and the sheep.”

　　“I expect a great deal from you,” said the rose-tree. “May I ask when it will appear?”

　　“I take my time,” said the snail. “You’re always in such a hurry. That does not excite expectation.”

　　The following year the snail lay in almost the same spot, in the sunshine under the rose-tree, which was again budding and bearing roses as fresh and beautiful as ever. The snail crept half out of his shell, stretched out his horns, and drew them in again.

　　“Everything is just as it was last year! No progress at all; the rose-tree sticks to its roses and gets no farther.”

　　The summer and the autumn passed; the rose-tree bore roses and buds till the snow fell and the weather became raw and wet; then it bent down its head, and the snail crept into the ground.

　　A new year began; the roses made their appearance, and the snail made his too.

　　“You are an old rose-tree now,” said the snail. “You must make haste and die. You have given the world all that you had in you; whether it was of much importance is a question that I have not had time to think about. But this much is clear and plain, that you have not done the least for your inner development, or you would have produced something else. Have you anything to say in defence? You will now soon be nothing but a stick. Do you understand what I say?”

　　“You frighten me,” said the rose-tree. “I have never thought of that.”

　　“No, you have never taken the trouble to think at all. Have you ever given yourself an account why you bloomed, and how your blooming comes about—why just in that way and in no other?”

　　“No,” said the rose-tree. “I bloom in gladness, because I cannot do otherwise. The sun shone and warmed me, and the air refreshed me; I drank the clear dew and the invigorating rain. I breathed and I lived! Out of the earth there arose a power within me, whilst from above I also received strength; I felt an ever-renewed and ever-increasing happiness, and therefore I was obliged to go on blooming. That was my life; I could not do otherwise.”

　　“You have led a very easy life,” remarked the snail.

　　“Certainly. Everything was given me,” said the rose-tree. “But still more was given to you. Yours is one of those deep-thinking natures, one of those highly gifted minds that astonishes the world.”

　　“I have not the slightest intention of doing so,” said the snail. “The world is nothing to me. What have I to do with the world? I have enough to do with myself, and enough in myself”

　　“But must we not all here on earth give up our best parts to others, and offer as much as lies in our power? It is true, I have only given roses. But you—you who are so richly endowed—what have you given to the world? What will you give it?”

　　“What have I given? What am I going to give? I spit at it; it’s good for nothing, and does not concern me. For my part, you may go on bearing roses; you cannot do anything else. Let the hazel bush bear nuts, and the cows and sheep give milk; they have each their public. I have mine in myself. I retire within myself and there I stop. The world is nothing to me.”

　　With this the snail withdrew into his house and blocked up the entrance.

　　“That’s very sad,” said the rose tree. “I cannot creep into myself, however much I might wish to do so; I have to go on bearing roses. Then they drop their leaves, which are blown away by the wind. But I once saw how a rose was laid in the mistress’s hymn-book, and how one of my roses found a place in the bosom of a young beautiful girl, and how another was kissed by the lips of a child in the glad joy of life. That did me good; it was a real blessing. Those are my recollections, my life.”

　　And the rose tree went on blooming in innocence, while the snail lay idling in his house—the world was nothing to him.

　　Years passed by.

　　The snail had turned to earth in the earth, and the rose tree too. Even the souvenir rose in the hymn-book was faded, but in the garden there were other rose trees and other snails. The latter crept into their houses and spat at the world, for it did not concern them.

　　Shall we read the story all over again? It will be just the same.