世上最美丽的一朵玫瑰花

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世上最美丽的一朵玫瑰花

从前有一位权力很大的皇后。她的花园里种植着每季最美丽的、从世界各国移来的花。但是她特别喜爱玫瑰花,因此她有各种各色的玫瑰花:从那长着能发出苹果香味的绿叶的野玫瑰,一直到最可爱的、普罗旺斯①的玫瑰,样样都有。它们爬上宫殿的墙壁,攀着圆柱和窗架,伸进走廊,一直长到所有大殿的天花板上去。这些玫瑰有不同的香味,形状和色彩。

但是这些大殿里充满了忧虑和悲哀。皇后睡在病床上起不来,御医宣称她的生命没有希望。

“只有一件东西可以救她,”御医之中一位最聪明的人说。“送给她一朵世界上最美丽的玫瑰花——一朵表示最高尚、最纯洁的爱情的玫瑰花。这朵花要在她的眼睛没有闭上以前就送到她面前来.那么她就不会死掉。”

各地的年轻人和老年人送来许多玫瑰花——所有的花园里开着的最美丽的玫瑰花。然而这却不是那种能治病的玫瑰花。那应该是在爱情的花园里摘下来的一朵花;但是哪朵玫瑰真正表示出最高尚、最纯洁的爱情呢?

诗人们歌唱着世界上最美丽的玫瑰花;每个诗人都有自己的一朵。消息传遍全国,传到每一颗充满了爱情的心里,传给每一种年龄和从事每种职业的人。

“至今还没有人能说出这朵花,”那个聪明人说,“谁也指不出盛开着这朵花的那块地方。这不是罗密欧和朱丽叶棺材上的玫瑰花,也不是瓦尔堡②坟上的玫瑰花,虽然这些玫瑰在诗歌和传说中永远是芬芳的。这也不是从文克里得③的血迹斑斑的长矛上开出的那些玫瑰花——从一个为祖国而死去的英雄的心里所流出的血中开出的玫瑰花,虽然什么样的死也没有这种死可爱,什么样的花也没有他所流出的血那样红。这也不是人们在静寂的房间里,花了无数不眠之夜和宝贵的生命所培养出的那朵奇异之花——科学的奇花。”

“我知道这朵花开在什么地方,”一个幸福的母亲说。她带着她的娇嫩的孩子走到这位皇后的床边来,“我知道在什么地方可以找到世界上最美丽的玫瑰花!那朵表示最高尚和最纯洁的爱情的玫瑰,是从我甜蜜的孩子的鲜艳的脸上开出来的。这时他睡足了觉,睁开他的眼睛,对我发出充满了爱情的微笑!”

“这朵玫瑰是够美的,不过还有一朵比这更美,”聪明人说。

“是的,比这更要美得多,”另一个女人说。“我曾经看到过一朵,再没有任何一朵开得比这更高尚、更神圣的花,不过它像庚申玫瑰的花瓣,白得没有血色。我看到它在皇后的脸上开出来。她取下了她的皇冠,她在悲哀的长夜里抱着她的病孩子哭泣,吻他,祈求上帝保佑他——像一个母亲在苦痛的时刻那样祈求。”

“悲哀中的白玫瑰是神圣的,具有神奇的力量;但是它不是我们所寻找的那朵玫瑰花。”

“不是的,我只是在上帝的祭坛上看到世界上最美的那朵玫瑰花,”虔诚的老主教说。“我看到它像一个安琪儿的面孔似的射出光彩。年轻的姑娘走到圣餐的桌子面前,重复她们在受洗时听作出的诺言,于是玫瑰花开了——她们的鲜嫩的脸上开出淡白色的玫瑰花。一个年轻的女子站在那儿。她的灵魂充满了纯洁的爱,她抬头望着上帝——这是一个最纯洁和最高尚的爱的表情。”

“愿上帝祝福她!”聪明人说。“不过你们谁也没有对我说出世界上最美丽的玫瑰花。”

这时有一个孩子——皇后的小儿子——走进房间里来了。他的眼睛里和他的脸上全是泪珠。他捧着一本打开的厚书。这书是用天鹅绒装订的,上面还有银质的大扣子。

“妈妈!”小家伙说,“啊,请听我念吧!”

于是这孩子在床边坐下来,念着书中关于他的事情——他,为了拯救人类,包括那些还没有出生的人,在十字架上牺牲了自己的生命。

“没有什么爱能够比这更伟大!”

皇后的脸上露出一片玫瑰色的光彩,她的眼睛变得又大又明亮,因为她在这书页上看到世界上最美丽的玫瑰花——从十字架上的基督的血里开出的一朵玫瑰花。

“我看到它了!”她说,“看到了这朵玫瑰花——这朵地上最美丽的玫瑰花——的人,永远不会死亡!”

①普罗旺斯(Provence)是法国东南部的一个地区。这儿的天气温和,各种各色的花草很多。

②瓦尔堡(Valborg)是八世纪在德国传道的一个修女,在传说中被神化成为“圣者”,她在传说中是保护人民反对魔术侵害的神仙。

③文克里得(Arnold von Winkelried)是瑞士的一个爱国志士。1386年瑞士在山巴赫(Sempach)战胜英国时,据说他起了决定性的作用。他把好几个敌人的长矛抱在一起,使它们刺进自己的胸口里而失去作用。这样他就造成一个缺口,使瑞士军队可以在他身上踩过去,攻击敌人的阵地。

英文版:The Loveliest Rose in the World

THERE lived once a great queen, in whose garden were found at all seasons the most splendid flowers, and from every land in the world. She specially loved roses, and therefore she possessed the most beautiful varieties of this flower, from the wild hedge-rose, with its apple-scented leaves, to the splendid Provence rose. They grew near the shelter of the walls, wound themselves round columns and window-frames, crept along passages and over the ceilings of the halls. They were of every fragrance and color.

But care and sorrow dwelt within these halls; the queen lay upon a sick bed, and the doctors declared that she must die. “There is still one thing that could save her,” said one of the wisest among them. “Bring her the loveliest rose in the world; one which exhibits the purest and brightest love, and if it is brought to her before her eyes close, she will not die.”

Then from all parts came those who brought roses that bloomed in every garden, but they were not the right sort. The flower must be one from the garden of love; but which of the roses there showed forth the highest and purest love? The poets sang of this rose, the loveliest in the world, and each named one which he considered worthy of that title; and intelligence of what was required was sent far and wide to every heart that beat with love; to every class, age, and condition.

“No one has yet named the flower,” said the wise man. “No one has pointed out the spot where it blooms in all its splendor. It is not a rose from the coffin of Romeo and Juliet, or from the grave of Walburg, though these roses will live in everlasting song. It is not one of the roses which sprouted forth from the blood-stained fame of Winkelreid. The blood which flows from the breast of a hero who dies for his country is sacred, and his memory is sweet, and no rose can be redder than the blood which flows from his veins. Neither is it the magic flower of Science, to obtain which wondrous flower a man devotes many an hour of his fresh young life in sleepless nights, in a lonely chamber.”

“I know where it blooms,” said a happy mother, who came with her lovely child to the bedside of the queen. “I know where the loveliest rose in the world is. It is seen on the blooming cheeks of my sweet child, when it expresses the pure and holy love of infancy; when refreshed by sleep it opens its eyes, and smiles upon me with childlike affection.”

“This is a lovely rose,” said the wise man; “but there is one still more lovely.”

“Yes, one far more lovely,” said one of the women. “I have seen it, and a loftier and purer rose does not bloom. But it was white, like the leaves of a blush-rose. I saw it on the cheeks of the queen. She had taken off her golden crown, and through the long, dreary night, she carried her sick child in her arms. She wept over it, kissed it, and prayed for it as only a mother can pray in that hour of her anguish.”

“Holy and wonderful in its might is the white rose of grief, but it is not the one we seek.”

“No; the loveliest rose in the world I saw at the Lord’s table,” said the good old bishop. “I saw it shine as if an angel’s face had appeared. A young maiden knelt at the altar, and renewed the vows made at her baptism; and there were white roses and red roses on the blushing cheeks of that young girl. She looked up to heaven with all the purity and love of her young spirit, in all the expression of the highest and purest love.”

“May she be blessed!” said the wise man: “but no one has yet named the loveliest rose in the world.”

Then there came into the room a child—the queen’s little son. Tears stood in his eyes, and glistened on his cheeks; he carried a great book and the binding was of velvet, with silver clasps. “Mother,” cried the little boy; “only hear what I have read.” And the child seated himself by the bedside, and read from the book of Him who suffered death on the cross to save all men, even who are yet unborn. He read, “Greater love hath no man than this,” and as he read a roseate hue spread over the cheeks of the queen, and her eyes became so enlightened and clear, that she saw from the leaves of the book a lovely rose spring forth, a type of Him who shed His blood on the cross.

“I see it,” she said. “He who beholds this, the loveliest rose on earth, shall never die.”

文章来源:安徒生童话

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