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安徒生童話故事第114篇：蝸牛和玫瑰樹The Snail and the Rose-Tr
引導語：每一個童話故事都會教給大家一個道理,我們一起來閱讀學習安徒生的童話故事《蝸牛和玫瑰樹》，還有英文版的，歡迎大家閱讀!
在一個花園的周圍，有一排榛樹編的籬笆。籬笆的外面是田地和草場，上面有許多母牛和羊。不過在花園的中央有一株開著花的玫瑰樹。樹底下住著一只蝸牛。他的殼里面有一大堆東西——那就是他自己。
“等著，到時候看吧!”他說，“我將不止開幾次花，或結幾個果子，或者像牛和羊一樣，產出一點兒奶。”
“我等著瞧你的東西倒是不少呢!”玫瑰樹說。“我能不能問你一下，你的話什么時候能夠兌現呢?”
“我心里自然有數，”蝸牛說。“你老是那么急!一急就把我弄得緊張起來了。”
到了第二年，蝸牛仍然躺在原來的地方，在玫瑰樹下面曬太陽。玫瑰樹倒是冒出了花苞，開出了那永遠新鮮的花朵。蝸牛伸出一半身子，把觸角探了一下，接著就又縮回去了。一切東西跟去年完全一樣!沒有任何進展。玫瑰樹仍然開著玫瑰花;他沒有向前邁一步!”
夏天過去了，秋天來了。玫瑰老是開著花，冒出花苞，一直到雪花飄下來，天氣變得陰森寒冷為止。這時玫瑰樹就向地下垂著頭，蝸牛也鉆進土里去。
新的一年又開始了，玫瑰花開出來了，蝸牛也爬出來了。
“你現在成了一株老玫瑰樹了!”蝸牛說，“你應該早點準備壽終正寢了，你所能拿出來的東西全部拿出來了;這些東西究竟有什么用處，是一個問題。我現在也沒有時間來考慮。不過有一點是很清楚的，你沒有對你個人的發展做過任何努力，否則你倒很可能產生出一點別的像樣的東西呢。你能回答這問題嗎?你很快就會只剩下一根光桿了!你懂得我的意思嗎?”
“你簡直嚇死我!”玫瑰樹說。“我從來沒有想到過這一點。”
“是的，你從來不費點腦筋來考慮問題。你可曾研究一下，你為什么要開花，你的花是怎樣開出來的——為什么是這樣，而不是別樣嗎?”
“沒有，”玫瑰樹說。“我在歡樂中開花，因為我非開不可。太陽是那么溫暖，空氣是那么清爽。我喝著純潔的露水和大滴的雨點。我呼吸著，我生活著!我從土中得到力量，從高空吸取精氣;我感到一種快樂在不停地增長;結果我就不得不開花，開完了又開。這是我的生活，我沒有別的辦法!”
“你倒是過著非常輕快的日子啦。”蝸牛說道。
“一點也不錯。我什么都有!”玫瑰樹說。“不過你得到的東西更多!你是那種富于深思的人物，那種得天獨厚的、使整個世界驚奇的人物。”
“我從來沒有想到這類事兒，”蝸牛說。“世界不關心我!我跟世界又有什么關系呢?我自己和我身體里所有的東西已經足夠了。”
“不過，在這個世界上，難道我們不應該把我們最好的東西，把我們能力所能辦到的東西都拿出來么?當然，我只能拿出玫瑰花來。可是你?……你是那么得天獨厚，你拿出什么東西給這世界呢?你打算拿出什么東西來呢?”
“我拿出什么東西呢?拿出什么東西?我對世界吐一口唾沫!世界一點用也沒有，它和我沒有什么關系。你拿出你的玫瑰花來吧，你做不出什么別的事情來!讓榛樹結出果子吧，讓牛和羊產出奶吧;它們各有各的群眾，但是我身體里也有我的群眾!我縮到我身體里去，我住在那兒。世界和我沒有什么關系!”
蝸牛就這樣縮進他的屋子里去了，同時把門帶上。
“這真是可悲!”玫瑰樹說。“即使我愿意，我也縮不進我的身體里面去——我得不停地開著花，開出玫瑰花。花瓣落下來，在風里飛翔!雖然如此，我還看到一朵玫瑰夾在一位主婦的圣詩集里，我自己也有一朵玫瑰被藏在一個美麗年輕的女子的懷里，另一朵被一個充滿了歡樂的孩子拿去用嘴唇吻。我覺得真舒服，這是真正的幸福。這就是我的回憶——我的生活!”
于是玫瑰老是天真地開著花。而那只蝸牛則懶散地呆在他的屋子里，世界和他沒有什么關系。
許多年過去了。
蝸牛成了泥土中的泥土，玫瑰樹也成了泥土中的泥土，那本圣詩集里作為紀念的玫瑰也枯萎了;可是花園里又開出新的玫瑰花來;花園里又爬出新的蝸牛來。這些蝸牛鉆進他們的屋子里去，吐出唾沫，這個世界跟他們沒有什么關系。
我們要不要把這故事從頭再讀一遍?……它決不會有什么兩樣。
蝸牛和玫瑰樹英文版：
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.
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