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安徒生童話故事第139篇：薊的遭遇The Thistle’s Experiences
引導(dǎo)語：薊，大家了解過是什么東西?下面就是小編整理的安徒生的童話故事《薊的遭遇》中英文版本的，歡迎大家閱讀!
在一幢華貴的公館旁邊有一個美麗整齊的花園，里面有許多珍貴的樹木和花草。公館里的客人們對于這些東西都表示羨慕。附近城里和鄉(xiāng)下的村民在星期日和節(jié)日都特地來要求參觀這個花園。甚至于所有的學(xué)校也都來參觀。
在花園外面，在一條田野小徑旁的柵欄附近，長著一棵很大的薊。它的根還分出許多枝丫來，因此它可以說是一個薊叢。除了一只拖牛奶車的老驢子以外，誰也不理它。驢子把脖子伸向薊這邊來，說：“你真可愛!我?guī)缀跸氤缘裟?”但是它的脖子不夠長，沒法吃到。
公館里的客人很多——有從京城里來的高貴的客人，有年輕漂亮的小姐。在這些人之中有一個來自遠(yuǎn)方的姑娘。她是從蘇格蘭來的，出身很高貴，擁有許多田地和金錢。她是一個值得爭取的新嫁娘——不止一個年輕人說這樣的話，許多母親們也這樣說過。
年輕人在草坪上玩耍和打“捶球”。他們在花園中間散步。每位小姐摘下一朵花，插在年輕紳士的扣眼上。不過這位蘇格蘭來的小姐向四周瞧了很久，這一朵也看不起，那一朵也看不起。似乎沒有一朵花可以討到她的歡心。她只好掉頭向柵欄外面望。那兒有一個開著大朵紫花的薊叢。她看見了它，她微笑了一下，她要求這家的少爺為她摘下一朵這樣的花來。
“這是蘇格蘭之花①!”她說。“她在蘇格蘭的國徽上射出光輝，請把它摘給我吧!”
他摘下最美麗的一朵，他還拿它刺刺自己的手指，好像它是長在一棵多刺的玫瑰花叢上的花似的。
她把這朵薊花插在這位年輕人的扣眼里。他覺得非常光榮。別的年輕人都愿意放棄自己美麗的花，而想戴上這位蘇格蘭小姐的美麗的小手所插上的那朵花。假如這家的少爺感到很光榮，難道這個薊叢就感覺不到嗎?它感到好像有露珠和陽光滲進(jìn)了它身體里似的。
“我沒有想到我是這樣重要!”它在心里想。“我的地位應(yīng)該是在柵欄里面，而不是在柵欄外面。一個人在這個世界里常常是處在一個很奇怪的位置上的!不過我現(xiàn)在卻有一朵花越過了柵欄，而且還插在扣眼里哩!”
它把這件事情對每個冒出的和開了的花苞都講了一遍。過了沒有多少天，它聽到一個重要消息。它不是從路過的人那里聽來的，也不是從鳥兒的叫聲中聽來的，而是從空氣中聽來的，因為空氣收集聲音——花園里蔭深小徑上的聲音，公館里最深的房間里的聲音(只要門和窗戶是開著的)——然后把它們播送到遠(yuǎn)近的地方去。它聽說，那位從蘇格蘭小姐的手中得到一朵薊花的年輕紳士，不僅得到了她的愛情，還贏得了她的心。這是漂亮的一對——一門好親事。
“這完全是由我促成的!”薊叢想，同時也想起那朵由它貢獻(xiàn)出的、插在扣子洞上的花。每朵開出的花苞都聽見了這個消息。
“我一定會被移植到花園里去的!”薊想。“可能還被移植到一個縮手縮腳的花盆里去呢：這是最高的光榮!”
薊對于這件事情想得非常殷切，因此它滿懷信心地說：“我一定會被移植到花盆里去的!”
它答應(yīng)每一朵開放了的花苞，說它們也會被移植進(jìn)花盆里，也許被插進(jìn)扣子洞里：這是一個人所能達(dá)到的最高的光榮。不過誰也沒有到花盆里去，當(dāng)然更不用說插上扣子洞了。它們飲著空氣和陽光，白天吸收陽光，晚間喝露水。它們開出花朵;蜜蜂和大黃蜂來拜訪它們，因為它們在到處尋找嫁妝——花蜜。它們采走了花蜜，剩下的只有花朵。
“這一群賊東西!”薊說，“我希望我能刺到它們!但是我不能!”
花兒都垂下頭，凋謝了。但是新的花兒又開出來了。
“好像別人在請你們似的，你們都來了!”薊說。“每一分鐘我都等著走過柵欄。”
幾棵天真的雛菊和尖葉子的車前草懷著非常羨慕的心情在旁邊靜聽。它們都相信它所講的每一句話。
套在牛奶車子上的那只老驢子從路旁朝薊叢望著。但是它的脖子太短，可望而不可即。
這棵薊老是在想蘇格蘭的薊，因為它以為它也是屬于這一家族的。最后它就真的相信它是從蘇格蘭來的，相信它的祖先曾經(jīng)被繪在蘇格蘭的國徽上。這是一種偉大的想法;只有偉大的薊才能有這樣偉大的思想。
“有時一個人出身于這么一個高貴的家族，弄得它連想都不敢想一下!”旁邊長著的一棵蕁麻說。它也有一個想法，認(rèn)為如果人們把它運(yùn)用得當(dāng)，它可以變成“麻布”。
于是夏天過去了，秋天也過去了。樹上的葉子落掉了;花兒染上了更深的顏色，但是卻失去了很多的香氣。園丁的學(xué)徒在花園里朝著柵欄外面唱：
爬上了山又下山，
世事仍然沒有變!
樹林里年輕的樅樹開始盼望圣誕節(jié)的到來，但是現(xiàn)在離圣誕節(jié)還遠(yuǎn)得很。
“我仍然呆在這兒!”薊想。“世界上似乎沒有一個人想到我，但是我卻促成他們結(jié)為夫婦。他們訂了婚，而且八天以前就結(jié)了婚。是的，我動也沒有動一下，因為我動不了。”
又有幾個星期過去了。薊只剩下最后的一朵花。這朵花又圓又大，是從根子那兒開出來的。冷風(fēng)在它身上吹，它的顏色褪了，美也沒有了;它的花萼有朝鮮薊那么粗，看起來像一朵銀色的向日葵。這時那年輕的一對——丈夫和妻子——到這花園里來了。他們沿著柵欄走，年輕的妻子朝外面望。
“那棵大薊還在那兒!”她說，“它現(xiàn)在已經(jīng)沒有什么花了!”
“還有，還剩下最后一朵花的幽靈!”他說，同時指著那朵花兒的銀色的殘骸——它本身就是一朵花。
“它很可愛!”她說。“我們要在我們畫像的框子上刻出這樣一朵花!”
年輕人于是就越過柵欄，把薊的花萼摘下來了�；ㄝ喟阉氖种复塘艘幌�——因為他曾經(jīng)把它叫做“幽靈”�；ㄝ啾粠нM(jìn)花園，帶進(jìn)屋子，帶進(jìn)客廳——這對“年輕夫婦”的畫像就掛在這兒。新郎的扣子洞上畫著一朵薊花。他們談?wù)撝@朵花，也談?wù)撝麄儸F(xiàn)在帶進(jìn)來的這朵花萼——他們將要刻在像框子上的、這朵漂亮得像銀子一般的最后的薊花。
空氣把他們所講的話傳播出去——傳到很遠(yuǎn)的地方去。
“一個人的遭遇真想不到!”薊叢說。“我的頭一個孩子被插在扣子洞上，我的最后的一個孩子被刻在像框上!我自己到什么地方去呢?”
站在路旁的那只驢子斜著眼睛望了它一下。
“親愛的，到我這兒來吧!我不能走到你跟前去，我的繩子不夠長呀!”
但是薊卻不回答。它變得更沉思起來。它想了又想，一直想到圣誕節(jié)。最后它的思想開出了這樣一朵花：
“只要孩子走進(jìn)里面去了，媽媽站在柵欄外面也應(yīng)該滿足了!”
“這是一個很公正的想法!”陽光說。“你也應(yīng)該得到一個好的位置!”
“在花盆里呢?還是在像框上呢?”薊問。
“在一個童話里!”陽光說。
這就是那個童話!
�、偎E是蘇格蘭的國花。
《薊的遭遇》英文版：
The Thistle’s Experiences
BELONGING to the lordly manor-house was beautiful, well-kept garden, with rare trees and flowers; the guests of the proprietor declared their admiration of it; the people of the neighborhood, from town and country, came on Sundays and holidays, and asked permission to see the garden; indeed, whole schools used to pay visits to it.
Outside the garden, by the palings at the road-side, stood a great mighty Thistle, which spread out in many directions from the root, so that it might have been called a thistle bush. Nobody looked at it, except the old Ass which drew the milk-maid’s cart. This Ass used to stretch out his neck towards the Thistle, and say, “You are beautiful; I should like to eat you!” But his halter was not long enough to let him reach it and eat it.
There was great company at the manor-house—some very noble people from the capital; young pretty girls, and among them a young lady who came from a long distance. She had come from Scotland, and was of high birth, and was rich in land and in gold—a bride worth winning, said more than one of the young gentlemen; and their lady mothers said the same thing.
The young people amused themselves on the lawn, and played at ball; they wandered among the flowers, and each of the young girls broke off a flower, and fastened it in a young gentleman’s buttonhole. But the young Scotch lady looked round, for a long time, in an undecided way. None of the flowers seemed to suit her taste. Then her eye glanced across the paling—outside stood the great thistle bush, with the reddish-blue, sturdy flowers; she saw them, she smiled, and asked the son of the house to pluck one for her.
“It is the flower of Scotland,” she said. “It blooms in the scutcheon of my country. Give me yonder flower.”
And he brought the fairest blossom, and pricked his fingers as completely as if it had grown on the sharpest rose bush.
She placed the thistle-flower in the buttonhole of the young man, and he felt himself highly honored. Each of the other young gentlemen would willingly have given his own beautiful flower to have worn this one, presented by the fair hand of the Scottish maiden. And if the son of the house felt himself honored, what were the feelings of the Thistle bush? It seemed to him as if dew and sunshine were streaming through him.
“I am something more than I knew of,” said the Thistle to itself. “I suppose my right place is really inside the palings, and not outside. One is often strangely placed in this world; but now I have at least managed to get one of my people within the pale, and indeed into a buttonhole!”
The Thistle told this event to every blossom that unfolded itself, and not many days had gone by before the Thistle heard, not from men, not from the twittering of the birds, but from the air itself, which stores up the sounds, and carries them far around—out of the most retired walks of the garden, and out of the rooms of the house, in which doors and windows stood open, that the young gentleman who had received the thistle-flower from the hand of the fair Scottish maiden had also now received the heart and hand of the lady in question. They were a handsome pair—it was a good match.
“That match I made up!” said the Thistle; and he thought of the flower he had given for the buttonhole. Every flower that opened heard of this occurrence.
“I shall certainly be transplanted into the garden,” thought the Thistle, and perhaps put into a pot, which crowds one in. “That is said to be the greatest of all honors.”
And the Thistle pictured this to himself in such a lively manner, that at last he said, with full conviction, “I am to be transplanted into a pot.”
Then he promised every little thistle flower which unfolded itself that it also should be put into a pot, and perhaps into a buttonhole, the highest honor that could be attained. But not one of them was put into a pot, much less into a buttonhole. They drank in the sunlight and the air; lived on the sunlight by day, and on the dew by night; bloomed—were visited by bees and hornets, who looked after the honey, the dowry of the flower, and they took the honey, and left the flower where it was.
“The thievish rabble!” said the Thistle. “If I could only stab every one of them! But I cannot.”
The flowers hung their heads and faded; but after a time new ones came.
“You come in good time,” said the Thistle. “I am expecting every moment to get across the fence.”
A few innocent daisies, and a long thin dandelion, stood and listened in deep admiration, and believed everything they heard.
The old Ass of the milk-cart stood at the edge of the field-road, and glanced across at the blooming thistle bush; but his halter was too short, and he could not reach it.
And the Thistle thought so long of the thistle of Scotland, to whose family he said he belonged, that he fancied at last that he had come from Scotland, and that his parents had been put into the national escutcheon. That was a great thought; but, you see, a great thistle has a right to a great thought.
“One is often of so grand a family, that one may not know it,” said the Nettle, who grew close by. He had a kind of idea that he might be made into cambric if he were rightly treated.
And the summer went by, and the autumn went by. The leaves fell from the trees, and the few flowers left had deeper colors and less scent. The gardener’s boy sang in the garden, across the palings:
“Up the hill, down the dale we wend,
That is life, from beginning to end.”
The young fir trees in the forest began to long for Christmas, but it was a long time to Christmas yet.
“Here I am standing yet!” said the Thistle. “It is as if nobody thought of me, and yet I managed the match. They were betrothed, and they have had their wedding; it is now a week ago. I won’t take a single step-because I can’t.”
A few more weeks went by. The Thistle stood there with his last single flower large and full. This flower had shot up from near the roots; the wind blew cold over it, and the colors vanished, and the flower grew in size, and looked like a silvered sunflower.
One day the young pair, now man and wife, came into the garden. They went along by the paling, and the young wife looked across it.
“There’s the great thistle still growing,” she said. “It has no flowers now.”
“Oh, yes, the ghost of the last one is there still,” said he. And he pointed to the silvery remains of the flower, which looked like a flower themselves.
“It is pretty, certainly,” she said. “Such an one must be carved on the frame of our picture.”
And the young man had to climb across the palings again, and to break off the calyx of the thistle. It pricked his fingers, but then he had called it a ghost. And this thistle-calyx came into the garden, and into the house, and into the drawing-room. There stood a picture—“Young Couple.” A thistle-flower was painted in the buttonhole of the bridegroom. They spoke about this, and also about the thistle-flower they brought, the last thistle-flower, now gleaming like silver, whose picture was carved on the frame.
And the breeze carried what was spoken away, far away.
“What one can experience!” said the Thistle Bush. “My first born was put into a buttonhole, and my youngest has been put in a frame. Where shall I go?”
And the Ass stood by the road-side, and looked across at the Thistle.
“Come to me, my nibble darling!” said he. “I can’t get across to you.”
But the Thistle did not answer. He became more and more thoughtful—kept on thinking and thinking till near Christmas, and then a flower of thought came forth.
“If the children are only good, the parents do not mind standing outside the garden pale.”
“That’s an honorable thought,” said the Sunbeam. “You shall also have a good place.”
“In a pot or in a frame?” asked the Thistle.
“In a story,” replied the Sunbeam.
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