安徒生童話故事第33篇：祖母Grandmother
引導語：祖母這篇安徒生童話故事的英文版大家知道?下面就是文學網的小編為大家?guī)淼闹杏⑽陌娴淖婺�，歡迎大家閱讀!
祖母很老了;她的臉上有許多皺紋，她的頭發(fā)很白。不過她的那對眼睛亮得像兩顆星星，甚至比星星還要美麗。它們看起來是非常溫和和可愛的。她還能講許多好聽的故事。她穿著一件花長袍。這是用一種厚綢子做的;長袍發(fā)出沙沙的聲音。祖母知道許多事情，因為她在爸爸和媽媽沒有生下來以前早就活著——這是毫無疑問的!祖母有一本《贊美詩集》，上面有一個大銀扣子，可以把它鎖住，她常常讀這本書。書里夾著一朵玫瑰花;它已經壓得很平、很干了。它并不像她玻璃瓶里的玫瑰那樣美麗，但是只有對這朵花她才露出她最溫柔的微笑，她的眼里甚至還流出淚來。
我不知道，為什么祖母要這樣看著夾在一本舊書里的一朵枯萎了的玫瑰花。你知道嗎?每次祖母的眼淚滴到這朵花上的時候，它的顏色就立刻又變得鮮艷起來。這朵玫瑰張開了，于是整個房間就充滿了香氣。四面的墻都向下陷落，好像它們只不過是一層煙霧似的。她的周圍出現了一片美麗的綠樹林;陽光從樹葉中間滲進來。這時祖母——嗯，她又變得年輕起來。她是一個美麗的小姑娘，長著一頭金黃色的卷發(fā)，紅紅的圓臉龐，又好看，又秀氣，任何玫瑰都沒有她這樣鮮艷。而她的那對眼睛，那對溫柔的、純潔的眼睛，永遠是那樣溫柔和純潔。在她旁邊坐著一個男子，那么健康，那么高大。他送給她一朵玫瑰花，她微笑起來——祖母現在可不能露出那樣的`微笑了!是的，她微笑了。可是他已經不在了，許多思想，許多形象在她面前浮過去了。那個美貌的年輕人現在不在了，只有那朵玫瑰花還躺在《贊美詩集》里。祖母——是的，她現在是一個老太婆，仍然坐在那兒——望著那朵躺在書里的、枯萎了的玫瑰花。
現在祖母也死了。她曾經坐在她的靠椅上，講了一個很長很長的故事。
“現在講完了，”她說，“我也倦了;讓我睡一會兒吧。”于是她把頭向后靠著，吸了一口氣。于是她慢慢地靜下來，她的臉上現出幸福和安靜的表情，好像陽光照在她的臉上。于是人們就說她死了。
她被裝進一具黑棺材里。她躺在那兒，全身裹了幾層白布。她是那么美麗而溫柔，雖然她的眼睛是閉著的。她所有的皺紋都沒有了，她的嘴上浮出一個微笑。她的頭發(fā)是那么銀白，是那么莊嚴。望著這個死人，你一點也不會害怕——這位溫柔、和善的老祖母�！顿澝涝娂贩旁谒念^下，因為這是她的遺囑。那朵玫瑰花仍然躺在這本舊書里面。人們就這樣把祖母葬了。
在教堂墻邊的一座墳上，人們種了一棵玫瑰花。它開滿了花朵。夜營在花上和墓上唱著歌。教堂里的風琴奏出最優(yōu)美的圣詩——放在死者頭下的那本詩集里的圣詩。月光照在這墳上，但是死者卻不在那兒。即使在深夜，每個孩子都可以安全地走到那兒，在墓地墻邊摘下一朵玫瑰花。一個死了的人比我們活著的人知道的東西多。死者知道，如果我們看到他們出現，我們該會起多大的恐怖。死者比我們大家都好，因此他們就不再出現了。棺材上堆滿了土，棺材里面塞滿了土①�！顿澝涝娂泛退臅撘渤闪送�，那朵充滿了回憶的玫瑰花也成了土。不過在這土上面，新的玫瑰又開出了花，夜鶯在那上面唱歌，風琴奏出音樂，于是人們就想起了那位有一對溫和的、永遠年輕的大眼睛的老祖母。眼睛是永遠不會死的!我們的眼睛將會看到祖母，年輕美麗的祖母，像她第一次吻著那朵鮮紅的、現在躺在墳里變成了土的玫瑰花時的祖母。
�、俑鶕糯２R人的迷信，上帝用泥土造成人，所以人死了以后仍然變成泥土。
祖母英文版：
Grandmother
GRANDMOTHER is very old, her face is wrinkled, and her hair is quite white; but her eyes are like two stars, and they have a mild, gentle expression in them when they look at you, which does you good. She wears a dress of heavy, rich silk, with large flowers worked on it; and it rustles when she moves. And then she can tell the most wonderful stories. Grandmother knows a great deal, for she was alive before father and mother—that’s quite certain. She has a hymn-book with large silver clasps, in which she often reads; and in the book, between the leaves, lies a rose, quite flat and dry; it is not so pretty as the roses which are standing in the glass, and yet she smiles at it most pleasantly, and tears even come into her eyes. “I wonder why grandmother looks at the withered flower in the old book that way? Do you know?” Why, when grandmother’s tears fall upon the rose, and she is looking at it, the rose revives, and fills the room with its fragrance; the walls vanish as in a mist, and all around her is the glorious green wood, where in summer the sunlight streams through thick foliage; and grandmother, why she is young again, a charming maiden, fresh as a rose, with round, rosy cheeks, fair, bright ringlets, and a figure pretty and graceful; but the eyes, those mild, saintly eyes, are the same,—they have been left to grandmother. At her side sits a young man, tall and strong; he gives her a rose and she smiles. Grandmother cannot smile like that now. Yes, she is smiling at the memory of that day, and many thoughts and recollections of the past; but the handsome young man is gone, and the rose has withered in the old book, and grandmother is sitting there, again an old woman, looking down upon the withered rose in the book.
Grandmother is dead now. She had been sitting in her arm-chair, telling us a long, beautiful tale; and when it was finished, she said she was tired, and leaned her head back to sleep awhile. We could hear her gentle breathing as she slept; gradually it became quieter and calmer, and on her countenance beamed happiness and peace. It was as if lighted up with a ray of sunshine. She smiled once more, and then people said she was dead. She was laid in a black coffin, looking mild and beautiful in the white folds of the shrouded linen, though her eyes were closed; but every wrinkle had vanished, her hair looked white and silvery, and around her mouth lingered a sweet smile. We did not feel at all afraid to look at the corpse of her who had been such a dear, good grandmother. The hymn-book, in which the rose still lay, was placed under her head, for so she had wished it; and then they buried grandmother.
On the grave, close by the churchyard wall, they planted a rose-tree; it was soon full of roses, and the nightingale sat among the flowers, and sang over the grave. From the organ in the church sounded the music and the words of the beautiful psalms, which were written in the old book under the head of the dead one.
The moon shone down upon the grave, but the dead was not there; every child could go safely, even at night, and pluck a rose from the tree by the churchyard wall. The dead know more than we do who are living. They know what a terror would come upon us if such a strange thing were to happen, as the appearance of a dead person among us. They are better off than we are; the dead return no more. The earth has been heaped on the coffin, and it is earth only that lies within it. The leaves of the hymn-book are dust; and the rose, with all its recollections, has crumbled to dust also. But over the grave fresh roses bloom, the nightingale sings, and the organ sounds and there still lives a remembrance of old grandmother, with the loving, gentle eyes that always looked young. Eyes can never die. Ours will once again behold dear grandmother, young and beautiful as when, for the first time, she kissed the fresh, red rose, that is now dust in the grave.
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