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安徒生童話故事第57篇：老墓碑The Old Grave-Stone
引導(dǎo)語(yǔ)：中國(guó)古代“墓而不墳”，只在地下掩埋，地表不樹(shù)標(biāo)志。后來(lái)逐漸有了地面堆土的墳，又有了墓碑。下面是小編整理的安徒生童話《老墓碑》的中英文版本，歡迎大家閱讀!
在一個(gè)小鄉(xiāng)鎮(zhèn)里，有一個(gè)人自己擁有一幢房子。有一天晚上，他全家的人圍坐在一起。這正是人們所常說(shuō)的“夜長(zhǎng)”的季節(jié)。這種時(shí)刻既溫暖，又舒適。燈亮了;長(zhǎng)長(zhǎng)的窗簾拉下來(lái)了。窗子上擺著許多花盆;外面是一片美麗的月光。不過(guò)他們并不是在談?wù)撨@件事。他們是在談?wù)撝粔K古老的大石頭。這塊石頭躺在院子里、緊靠著廚房門(mén)旁邊。
女傭人常常把擦過(guò)了的銅制的用具放在上面曬;孩子們也喜歡在上面玩耍。事實(shí)上它是一個(gè)古老的墓碑。
“是的，”房子的主人說(shuō)，“我相信它是從那個(gè)拆除了的老修道院搬來(lái)的。人們把里面的宣講臺(tái)、紀(jì)念牌和墓碑全都賣(mài)了!我去世了的父親買(mǎi)了好幾塊墓石，每塊都打斷了，當(dāng)做鋪道石用，不過(guò)這塊墓石留下來(lái)了，一直躺在院子那兒沒(méi)有動(dòng)。”
“人們一眼就可以看出，這是一塊墓石，”最大的一個(gè)孩子說(shuō)，“我們?nèi)匀豢梢钥闯鏊厦婵痰糜幸粋�(gè)滴漏①和一個(gè)安琪兒的片斷。不過(guò)它上面的字差不多全都模糊了，只剩下卜列本這個(gè)名字和后邊的一個(gè)大字母S，以及離此更遠(yuǎn)一點(diǎn)的'瑪爾塔'!此外什么東西也看不見(jiàn)了。只有在下了雨，或者當(dāng)我們把它洗凈了以后，我們才能看得清楚。”
“天哪，這就是卜列本·斯萬(wàn)尼和他妻子的墓石!”一個(gè)老人插進(jìn)來(lái)說(shuō)。他是那么老，簡(jiǎn)直可以作為這所房子里所有人的祖父。“是的，他們是最后埋在這個(gè)老修道院墓地里的一對(duì)夫婦。他們從我小時(shí)起就是一對(duì)老好人。大家都認(rèn)識(shí)他們，大家都喜歡他們。他們是這小城里的一對(duì)元老。大家都說(shuō)他們所有的金子一個(gè)桶也裝不完。但是他們穿的衣服卻非常樸素，總是粗料子做的;不過(guò)他們的桌布、被單等總是雪白的。他們——卜列本和瑪爾塔——是一對(duì)可愛(ài)的夫婦!當(dāng)他們坐在屋子面前那個(gè)很高的石臺(tái)階上的一條凳子上時(shí)，老菩提樹(shù)就把枝子罩在他們頭上;他們和善地、溫柔地對(duì)你點(diǎn)著頭——這使你感到愉快。他們對(duì)窮人非常好，給他們飯吃，給他們衣服穿。他們的慈善行為充分地表示出他們的善意和基督精神。
“太太先去世!那一天我記得清清楚楚。我那時(shí)是一個(gè)很小的孩子，跟著爸爸一起到老卜列本家里去，那時(shí)她剛剛合上眼睛，這老頭兒非常難過(guò)，哭得像一個(gè)小孩子。她的尸體還放在睡房里，離我們現(xiàn)在坐的這地方不遠(yuǎn)。他那時(shí)對(duì)我的爸爸和幾個(gè)鄰人說(shuō)，他此后將會(huì)多么孤獨(dú)，她曾經(jīng)多么好，他們?cè)?jīng)怎樣在一起生活了多少年，他們是怎樣先認(rèn)識(shí)的，然后又怎樣相愛(ài)起來(lái)。我已經(jīng)說(shuō)過(guò)，我那時(shí)很小，只能站在旁邊聽(tīng)。我聽(tīng)到這老人講話，我也注意到，當(dāng)他一講起他們的訂婚經(jīng)過(guò)、她是怎樣的美麗、他怎樣找出許多天真的托詞去會(huì)見(jiàn)她的時(shí)候，他就活潑起來(lái)，他的雙頰就漸漸紅潤(rùn)起來(lái);這時(shí)我就感到非常驚奇。于是他就談起他結(jié)婚的那個(gè)日子;他的眼睛這時(shí)也發(fā)出閃光來(lái)。他似乎又回到那個(gè)快樂(lè)的年代里去了。但是她——一個(gè)老女人——卻躺在隔壁房間里，死去了。他自己也是一個(gè)老頭兒，談?wù)撝^(guò)去那些充滿了希望的日子!是的，是的，世事就是這樣!
“那時(shí)候我還不過(guò)是一個(gè)小孩子，不過(guò)現(xiàn)在我也老了，老了——像卜列本·斯萬(wàn)尼一樣。時(shí)間過(guò)去了，一切事情都改變了!我記得她入葬那天的情景：卜列本·斯萬(wàn)尼緊跟在棺材后邊。好幾年以前，這對(duì)夫婦就準(zhǔn)備好了他們的墓碑，在那上面刻好了他們的名字和碑文——只是沒(méi)有填上死的年月。在一天晚間，這墓碑被抬到教堂的墓地里去，放在墳上。一年以后，它又被揭開(kāi)了，老卜列本又在他妻子的身邊躺下去了。
“他們不像人們所想象的和所講的那樣，身后并沒(méi)有留下許多錢(qián)財(cái)。剩下的一點(diǎn)東西都送給了遠(yuǎn)房親戚——直到那時(shí)人們才知道有這些親戚。那座木房子——和它的臺(tái)階頂上菩提樹(shù)下的一條凳子——已經(jīng)被市政府拆除了，因?yàn)樗啵荒茉僮屗媪粝氯�，后�?lái)那個(gè)修道院也遭受到同樣的命運(yùn)：那個(gè)墓地也鏟平了，卜列本和瑪爾塔的墓碑，像別的墓碑一樣，也賣(mài)給任何愿意買(mǎi)它的人了�，F(xiàn)在事又湊巧，這塊墓石居然沒(méi)有被打碎，給人用掉;它卻仍然躺在這院子里，作為女傭人放廚房用具和孩子們玩耍的地方。在卜列本和他的妻子安息的地上現(xiàn)在鋪出了一條街道。誰(shuí)也不再記起他們了。”
講這故事的老人悲哀地?fù)u搖頭。
“被遺忘了!一切東西都會(huì)被遺忘了!”他說(shuō)。
于是他們?cè)谶@房間里談起別的事情來(lái)。不過(guò)那個(gè)最小的孩子——那個(gè)有一雙嚴(yán)肅的大眼睛的孩子——爬到窗簾后邊的一個(gè)椅子上去，朝院子里眺望。月光明朗地正照在這塊大墓石上——對(duì)他說(shuō)來(lái)。這一直是一塊空洞和單調(diào)的石頭。不過(guò)它現(xiàn)在躺在那兒像一整部歷史中的一頁(yè)。這孩子所聽(tīng)到的關(guān)于老卜列本和他的妻子的故事似乎就寫(xiě)在它上面。他望了望它，然后又望了望那個(gè)潔白的月亮，那個(gè)明朗高闊的天空。這很像造物主的面孔，向這整個(gè)的世界微笑。
“被遺忘了!一切東西都會(huì)被遺忘了!”這是房間里的人所說(shuō)的一句話。這時(shí)候，有一個(gè)看不見(jiàn)的安琪兒飛進(jìn)來(lái)，吻了這孩子的前額，同時(shí)低聲地對(duì)他說(shuō)：“好好地保管著這顆藏在你身體內(nèi)的種子吧，一直到它成熟的時(shí)候!通過(guò)你，我的孩子，那塊老墓石上模糊的碑文，它的每個(gè)字，將會(huì)射出金光，傳到后代!那對(duì)老年夫婦將會(huì)手挽著手，又在古老的街上走過(guò)，微笑著，現(xiàn)出他們新鮮和健康的面孔，在菩提樹(shù)下，在那個(gè)高臺(tái)階上的凳子上坐著，對(duì)過(guò)往的人點(diǎn)頭——不論是貧或是富。從這時(shí)開(kāi)始，這顆種子，到了適當(dāng)?shù)臅r(shí)候，將會(huì)成熟，開(kāi)出花來(lái)，成為一首詩(shī)。美的和善的東西是永遠(yuǎn)不會(huì)給遺忘的;它在傳說(shuō)和歌謠中將會(huì)獲得永恒的生命。”
�、龠@是古代一種最原始的鐘。它是由上下兩個(gè)玻璃球作成的，由一個(gè)小頸聯(lián)在一起。上面的球裝滿沙子或水銀，通過(guò)這小頸流到下面的一個(gè)球里去。這個(gè)過(guò)程所花的時(shí)間，一般是一小時(shí)。時(shí)刻就以這流盡的過(guò)程為單位計(jì)算。古代教堂里常用這種鐘。
老墓碑英文版：
The Old Grave-Stone
IN a house, with a large courtyard, in a provincial town, at that time of the year in which people say the evenings are growing longer, a family circle were gathered together at their old home. A lamp burned on the table, although the weather was mild and warm, and the long curtains hung down before the open windows, and without the moon shone brightly in the dark-blue sky.
But they were not talking of the moon, but of a large, old stone that lay below in the courtyard not very far from the kitchen door. The maids often laid the clean copper saucepans and kitchen vessels on this stone, that they might dry in the sun, and the children were fond of playing on it. It was, in fact, an old grave-stone.
“Yes,” said the master of the house, “I believe the stone came from the graveyard of the old church of the convent which was pulled down, and the pulpit, the monuments, and the grave-stones sold. My father bought the latter; most of them were cut in two and used for paving-stones, but that one stone was preserved whole, and laid in the courtyard.”
“Any one can see that it is a grave-stone,” said the eldest of the children; “the representation of an hour-glass and part of the figure of an angel can still be traced, but the inscription beneath is quite worn out, excepting the name ‘Preben,’ and a large ‘S’ close by it, and a little farther down the name of ‘Martha’ can be easily read. But nothing more, and even that cannot be seen unless it has been raining, or when we have washed the stone.”
“Dear me! how singular. Why that must be the grave-stone of Preben Schwane and his wife.”
The old man who said this looked old enough to be the grandfather of all present in the room.
“Yes,” he continued, “these people were among the last who were buried in the churchyard of the old convent. They were a very worthy old couple, I can remember them well in the days of my boyhood. Every one knew them, and they were esteemed by all. They were the oldest residents in the town, and people said they possessed a ton of gold, yet they were always very plainly dressed, in the coarsest stuff, but with linen of the purest whiteness. Preben and Martha were a fine old couple, and when they both sat on the bench, at the top of the steep stone steps, in front of their house, with the branches of the linden-tree waving above them, and nodded in a gentle, friendly way to passers by, it really made one feel quite happy. They were very good to the poor; they fed them and clothed them, and in their benevolence there was judgment as well as true Christianity. The old woman died first; that day is still quite vividly before my eyes. I was a little boy, and had accompanied my father to the old man’s house. Martha had fallen into the sleep of death just as we arrived there. The corpse lay in a bedroom, near to the one in which we sat, and the old man was in great distress and weeping like a child. He spoke to my father, and to a few neighbors who were there, of how lonely he should feel now she was gone, and how good and true she, his dead wife, had been during the number of years that they had passed through life together, and how they had become acquainted, and learnt to love each other. I was, as I have said, a boy, and only stood by and listened to what the others said; but it filled me with a strange emotion to listen to the old man, and to watch how the color rose in his cheeks as he spoke of the days of their courtship, of how beautiful she was, and how many little tricks he had been guilty of, that he might meet her. And then he talked of his wedding-day; and his eyes brightened, and he seemed to be carried back, by his words, to that joyful time. And yet there she was, lying in the next room, dead—an old woman, and he was an old man, speaking of the days of hope, long passed away. Ah, well, so it is; then I was but a child, and now I am old, as old as Preben Schwane then was. Time passes away, and all things changed. I can remember quite well the day on which she was buried, and how Old Preben walked close behind the coffin.
“A few years before this time the old couple had had their grave-stone prepared, with an inscription and their names, but not the date. In the evening the stone was taken to the churchyard, and laid on the grave. A year later it was taken up, that Old Preben might be laid by the side of his wife. They did not leave behind them wealth, they left behind them far less than people had believed they possessed; what there was went to families distantly related to them, of whom, till then, no one had ever heard. The old house, with its balcony of wickerwork, and the bench at the top of the high steps, under the lime-tree, was considered, by the road-inspectors, too old and rotten to be left standing. Afterwards, when the same fate befell the convent church, and the graveyard was destroyed, the grave-stone of Preben and Martha, like everything else, was sold to whoever would buy it. And so it happened that this stone was not cut in two as many others had been, but now lies in the courtyard below, a scouring block for the maids, and a playground for the children. The paved street now passes over the resting place of Old Preben and his wife; no one thinks of them any more now.”
And the old man who had spoken of all this shook his head mournfully, and said, “Forgotten! Ah, yes, everything will be forgotten!” And then the conversation turned on other matters.
But the youngest child in the room, a boy, with large, earnest eyes, mounted upon a chair behind the window curtains, and looked out into the yard, where the moon was pouring a flood of light on the old gravestone,—the stone that had always appeared to him so dull and flat, but which lay there now like a great leaf out of a book of history. All that the boy had heard of Old Preben and his wife seemed clearly defined on the stone, and as he gazed on it, and glanced at the clear, bright moon shining in the pure air, it was as if the light of God’s countenance beamed over His beautiful world.
“Forgotten! Everything will be forgotten!” still echoed through the room, and in the same moment an invisible spirit whispered to the heart of the boy, “Preserve carefully the seed that has been entrusted to thee, that it may grow and thrive. Guard it well. Through thee, my child, shall the obliterated inscription on the old, weather-beaten grave-stone go forth to future generations in clear, golden characters. The old pair shall again wander through the streets arm-in-arm, or sit with their fresh, healthy cheeks on the bench under the lime-tree, and smile and nod at rich and poor. The seed of this hour shall ripen in the course of years into a beautiful poem. The beautiful and the good are never forgotten, they live always in story or in song.”
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