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安徒生童話故事第140篇：創(chuàng)造What One Can Invent
引導語：創(chuàng)造是指將兩個或兩個以上概念或事物按一定方式聯(lián)系起來,以達到某種目的的行為。下面是小編整理的著名作家安徒生童話選其中之一作品《創(chuàng)造》童話故事，歡迎大家閱讀!
從前有一個年輕人，他研究怎樣做一個詩人。他想在復活節(jié)就成為一個詩人，而且要討一個太太，靠寫詩來生活。他知道，寫詩不過是一種創(chuàng)造，而他卻不會創(chuàng)造。他出生得太遲;在他沒有來到這個世界以前，一切東西已經(jīng)被人創(chuàng)造出來了，一切東西已經(jīng)被作成了詩，寫出來了。
“一千年以前出生的人啊，你們真是幸福!”他說。“他們?nèi)菀壮蔀椴恍嗟娜?即使在幾百年以前出生的人，也是幸福的，因為那時他們還可以有些東西寫成詩。現(xiàn)在全世界的詩都寫完了，我還有什么詩可寫呢?”
他研究這個問題，結(jié)果他病起來了。可憐的人!沒有什么醫(yī)生可以治他的病!也許巫婆能夠治吧!她住在草場入口旁邊的一個小屋子里。她專為那些騎馬和坐車的人開草場的門。她能開的東西還不只門呢。她比醫(yī)生還要聰明，因為醫(yī)生只會趕自己的車子和交付他的所得稅。
“我非去拜訪她一下不可!”這位年輕人說。
她所住的房子是既小巧，又干凈，可是樣子很可怕。這兒既沒有樹，也沒有花;門口只有一窩蜜蜂，很有用!還有一小塊種馬鈴薯的地，也很有用!還有一條溝，旁邊有一個野李樹叢——已經(jīng)開過了花，現(xiàn)在正在結(jié)果，而這些果子在沒有下霜以前，只要你嘗一下，就可以把你的嘴酸得張不開。
“我在這兒所看到的，正是我們這個毫無詩意的時代的一幅圖畫!”年輕人想。這個在巫婆門口所起的感想可以說是像一粒金子。
“把它寫下來吧!”她說。“面包屑也是面包呀!我知道你為什么要到這兒來。你的文思干涸，而你卻想在復活節(jié)成為一個詩人!”
“一切東西早已被人寫完了!”他說，“我們這個時代并不是古代呀!”
“不對!”巫婆說，“古時巫婆總是被人燒死，而詩人總是餓著肚皮，衣袖總是磨穿了洞。現(xiàn)在是一個很好的時代，它是最好的時代!不過你看事情總是不對頭。你的聽覺不銳敏，你在晚上也不念《主禱文》。這里有各色各樣的東西可以寫成詩，講成故事，如果你會講的話，你可以從大地的植物和收獲中汲取題材，你可以從死水和活水中汲取題材，不過你必須了解怎樣攝取陽光。現(xiàn)在請你把我的眼鏡戴上、把我的聽筒安上吧，同時還請你對上帝祈禱，不要老想著你自己吧!”
最后的這件事情最困難，一個巫婆不應該作這樣的要求。
他拿著眼鏡和聽筒;他被領(lǐng)到一塊種滿了馬鈴薯的地里去。她給他一個大馬鈴薯捏著。它里面發(fā)出聲音來，它唱出一支歌來：有趣的馬鈴薯之歌——一個分做十段的日常故事;十行就夠了。
馬鈴薯到底唱的什么呢?
它歌唱它自己和它的家族：馬鈴薯是怎樣到歐洲來的，在它還沒有被人承認比一塊金子還貴重以前，它們遭遇到了一些什么不幸。
“朝廷命令各城的市政府把我們分配出去。我們有極大的重要性，這在通令上都說明了，不過老百姓還是不相信;他們甚至還不懂怎樣來栽種我們。有人挖了一個洞，把整斗的馬鈴薯都倒進里面去;有人在這兒埋一個，在那兒埋一個，等待每一個長出一棵樹，然后再從上面搖下馬鈴薯來。人們以為馬鈴薯會生長，開花，結(jié)出水汪汪的果子;但是它卻萎謝了。誰也沒有想到它的根底下長出的東西——人類的幸福：馬鈴薯。是的，我們經(jīng)驗過生活，受過苦——這當然是指我們的祖先。它們跟我們都是一樣!多么了不起的歷史啊!”
“好，夠了!”巫婆說。“請看看這個野李樹叢吧!”
野李樹說：“在馬鈴薯的故鄉(xiāng)，從它們生長的地方更向北一點，我們也有很近的親族。北歐人從挪威到那兒去。他們乘船在霧和風暴中向西開，開向一個不知名的國度里去。在那兒的冰雪下面，他們發(fā)現(xiàn)了植物和蔬菜，結(jié)著像葡萄一樣藍的漿果的灌木叢——野李子。像我們一樣，這些果子也是經(jīng)過霜打以后才成熟的。這個國度叫做‘酒之國’‘綠國’①‘野梅國’!”
“這倒是一個很離奇的故事!”年輕人說。
“對。跟我一道來吧!”巫婆說，同時把他領(lǐng)到蜜蜂窩那兒去。他朝里面看。多么活躍的生活啊!蜂窩所有的走廊上都有蜜蜂;它們拍著翅膀，好使這個大工廠里有新鮮空氣流動：這是它們的任務。現(xiàn)在有許多蜜蜂從外面進來;它們生來腿上就有一個籃子。它們運回花粉。這些花粉被篩好和整理一番后，就被做成蜂蜜和蠟。它們飛出飛進。那位蜂后也想飛，但是大家必得跟著她一道。這種時候還沒有到來，但是她仍然想要飛，因此大家就把這位女皇的翅膀咬斷了;她也只好呆下來。
“現(xiàn)在請你到溝沿上來吧!”巫婆說。“請來看看這條公路上的人!”
“多大的一堆人啊!”年輕人說。“一個故事接著一個故事!
故事在鬧哄哄地響著!我真有些頭昏!我要回去了!”
“不成，向前走吧，”女人說，“徑直走到人群中去，用你的眼睛去看，用你的耳朵去聽，用你的心去想吧!這樣你才可以創(chuàng)造出東西來!不過在你沒有去以前，請把我的眼鏡和聽筒還給我吧!”于是她就把這兩件東西要回去了。
“現(xiàn)在我最普通的東西也聽不見了!”年輕人說，“現(xiàn)在我什么也聽不見了!”
“唔，那么在復活節(jié)以前你就不能成為一個詩人了。”巫婆說。
“那么在什么時候呢?”他問。
“既不在復活節(jié)，也不在圣靈降臨周!你學不會創(chuàng)造任何東西的。”
“那么我將做什么呢?我將怎樣靠詩來吃飯呢?”
“這個你在四旬節(jié)以前就可以做到了!你可以一棒子把詩人打垮!打擊他們的作品跟打擊他們的身體是一樣的。但是你自己不要害怕，勇敢地去打擊吧，這樣你才可以得到湯團吃，養(yǎng)活你的老婆和你自己!”
“一個人能創(chuàng)造的東西真多!”年輕人說。于是他就去打擊每個別的詩人，因為他自己不能成為一個詩人。
這個故事我們是從那個巫婆那里聽來的;她知道一個人能創(chuàng)造出什么東西。
①指格陵蘭。這個島在丹麥文里叫“綠國”(Groanland)。
《創(chuàng)造》英文版：
What One Can Invent
THERE was once a young man who was studying to be a poet. He wanted to become one by Easter, and to marry, and to live by poetry. To write poems, he knew, only consists in being able to invent something; but he could not invent anything. He had been born too late—everything had been taken up before he came into the world, and everything had been written and told about.
“Happy people who were born a thousand years ago!” said he. “It was an easy matter for them to become immortal. Happy even was he who was born a hundred years ago, for then there was still something about which a poem could be written. Now the world is written out, and what can I write poetry about?”
Then he studied till he became ill and wretched, the wretched man! No doctor could help him, but perhaps the wise woman could. She lived in the little house by the wayside, where the gate is that she opened for those who rode and drove. But she could do more than unlock the gate. She was wiser than the doctor who drives in his own carriage and pays tax for his rank.
“I must go to her,” said the young man.
The house in which she dwelt was small and neat, but dreary to behold, for there were no flowers near it—no trees. By the door stood a bee-hive, which was very useful. There was also a little potato-field, very useful, and an earth bank, with sloe bushes upon it, which had done blossoming, and now bore fruit, sloes, that draw one’s mouth together if one tastes them before the frost has touched them.
“That’s a true picture of our poetryless time, that I see before me now,” thought the young man; and that was at least a thought, a grain of gold that he found by the door of the wise woman.
“Write that down!” said she. “Even crumbs are bread. I know why you come hither. You cannot invent anything, and yet you want to be a poet by Easter.”
“Everything has been written down,” said he. “Our time is not the old time.”
“No,” said the woman. “In the old time wise women were burnt, and poets went about with empty stomachs, and very much out at elbows. The present time is good, it is the best of times; but you have not the right way of looking at it. Your ear is not sharpened to hear, and I fancy you do not say the Lord’s Prayer in the evening. There is plenty here to write poems about, and to tell of, for any one who knows the way. You can read it in the fruits of the earth, you can draw it from the flowing and the standing water; but you must understand how—you must understand how to catch a sunbeam. Now just you try my spectacles on, and put my ear-trumpet to your ear, and then pray to God, and leave off thinking of yourself”
The last was a very difficult thing to do—more than a wise woman ought to ask.
He received the spectacles and the ear-trumpet, and was posted in the middle of the potato-field. She put a great potato into his hand. Sounds came from within it; there came a song with words, the history of the potato, an every-day story in ten parts, an interesting story. And ten lines were enough to tell it in.
And what did the potato sing?
She sang of herself and of her family, of the arrival of the potato in Europe, of the misrepresentation to which she had been exposed before she was acknowledged, as she is now, to be a greater treasure than a lump of gold.
“We were distributed, by the King’s command, from the council-houses through the various towns, and proclamation was made of our great value; but no one believed in it, or even understood how to plant us. One man dug a hole in the earth and threw in his whole bushel of potatoes; another put one potato here and another there in the ground, and expected that each was to come up a perfect tree, from which he might shake down potatoes. And they certainly grew, and produced flowers and green watery fruit, but it all withered away. Nobody thought of what was in the ground—the blessing—the potato. Yes, we have endured and suffered, that is to say, our forefathers have; they and we, it is all one.”
What a story it was!
“Well, and that will do,” said the woman. “Now look at the sloe bush.”
“We have also some near relations in the home of the potatoes, but higher towards the north than they grew,” said the Sloes. “There were Northmen, from Norway, who steered westward through mist and storm to an unknown land, where, behind ice and snow, they found plants and green meadows, and bushes with blue-black grapes—sloe bushes. The grapes were ripened by the frost just as we are. And they called the land ‘wine-land,’ that is, ‘Groenland,’ or ‘Sloeland.’”
“That is quite a romantic story,” said the young man.
“Yes, certainly. But now come with me,” said the wise woman, and she led him to the bee-hive.
He looked into it. What life and labor! There were bees standing in all the passages, waving their wings, so that a wholesome draught of air might blow through the great manufactory; that was their business. Then there came in bees from without, who had been born with little baskets on their feet; they brought flower-dust, which was poured out, sorted, and manufactured into honey and wax. They flew in and out. The queen-bee wanted to fly out, but then all the other bees must have gone with her. It was not yet the time for that, but still she wanted to fly out; so the others bit off her majesty’s wings, and she had to stay where she was.
“Now get upon the earth bank,” said the wise woman. “Come and look out over the highway, where you can see the people.”
“What a crowd it is!” said the young man. “One story after another. It whirls and whirls! It’s quite a confusion before my eyes. I shall go out at the back.”
“No, go straight forward,” said the woman. “Go straight into the crowd of people; look at them in the right way. Have an ear to hear and the right heart to feel, and you will soon invent something. But, before you go away, you must give me my spectacles and my ear-trumpet again.”
And so saying, she took both from him.
“Now I do not see the smallest thing,” said the young man, “and now I don’t hear anything more.”
“Why, then, you can’t be a poet by Easter,” said the wise woman.
“But, by what time can I be one?” asked he.
“Neither by Easter nor by Whitsuntide! You will not learn how to invent anything.”
“What must I do to earn my bread by poetry?”
“You can do that before Shrove Tuesday. Hunt the poets! Kill their writings and thus you will kill them. Don’t be put out of countenance. Strike at them boldly, and you’ll have carnival cake, on which you can support yourself and your wife too.”
“What one can invent!” cried the young man. And so he hit out boldly at every second poet, because he could not be a poet himself.
We have it from the wise woman. She knows WHAT ONE CAN INVENT.
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