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安徒生童話故事第49篇：母親的故事The Story of a Mother
引導語：安徒生童話故事，大家知道哪些?下面是小編收集的一篇是描寫母親的，有中英文版本的，歡迎大家閱讀!
一個母親坐在她孩子的身旁，非常焦慮，因為她害怕孩子會死去。他的小臉蛋已經(jīng)沒有血色了，他的眼睛閉起來了。他的呼吸很困難，只偶爾深深地吸一口氣，好像在嘆息。母親望著這個小小的生物，樣子比以前更愁苦。有人在敲門。一個窮苦的老頭兒走進來了。他裹著一件寬大得像馬氈一樣的衣服，因為這使人感到更溫暖，而且他也有這個需要。外面是寒冷的冬天，一切都被雪和冰覆蓋了，風吹得厲害，刺人的面孔。
當老頭兒正凍得發(fā)抖、這孩子暫時睡著了的時候，母親就走過去，在火爐上的一個小罐子里倒進一點啤酒，為的是讓這老人喝了暖一下。老人坐下來，搖著搖籃。母親也在他旁邊的一張椅子上坐下來，望著她那個呼吸很困難的病孩子，握著他的一只小手。
“你以為我要把他拉住，是不是?"她問。"我們的上帝不會把他從我手中奪去的!”
這個老頭兒——他就是死神——用一種奇怪的姿勢點了點頭，他的意思好像是說"是"，又像"不是"。母親低下頭來望著地面，眼淚沿著雙頰向下流。她的頭非常沉重，因為她三天三夜沒有合過眼睛。現(xiàn)在她是睡著了，不過只睡著了片刻;于是她驚醒起來，打著寒顫。
“這是怎么一回事?"她說，同時向四周望望。不過那個老頭兒已經(jīng)不見了;她的孩子也不見了——他已經(jīng)把他帶走了。墻角那兒的一座老鐘在發(fā)出咝咝的聲音，"撲通!"那個鉛做的老鐘擺落到地上來了。鐘也停止了活動。
但是這個可憐的母親跑到門外來，喊著她的孩子。
在外面的雪地上坐著一個穿黑長袍的女人。她說："死神剛才和你一道坐在你的房間里;我看到他抱著你的孩子急急忙忙地跑走了。他跑起路來比風還快。凡是他所拿走的東西，他永遠也不會再送回來的!”
“請告訴我，他朝哪個方向走了?"母親說。"請把方向告訴我，我要去找他!”
“我知道!"穿黑衣服的女人說。"不過在我告訴你以前，你必須把你對你的孩子唱過的歌都唱給我聽一次。我非常喜歡那些歌;我從前聽過。我就是'夜之神'。你唱的時候，我看到你流出眼淚來。”
“我將把這些歌唱給你聽，都唱給你聽!"母親說。"不過請不要留住我，因為我得趕上他，把我的孩子找回來。”
不過夜之神坐著一聲不響。母親只有痛苦地扭著雙手，唱著歌，流著眼淚。她唱的歌很多，但她流的眼淚更多，于是夜之神說："你可以向右邊的那個黑樅樹林走去;我看到死神抱著你的孩子走到那條路上去了。”
路在樹林深處和另一條路交叉起來;她不知道走哪條路好。這兒有一叢荊棘，既沒有一起葉子，也沒有一朵花。這時正是嚴寒的冬天，那些小枝上只掛著冰柱。
“你看到死神抱著我的孩子走過去沒有?”
“看到過。"荊棘叢說，"不過我不愿告訴你他所去的方向，除非你把我抱在你的胸脯上溫暖一下。我在這兒凍得要死，我快要變成冰了。”
于是她就把荊棘叢抱在自行的胸脯上，抱得很緊，好使它能夠感到溫暖。荊棘刺進她的肌肉;她的血一滴一滴地流出來。但是荊棘叢長出了新鮮的綠葉，而且在這寒冷的冬夜開出了花，因為這位愁苦的母親的心是那么地溫暖!于是荊棘叢就告訴她應該朝哪個方向走。
她來到了一個大湖邊。湖上既沒有大船，也沒有小舟。湖上還沒有足夠的厚冰可以托住她，但是水又不夠淺，她不能涉水走過去。不過，假如她要找到她的孩子的話，她必須走過這個湖。于是她就蹲下來喝這湖的水;但是誰也喝不完這水的。這個愁苦的母親只是在幻想一個什么奇跡發(fā)生。
“不成，這是一件永遠不可能的事情!"湖說。"我們還是來談談條件吧!我喜歡收集珠子，而你的眼睛是我從來沒有見到過的兩顆最明亮的珠子。如果你能夠把它們哭出來交給我的話，我就可以把你送到那個大的溫室里去。死神就住在那兒種植著花和樹。每一棵花或樹就是一個人的生命!”
“啊，為了我的孩子，我什么都可以犧牲!"哭著的母親說。于是她哭得更厲害，結(jié)果她的眼睛墜到湖里去了，成了兩顆最貴重的珍珠。湖把她托起來，就像她是坐在一個秋千架上似的。這樣，她就浮到對面的岸上去了——這兒有一幢十多里路寬的奇怪的房子。人們不知道這究竟是一座有許多樹林和洞口的大山呢，還是一幢用木頭建筑起來的房子。不過這個可憐的母親看不見它，因為她已經(jīng)把她的兩顆眼珠都哭出來了。
“我到什么地方去找那個把我的孩子抱走了的死神呢?"她問。
“他還沒有到這兒來!"一個守墳墓的老太婆說。她專門看守死神的溫室。"你怎樣找到這兒來的?誰幫助你的?”
“我們的上帝幫助我的!"她說。"他是很仁慈的，所以你應該也很仁慈。我在什么地方可以找到我親愛的孩子呢?”
“我不知道，"老太婆說，"你也看不見!這天晚上有許多花和樹都凋謝了，死神馬上就會到來，重新移植它們!你知道得很清楚，每個人有他自己的生命之樹，或生命之花，完全看他的安排是怎樣。它們跟別的植物完全一樣，不過它們有一顆跳動的心。小孩子的心也會跳的。你去找吧，也許你能聽出你的孩子的心的搏動。不過，假如我把你下一步應該做的事情告訴你，你打算給我什么酬勞呢?”
“我沒有什么東西可以給你了，"這個悲哀的母親說。"但是我可以為你走到世界的盡頭去。”
“我沒有什么事情要你到那兒去辦，"老太婆說。"不過你可以把你又長又黑的頭發(fā)給我。你自己知道，那是很美麗的，我很喜歡!作為交換，你可以把我的白頭發(fā)拿去——那總比沒有好。”
“如果你不再要求什么別的東西的話，"她說，"那么我愿意把它送給你!”
于是她把她美麗的黑頭發(fā)交給了老太婆，同時作為交換，得到了她的雪白的頭發(fā)。
這樣，她們就走進死神的大溫室里去。這兒花和樹奇形怪狀地繁生在一起。玻璃鐘底下培養(yǎng)著美麗的風信子;大朵的、耐寒的牡丹花在盛開。在種種不同的水生植物中，有許多還很新鮮，有許多已經(jīng)半枯萎了，水蛇在它們上面盤繞著，黑螃蟹緊緊地鉗著它們的梗子。那兒還有許多美麗的棕櫚樹、櫟樹和梧桐樹;那兒還有芹菜花和盛開的麝香草。每一棵樹和每一種花都有一個名字，它們每一棵都代表一個人的生命;這些人還是活著的，有的在中國，有的在格林蘭，散布在全世界。有些大樹栽在小花盆里，因此都顯得很擠，幾乎把花盆都要脹破了。在肥沃的土地上有好幾塊地方還種著許多嬌弱的小花，它們周圍長著一些青苔;人們在仔細地培養(yǎng)和照管它們。不過這個悲哀的母親在那些最小的植物上彎下腰來，靜聽它們的心跳。在這些無數(shù)的花中，她能聽出她的孩子的心跳。
“我找到了!"她叫著，同時把雙手向一朵藍色的早春花伸過來。這朵花正在把頭垂向一邊，有些病了。
“請不要動這朵花!"那個老太婆說："不過請你等在這兒。當死神到來的時候——我想他隨時可以到來——請不要讓他拔掉這棵花。你可以威脅他說，你要把所有的植物都拔掉;那么他就會害怕的。他得為這些植物對上帝負責;在他沒有得到上帝的許可以前，誰也不能拔掉它們。”
這時忽然有一陣冷風吹進房間里來了。這個沒有眼睛的母親看不出，這就是死神的來臨。
“你怎么找到這塊地方的?"他說。"你怎么比我還來得早?”
“因為我是一個母親呀!"她說。
死神向這朵嬌柔的小花伸出長手來;可是她用雙手緊緊抱著它不放。同時她又非常焦急，生怕弄壞了它的一起花瓣。于是死神就朝著她的手吹。她覺得這比寒風還冷;于是她的手垂下來了，一點氣力也沒有。
“你怎樣也反抗不了我的!"死神說。
“不過我們的上帝可以的!"她說。
“我只是執(zhí)行他的命令!"死神說。"我是他的園丁。我把他所有的花和樹移植到天國，到那個神秘國土里的樂園中去。不過它們怎樣在那兒生長，怎樣在那兒生活，我可不敢告訴給你聽!”
“請把我的孩子還給我吧!"母親說。她一面說，一面哀求著。忽然她用雙手抓住近旁兩朵美麗的花，大聲對死神說："我要把你的花都拔掉，因為我現(xiàn)在沒有路走!”
“不準動它們!"死神說。"你說你很痛苦;但是你現(xiàn)在卻要讓一個別的母親也感到同樣地痛苦!”
“一個別的母親?"這個可憐的母親說。她馬上松開了那兩棵花。
“這是你的眼珠，"死神說。"我已經(jīng)把它們從湖里撈出來了;它們非常明亮。我不知道這原來就是你的。收回去吧;它們現(xiàn)在比以前更加明亮，請你朝你旁邊的那個井底望一下吧。我要把你想要拔掉的這兩棵花的名字告訴你;那么你就會知道它們的整個的未來，整個的人間生活;那么你就會知道，你所要摧毀的究竟是什么東西。”
她向井底下望。她真感到莫大的愉快，看見一個生命是多么幸福，看見它的周圍是一起多么愉快和歡樂的氣象。她又看那另一個生命：它是憂愁和平困、苦難和悲哀的化身。
“這兩種命運都是上帝的意志!"死神說。“它們之中哪一朵是受難之花，哪一朵是幸福之花呢?"她問。
“我不能告訴你。"死神回答說。"不過有一點你可以知道："這兩朵花之中有一朵是你自己的孩子。你剛才所看到的就是你的孩子的命運——你親生孩子的未來。”
母親驚恐得叫起來。
“它們哪一朵是我的孩子呢?請您告訴我吧!請您救救天真的孩子吧!請把我的孩子從苦難中救出來吧!還是請您把他帶走吧!把他帶到上帝的國度里去!請忘記我的眼淚，我的祈求，原諒我剛才所說的和做的一切事情吧!”
“我不懂你的意思!"死神說。"你想要把你的孩子抱回去呢，還是讓我把他帶到一個你所不知道的地方去呢?”
這時母親扭著雙手，雙膝跪下來，向我們的上帝祈禱：
“您的意志永遠是好的。請不要理我所作的違反您的意志的祈禱!請不要理我!請不要理我!”
于是她把頭低低地垂下來。
死神帶著她的孩子飛到那個不知名的國度里去了。
母親的故事英文版：
The Story of a Mother
AMOTHER sat by her little child; she was very sad, for she feared it would die. It was quite pale, and its little eyes were closed, and sometimes it drew a heavy deep breath, almost like a sigh; and then the mother gazed more sadly than ever on the poor little creature. Some one knocked at the door, and a poor old man walked in. He was wrapped in something that looked like a great horse-cloth; and he required it truly to keep him warm, for it was cold winter; the country everywhere lay covered with snow and ice, and the wind blew so sharply that it cut one’s face. The little child had dozed off to sleep for a moment, and the mother, seeing that the old man shivered with the cold, rose and placed a small mug of beer on the stove to warm for him. The old man sat and rocked the cradle; and the mother seated herself on a chair near him, and looked at her sick child who still breathed heavily, and took hold of its little hand.
“You think I shall keep him, do you not?” she said. “Our all-merciful God will surely not take him away from me.”
The old man, who was indeed Death himself, nodded his head in a peculiar manner, which might have signified either Yes, or No; and the mother cast down her eyes, while the tears rolled down her cheeks. Then her head became heavy, for she had not closed her eyes for three days and nights, and she slept, but only for a moment. Shivering with cold, she started up and looked round the room. The old man was gone, and her child—it was gone too!—the old man had taken it with him. In the corner of the room the old clock began to strike; “whirr” went the chains, the heavy weight sank to the ground, and the clock stopped; and the poor mother rushed out of the house calling for her child. Out in the snow sat a woman in long black garments, and she said to the mother, “Death has been with you in your room. I saw him hastening away with your little child; he strides faster than the wind, and never brings back what he has taken away.”
“Only tell me which way he has gone,” said the mother; “tell me the way, I will find him.”
“I know the way,” said the woman in the black garments; “but before I tell you, you must sing to me all the songs that you have sung to your child; I love these songs, I have heard them before. I am Night, and I saw your tears flow as you sang.”
“I will sing them all to you,” said the mother; “but do not detain me now. I must overtake him, and find my child.”
But Night sat silent and still. Then the mother wept and sang, and wrung her hands. And there were many songs, and yet even more tears; till at length Night said, “Go to the right, into the dark forest of fir-trees; for I saw Death take that road with your little child.”
Within the wood the mother came to cross roads, and she knew not which to take. Just by stood a thorn-bush; it had neither leaf nor flower, for it was the cold winter time, and icicles hung on the branches. “Have you not seen Death go by, with my little child?” she asked.
“Yes,” replied the thorn-bush; “but I will not tell you which way he has taken until you have warmed me in your bosom. I am freezing to death here, and turning to ice.”
Then she pressed the bramble to her bosom quite close, so that it might be thawed, and the thorns pierced her flesh, and great drops of blood flowed; but the bramble shot forth fresh green leaves, and they became flowers on the cold winter’s night, so warm is the heart of a sorrowing mother. Then the bramble-bush told her the path she must take. She came at length to a great lake, on which there was neither ship nor boat to be seen. The lake was not frozen sufficiently for her to pass over on the ice, nor was it open enough for her to wade through; and yet she must cross it, if she wished to find her child. Then she laid herself down to drink up the water of the lake, which was of course impossible for any human being to do; but the bereaved mother thought that perhaps a miracle might take place to help her. “You will never succeed in this,” said the lake; “let us make an agreement together which will be better. I love to collect pearls, and your eyes are the purest I have ever seen. If you will weep those eyes away in tears into my waters, then I will take you to the large hothouse where Death dwells and rears flowers and trees, every one of which is a human life.”
“Oh, what would I not give to reach my child!” said the weeping mother; and as she still continued to weep, her eyes fell into the depths of the lake, and became two costly pearls.
Then the lake lifted her up, and wafted her across to the opposite shore as if she were on a swing, where stood a wonderful building many miles in length. No one could tell whether it was a mountain covered with forests and full of caves, or whether it had been built. But the poor mother could not see, for she had wept her eyes into the lake. “Where shall I find Death, who went away with my little child?” she asked.
“He has not arrived here yet,” said an old gray-haired woman, who was walking about, and watering Death’s hothouse. “How have you found your way here? and who helped you?”
“God has helped me,” she replied. “He is merciful; will you not be merciful too? Where shall I find my little child?”
“I did not know the child,” said the old woman; “and you are blind. Many flowers and trees have faded to-night, and Death will soon come to transplant them. You know already that every human being has a life-tree or a life-flower, just as may be ordained for him. They look like other plants; but they have hearts that beat. Children’s hearts also beat: from that you may perhaps be able to recognize your child. But what will you give me, if I tell you what more you will have to do?”
“I have nothing to give,” said the afflicted mother; “but I would go to the ends of the earth for you.”
“I can give you nothing to do for me there,” said the old woman; “but you can give me your long black hair. You know yourself that it is beautiful, and it pleases me. You can take my white hair in exchange, which will be something in return.”
“Do you ask nothing more than that?” said she. “I will give it to you with pleasure.”
And she gave up her beautiful hair, and received in return the white locks of the old woman. Then they went into Death’s vast hothouse, where flowers and trees grew together in wonderful profusion. Blooming hyacinths, under glass bells, and peonies, like strong trees. There grew water-plants, some quite fresh, and others looking sickly, which had water-snakes twining round them, and black crabs clinging to their stems. There stood noble palm-trees, oaks, and plantains, and beneath them bloomed thyme and parsley. Each tree and flower had a name; each represented a human life, and belonged to men still living, some in China, others in Greenland, and in all parts of the world. Some large trees had been planted in little pots, so that they were cramped for room, and seemed about to burst the pot to pieces; while many weak little flowers were growing in rich soil, with moss all around them, carefully tended and cared for. The sorrowing mother bent over the little plants, and heard the human heart beating in each, and recognized the beatings of her child’s heart among millions of others.
“That is it,” she cried, stretching out her hand towards a little crocus-flower which hung down its sickly head.
“Do not touch the flower,” exclaimed the old woman; “but place yourself here; and when Death comes—I expect him every minute—do not let him pull up that plant, but threaten him that if he does you will serve the other flowers in the same manner. This will make him afraid; for he must account to God for each of them. None can be uprooted, unless he receives permission to do so.”
There rushed through the hothouse a chill of icy coldness, and the blind mother felt that Death had arrived.
“How did you find your way hither?” asked he; “how could you come here faster than I have?”
“I am a mother,” she answered.
And Death stretched out his hand towards the delicate little flower; but she held her hands tightly round it, and held it fast at same time, with the most anxious care, lest she should touch one of the leaves. Then Death breathed upon her hands, and she felt his breath colder than the icy wind, and her hands sank down powerless.
“You cannot prevail against me,” said Death.
“But a God of mercy can,” said she.
“I only do His will,” replied Death. “I am his gardener. I take all His flowers and trees, and transplant them into the gardens of Paradise in an unknown land. How they flourish there, and what that garden resembles, I may not tell you.”
“Give me back my child,” said the mother, weeping and imploring; and she seized two beautiful flowers in her hands, and cried to Death, “I will tear up all your flowers, for I am in despair.”
“Do not touch them,” said Death. “You say you are unhappy; and would you make another mother as unhappy as yourself?”
“Another mother!” cried the poor woman, setting the flowers free from her hands.
“There are your eyes,” said Death. “I fished them up out of the lake for you. They were shining brightly; but I knew not they were yours. Take them back—they are clearer now than before—and then look into the deep well which is close by here. I will tell you the names of the two flowers which you wished to pull up; and you will see the whole future of the human beings they represent, and what you were about to frustrate and destroy.”
Then she looked into the well; and it was a glorious sight to behold how one of them became a blessing to the world, and how much happiness and joy it spread around. But she saw that the life of the other was full of care and poverty, misery and woe.
“Both are the will of God,” said Death.
“Which is the unhappy flower, and which is the blessed one?” she said.
“That I may not tell you,” said Death; “but thus far you may learn, that one of the two flowers represents your own child. It was the fate of your child that you saw,—the future of your own child.”
Then the mother screamed aloud with terror, “Which of them belongs to my child? Tell me that. Deliver the unhappy child. Release it from so much misery. Rather take it away. Take it to the kingdom of God. Forget my tears and my entreaties; forget all that I have said or done.”
“I do not understand you,” said Death. “Will you have your child back? or shall I carry him away to a place that you do not know?”
Then the mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed to God, “Grant not my prayers, when they are contrary to Thy will, which at all times must be the best. Oh, hear them not;” and her head sank on her bosom.
Then Death carried away her child to the unknown land.
【安徒生童話故事第：母親的故事The Story of a Mother】相關文章：
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