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安徒生童話故事第98篇：墓里的孩子The Child in the Grave
引導(dǎo)語(yǔ)：《墓里的孩子》是著名作家安徒生童話選其中之一作品，下面就是小編整理的中英文版本的，與大家分享學(xué)習(xí)。
屋子里充滿了悲哀，每一顆心都充滿了悲哀。一個(gè)四歲的孩子死去了。他是他爸爸媽媽唯一的兒子，是他們的歡樂(lè)和未來(lái)的希望。他的爸爸媽媽還有兩個(gè)較大的女兒，最大的那一個(gè)這一年就要受堅(jiān)信禮了。她們都是可愛(ài)的好孩子，但是死去的孩子總是最心疼的孩子，何況他還是一個(gè)頂小的獨(dú)生兒子呢?這真是一場(chǎng)大災(zāi)難。兩個(gè)姐姐幼小的心靈已經(jīng)悲哀到了極點(diǎn);父親的悲痛更使她們感到特別難過(guò)。父親的腰已經(jīng)彎了，媽媽也被這種空前的悲哀壓倒了。她曾經(jīng)日日夜夜忙著看護(hù)這個(gè)生病的孩子，照料他，抱著他，摟著他，覺(jué)得他已經(jīng)成了她身體的一部分。她簡(jiǎn)直不能想象他已經(jīng)死了，快要躺進(jìn)棺材，被埋葬到墳?zāi)估锶�。她認(rèn)為上帝不可能把這個(gè)孩子從她的手中搶走。但事情居然發(fā)生了，而且成了千真萬(wàn)確的事實(shí)，所以她在劇烈的痛苦中說(shuō)：
“上帝不知道這件事!他的那些在世上的仆人，有的真是沒(méi)有一點(diǎn)良心;這些人隨便處理事情，簡(jiǎn)直不聽(tīng)母親們的禱告。”
她在痛苦中舍棄了上帝。她的心中涌現(xiàn)了陰暗的思想——她想到了死，永恒的死。她覺(jué)得人不過(guò)是塵土中的塵土，她這一生是完了。這種思想使她覺(jué)得自己無(wú)所依靠;她陷入失望的無(wú)底深淵中去了。
當(dāng)她苦痛到了極點(diǎn)的時(shí)候，連哭都哭不出來(lái)。她沒(méi)有想到她還有年幼的女兒。她丈夫的眼淚滴到她的額上，但是她沒(méi)有看他。她一直在想那個(gè)死去了的孩子。她的整個(gè)生命和存在都沉浸在回憶中：回憶她的孩子，回憶他所講過(guò)的每一句天真幼稚的話。
入葬的那一天終于到來(lái)了。在這以前她有許多夜晚沒(méi)有睡過(guò)覺(jué);但是天明的時(shí)候，她疲倦到了極點(diǎn)，所以就迷迷糊糊地睡去了。棺材就在這時(shí)候被抬到一間僻靜的房子里。棺材蓋就是在那兒釘上的，為的是怕她聽(tīng)見(jiàn)錘子的聲音。
她一醒，就立刻爬起來(lái)，要去看孩子。她的丈夫含著眼淚說(shuō)：
“我們已經(jīng)把棺材釘上了——事情非這樣辦不可!”
“上帝既然對(duì)我這樣殘酷，"她大聲說(shuō)，"人們對(duì)我怎么會(huì)更好呢?"于是她嗚咽地哭起來(lái)了。
棺材被抬到墓地里去了。這個(gè)無(wú)限悲痛的母親跟她的兩個(gè)女兒坐在一起。她望著她們，但是她的眼睛卻沒(méi)有看見(jiàn)她們，因?yàn)樗囊庾R(shí)中已經(jīng)再?zèng)]有什么家庭了。悲哀控制了她整個(gè)的存在。悲哀沖擊著她，正如大海沖擊著一條失去了羅盤和舵的船一樣。入葬的那一天就是這樣過(guò)去的，接著是一長(zhǎng)串同樣單調(diào)和沉痛的日子。這悲哀的一家用濕潤(rùn)的眼睛和愁苦的目光望著她;她完全聽(tīng)不進(jìn)他們安慰的話語(yǔ)。的確，他們自己也悲痛極了，還有什么話好說(shuō)呢?
她似乎不再知道睡眠是什么東西了。這時(shí)誰(shuí)要能夠使她的身體恢復(fù)過(guò)來(lái)，使她的靈魂得到休息，誰(shuí)就可以說(shuō)是她最好的朋友。大家勸她在床上躺一躺，她一動(dòng)不動(dòng)地躺在那兒，好像睡著了似的。有一天晚上，她的丈夫靜聽(tīng)著她的呼吸，深信她已經(jīng)得到了休息和安慰。因此他就合著雙手祈禱;于是漸漸地他自己就墜入昏沉的睡夢(mèng)中去了。他沒(méi)有注意到她已經(jīng)起了床，穿上了衣服，并且輕輕地走出了屋子。她徑直向她日夜思念著的那個(gè)地方——埋葬著她的孩子的那座墳?zāi)?mdash;—走去。她走過(guò)住宅的花園，走過(guò)田野——這兒有一條小路通向城外，她順著這條小路一直走到教堂的墓地。誰(shuí)也沒(méi)有看到她，她也沒(méi)有看到任何人。
這是一個(gè)美麗的、滿天星斗的夜晚�？諝馊匀皇菧睾偷�——這是九月初的天氣。她走進(jìn)教堂的墓地，一直走到一個(gè)小墳?zāi)沟慕�。這墳?zāi)购芟褚粋�(gè)大花叢，正在散發(fā)著香氣。她坐下來(lái)，對(duì)著墳?zāi)沟拖骂^，她的眼光好像可以透過(guò)緊密的土層，看到心愛(ài)的孩子似的。她還能活生生地記起這孩子的微笑：她永遠(yuǎn)忘記不了孩子眼中的那種親切的表情——甚至當(dāng)他躺在病床上的時(shí)候，眼睛里還露出這種表情。每當(dāng)她彎下腰去，托起他那只無(wú)力舉起的小手的時(shí)候，他的眼光好像在對(duì)她吐露無(wú)限的心事。她現(xiàn)在坐在他的墳旁，正如坐在他的搖籃邊一樣。不過(guò)她現(xiàn)在是在不停地流著眼淚。這些淚珠都落到了墳上。
“你是想到你的孩子那兒去吧!"她身旁有一個(gè)聲音說(shuō)。這是一個(gè)響亮而低沉的聲音，直接打進(jìn)了她的心坎。她抬起頭來(lái)，看到旁邊站著一個(gè)人。這人穿著一件寬大的喪服，頭上低低地戴著一頂帽子;但是她能望見(jiàn)帽子下面的面孔。這是一個(gè)莊嚴(yán)的、但是足夠使人信任的面孔。他的眼睛射出青春的光芒。
“到我的孩子那兒去?"她重復(fù)著這人的話。她的聲音里流露出一種迫切的祈求的調(diào)子。
“你敢跟著我去么?"這人影說(shuō)。"我就是死神!”
她點(diǎn)了點(diǎn)頭，表示同意。于是她馬上覺(jué)得上面的星星好像都射出了滿月那樣的光輝。她看到墳上有各式各樣的花朵。土層像一塊輕飄的幕布一樣慢慢地、輕柔地向兩邊分開(kāi)。她沉下去了，幽靈用他的黑喪服把她蓋住。這是夜，死神的夜。她越沉越深，比教堂看守人的鏟子所能挖到的地方還要深。教堂的墓地現(xiàn)在好像是蓋在她頭上的屋頂。
喪服有一邊掀開(kāi)了;她出現(xiàn)在一個(gè)莊嚴(yán)的大廳里面。這大廳向四面展開(kāi)，呈現(xiàn)著一種歡迎的氣氛。周圍是一片黃昏的景色，但是正在這時(shí)候，她的孩子在她面前出現(xiàn)了。她緊緊地把他摟住，貼著自己的心口。他對(duì)她微笑，一個(gè)從來(lái)沒(méi)有的這樣美麗的微笑。她發(fā)出一聲尖叫，但是沒(méi)有人能聽(tīng)見(jiàn)，因?yàn)檫@時(shí)響起了一片悅耳的、響亮的音樂(lè)，一忽兒近，一忽兒遠(yuǎn)，一忽兒又像在她的身邊。這樣幸福的調(diào)子她的耳朵從來(lái)沒(méi)有聽(tīng)到過(guò)。它來(lái)自那個(gè)大黑門簾的外邊——那個(gè)把這個(gè)大廳和那偉大的、永恒的國(guó)度隔開(kāi)的門簾。
“我親愛(ài)的媽媽!生我養(yǎng)我的媽媽!"她聽(tīng)到她的孩子這樣叫。
這聲音是那么熟悉，那么親熱。她在無(wú)限的幸福中把他吻了又吻。孩子指著那個(gè)黑色的門簾。
“人世間不可能這樣美麗!媽媽，你瞧!你仔細(xì)地瞧瞧這一切吧!這就是幸福呀!”
但母親什么也沒(méi)有看見(jiàn)。孩子所指的那塊地方，除了黑夜以外，什么也沒(méi)有。她用人間的眼睛，看不見(jiàn)這個(gè)被上帝親自召去了的孩子所能看見(jiàn)的東西。她只能聽(tīng)見(jiàn)音樂(lè)的聲調(diào)，但是分辨不出其中的字句——她應(yīng)該相信的字句。
“媽媽，現(xiàn)在我可以飛了!"孩子說(shuō)，"我要跟其他許多幸福的孩子一起飛到上帝那兒去。我急于想飛走，但是，當(dāng)你哭的時(shí)候，當(dāng)你像現(xiàn)在這樣哭著的時(shí)候，我就沒(méi)有辦法離開(kāi)你了。我是多么想飛啊!我可以不可以飛走呢?親愛(ài)的媽媽，不久你也可以到我這兒來(lái)了!”
“啊，不要飛吧!啊，不要飛吧!"她說(shuō)。"待一會(huì)兒吧。我要再看你一次，再吻你一次，把你在我懷里再擁抱一次!”
于是她吻著他，緊緊地?fù)肀е�。這時(shí)上面有一個(gè)聲音在喊著她的名字——這是一個(gè)哀悼的聲音。這是什么意思呢?
“你聽(tīng)到?jīng)]有?"孩子問(wèn)。"那是爸爸在喊你。”
過(guò)了一會(huì)兒，又有一個(gè)深沉的嘆息聲飄來(lái)了，一個(gè)像是哭著的孩子發(fā)出來(lái)的嘆息聲。
“這是姐姐們的聲音!"孩子說(shuō)。"媽媽，你還沒(méi)有忘記她們吧?”
于是她記起了她留在家里的那些孩子。她心里起了一陣恐怖。她向前面凝望。有許多人影飄浮過(guò)去了，其中有幾個(gè)她似乎很熟悉。他們飄過(guò)死神的大廳，飄向那黑色的門簾，于是便不見(jiàn)了。難道她的丈夫，她的女兒也在這群幽靈中間嗎?不，他們的喊聲，他們的嘆息，仍然是從上面飄來(lái)的：她為了死去的孩子幾乎把他們忘記了。
“媽媽，天上的鐘聲已經(jīng)響起來(lái)了!"孩子說(shuō)。"媽媽，太陽(yáng)要出來(lái)了!”
這時(shí)有一道強(qiáng)烈的光向她射來(lái)。孩子不見(jiàn)了，她被托到空中，周圍是一片寒氣。她抬起頭來(lái)，發(fā)現(xiàn)自己是在教堂墓地里，兒子的墳?zāi)惯�。�?dāng)她做夢(mèng)的時(shí)候，上帝來(lái)?yè)嵛克顾睦碇前l(fā)出光輝。她跪下來(lái)，祈禱著說(shuō)：
“我的上帝!請(qǐng)?jiān)徫以?jīng)想制止一個(gè)不滅的靈魂飛走，曾經(jīng)忘掉了你留給我的對(duì)活人的責(zé)任!”
她說(shuō)完這些話，心里似乎覺(jué)得輕松了許多。太陽(yáng)出來(lái)了，一只小鳥(niǎo)在她的頭上唱著歌，教堂的鐘聲正在召喚人們?nèi)プ鲈缍\。她的周圍有一種神圣的氣氛，她的心里也有一種神圣的感覺(jué)!她認(rèn)識(shí)了上帝，她認(rèn)識(shí)了她的責(zé)任，懷著渴望的心情急忙趕回家來(lái)。她向丈夫彎下腰，用溫暖的、熱烈的吻把他弄醒了。他們談著知心和熱情的話。她現(xiàn)在又變得堅(jiān)強(qiáng)和溫柔起來(lái)——像一個(gè)主婦所能做到的那樣。她心中現(xiàn)在有一種充滿了信心的力量。
“上帝的意旨總是最好的!”
她的丈夫問(wèn)她："你從什么地方得到這種力量——這種恬靜的心情?”
她吻了他，還吻了她的孩子。
“我通過(guò)墓里的孩子，從上帝那兒得來(lái)的。”
墓里的孩子英文版：
The Child in the Grave
IT was a very sad day, and every heart in the house felt the deepest grief; for the youngest child, a boy of four years old, the joy and hope of his parents, was dead. Two daughters, the elder of whom was going to be confirmed, still remained: they were both good, charming girls; but the lost child always seems the dearest; and when it is youngest, and a son, it makes the trial still more heavy. The sisters mourned as young hearts can mourn, and were especially grieved at the sight of their parents’ sorrow. The father’s heart was bowed down, but the mother sunk completely under the deep grief. Day and night she had attended to the sick child, nursing and carrying it in her bosom, as a part of herself. She could not realize the fact that the child was dead, and must be laid in a coffin to rest in the ground. She thought God could not take her darling little one from her; and when it did happen notwithstanding her hopes and her belief, and there could be no more doubt on the subject, she said in her feverish agony, “God does not know it. He has hard-hearted ministering spirits on earth, who do according to their own will, and heed not a mother’s prayers.” Thus in her great grief she fell away from her faith in God, and dark thoughts arose in her mind respecting death and a future state. She tried to believe that man was but dust, and that with his life all existence ended. But these doubts were no support to her, nothing on which she could rest, and she sunk into the fathomless depths of despair. In her darkest hours she ceased to weep, and thought not of the young daughters who were still left to her. The tears of her husband fell on her forehead, but she took no notice of him; her thoughts were with her dead child; her whole existence seemed wrapped up in the remembrances of the little one and of every innocent word it had uttered.
The day of the little child’s funeral came. For nights previously the mother had not slept, but in the morning twilight of this day she sunk from weariness into a deep sleep; in the mean time the coffin was carried into a distant room, and there nailed down, that she might not hear the blows of the hammer. When she awoke, and wanted to see her child, the husband, with tears, said, “We have closed the coffin; it was necessary to do so.”
“When God is so hard to me, how can I expect men to be better?” she said with groans and tears.
The coffin was carried to the grave, and the disconsolate mother sat with her young daughters. She looked at them, but she saw them not; for her thoughts were far away from the domestic hearth. She gave herself up to her grief, and it tossed her to and fro, as the sea tosses a ship without compass or rudder. So the day of the funeral passed away, and similar days followed, of dark, wearisome pain. With tearful eyes and mournful glances, the sorrowing daughters and the afflicted husband looked upon her who would not hear their words of comfort; and, indeed, what comforting words could they speak, when they were themselves so full of grief? It seemed as if she would never again know sleep, and yet it would have been her best friend, one who would have strengthened her body and poured peace into her soul. They at last persuaded her to lie down, and then she would lie as still as if she slept.
One night, when her husband listened, as he often did, to her breathing, he quite believed that she had at length found rest and relief in sleep. He folded his arms and prayed, and soon sunk himself into healthful sleep; therefore he did not notice that his wife arose, threw on her clothes, and glided silently from the house, to go where her thoughts constantly lingered—to the grave of her child. She passed through the garden, to a path across a field that led to the churchyard. No one saw her as she walked, nor did she see any one; for her eyes were fixed upon the one object of her wanderings. It was a lovely starlight night in the beginning of September, and the air was mild and still. She entered the churchyard, and stood by the little grave, which looked like a large nosegay of fragrant flowers. She sat down, and bent her head low over the grave, as if she could see her child through the earth that covered him—her little boy, whose smile was so vividly before her, and the gentle expression of whose eyes, even on his sick-bed, she could not forget. How full of meaning that glance had been, as she leaned over him, holding in hers the pale hand which he had no longer strength to raise! As she had sat by his little cot, so now she sat by his grave; and here she could weep freely, and her tears fell upon it.
“Thou wouldst gladly go down and be with thy child,” said a voice quite close to her,—a voice that sounded so deep and clear, that it went to her heart.
She looked up, and by her side stood a man wrapped in a black cloak, with a hood closely drawn over his face; but her keen glance could distinguish the face under the hood. It was stern, yet awakened confidence, and the eyes beamed with youthful radiance.
“Down to my child,” she repeated; and tones of despair and entreaty sounded in the words.
“Darest thou to follow me?” asked the form. “I am Death.”
She bowed her head in token of assent. Then suddenly it appeared as if all the stars were shining with the radiance of the full moon on the many-colored flowers that decked the grave. The earth that covered it was drawn back like a floating drapery. She sunk down, and the spectre covered her with a black cloak; night closed around her, the night of death. She sank deeper than the spade of the sexton could penetrate, till the churchyard became a roof above her. Then the cloak was removed, and she found herself in a large hall, of wide-spreading dimensions, in which there was a subdued light, like twilight, reigning, and in a moment her child appeared before her, smiling, and more beautiful than ever; with a silent cry she pressed him to her heart. A glorious strain of music sounded—now distant, now near. Never had she listened to such tones as these; they came from beyond a large dark curtain which separated the regions of death from the land of eternity.
“My sweet, darling mother,” she heard the child say. It was the well-known, beloved voice; and kiss followed kiss, in boundless delight. Then the child pointed to the dark curtain. “There is nothing so beautiful on earth as it is here. Mother, do you not see them all? Oh, it is happiness indeed.”
But the mother saw nothing of what the child pointed out, only the dark curtain. She looked with earthly eyes, and could not see as the child saw,—he whom God has called to be with Himself. She could hear the sounds of music, but she heard not the words, the Word in which she was to trust.
“I can fly now, mother,” said the child; “I can fly with other happy children into the presence of the Almighty. I would fain fly away now; but if you weep for me as you are weeping now, you may never see me again. And yet I would go so gladly. May I not fly away? And you will come to me soon, will you not, dear mother?”
“Oh, stay, stay!” implored the mother; “only one moment more; only once more, that I may look upon thee, and kiss thee, and press thee to my heart.”
Then she kissed and fondled her child. Suddenly her name was called from above; what could it mean? her name uttered in a plaintive voice.
“Hearest thou?” said the child. “It is my father who calls thee.” And in a few moments deep sighs were heard, as of children weeping. “They are my sisters,” said the child. “Mother, surely you have not forgotten them.”
And then she remembered those she left behind, and a great terror came over her. She looked around her at the dark night. Dim forms flitted by. She seemed to recognize some of them, as they floated through the regions of death towards the dark curtain, where they vanished. Would her husband and her daughters flit past? No; their sighs and lamentations still sounded from above; and she had nearly forgotten them, for the sake of him who was dead.
“Mother, now the bells of heaven are ringing,” said the child; “mother, the sun is going to rise.”
An overpowering light streamed in upon her, the child had vanished, and she was being borne upwards. All around her became cold; she lifted her head, and saw that she was lying in the churchyard, on the grave of her child. The Lord, in a dream, had been a guide to her feet and a light to her spirit. She bowed her knees, and prayed for forgiveness. She had wished to keep back a soul from its immortal flight; she had forgotten her duties towards the living who were left her. And when she had offered this prayer, her heart felt lighter. The sun burst forth, over her head a little bird carolled his song, and the church-bells sounded for the early service. Everything around her seemed holy, and her heart was chastened. She acknowledged the goodness of God, she acknowledged the duties she had to perform, and eagerly she returned home. She bent over her husband, who still slept; her warm, devoted kiss awakened him, and words of heartfelt love fell from the lips of both. Now she was gentle and strong as a wife can be; and from her lips came the words of faith: “Whatever He doeth is right and best.”
Then her husband asked, “From whence hast thou all at once derived such strength and comforting faith?”
And as she kissed him and her children, she said, “It came from God, through my child in the grave.”
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