安徒生童話:The Bird of Popular Song民歌的鳥
The Bird of Popular Song
by Hans Christian Andersen（1865）
IT is winter-time. the earth wears a snowy garment， and looks like marble hewn out of the rock； the air is bright and clear； the wind is sharp as a well-tempered sword， and the trees stand like branches of white coral or blooming almond twigs， and here it is keen as on the lofty Alps.
the night is splendid in the gleam of the Northern Lights， and in the glitter of innumerable twinkling stars.
But we sit in the warm room， by the hot stove， and talk about the old times. And we listen to this story：
By the open sea was a giant's grave； and on the grave-mound sat at midnight the spirit of the buried hero， who had been a king. The golden circlet gleamed on his brow， his hair fluttered in the wind， and he was clad in steel and iron. He bent his head mournfully， and sighed in deep sorrow， as an unquiet spirit might sigh.
And a ship came sailing by. Presently the sailors lowered the anchor and landed. Among them was a singer， and he approached the royal spirit， and said，
“Why mournest thou， and wherefore dost thou suffer thus？”
And the dead man answered，
“No one has sung the deeds of my life； they are dead and forgotten. Song doth not carry them forth over the lands， nor into the hearts of men； therefore I have no rest and no peace.”
And he spoke of his works， and of his warlike deeds， which his contemporaries had known， but which had not been sung， because there was no singer among his companions.
then the old bard struck the strings of his harp， and sang of the youthful courage of the hero， of the strength of the man， and of the GREatness of his good deeds. Then the face of the dead one gleamed like the margin of the cloud in the moonlight. Gladly and of good courage， the form arose in splendor and in majesty， and vanished like the glancing of the northern light. Nought was to be seen but the green turfy mound， with the stones on which no Runic record has been graven； but at the last sound of the harp there soared over the hill， as though he had fluttered from the harp， a little bird， a charming singing-bird， with ringing voice of the thrush， with the moving voice pathos of the human heart， with a voice that told of home， like the voice that is heard by the bird of passage. The singing-bird soared away， over mountain and valley， over field and wood—he was the Bird of Popular Song， who never dies.
We hear his song—we hear it now in the room while the white bees are swarming without， and the storm clutches the windows. The bird sings not alone the requiem of heroes； he sings also sweet gentle songs of love， so many and so warm， of Northern fidelity and truth. He has stories in words and in tones； he has proverbs and snatches of proverbs； songs which， like Runes laid under a dead man's tongue， force him to speak； and thus Popular Song tells of the land of his birth.
In the old heathen days， in the times of the Vikings， the popular speech was enshrined in the harp of the bard.
In the days of knightly castles， when the strongest fist held the scales of justice， when only might was right， and a peasant and a dog were of equal importance， where did the Bird of Song find shelter and protection？ Neither violence nor stupidity gave him a thought.
But in the gabled window of the knightly castle， the lady of the castle sat with the parchment roll before her， and wrote down the old recollections in song and legend， while near her stood the old woman from the wood， and the travelling peddler who went wandering through the country. As these told their tales， there fluttered around them， with twittering and song， the Bird of Popular Song， who never dies so long as the earth has a hill upon which his foot may rest.
And now he looks in upon us and sings. Without are the night and the snow-storm. He lays the Runes beneath our tongues， and we know the land of our home. Heaven speaks to us in our native tongue， in the voice of the Bird of Popular Song. The old remembrances awake， the faded colors glow with a fresh lustre， and story and song pour us a blessed draught which lifts up our minds and our thoughts， so that the evening becomes as a Christmas festival.
the snow-flakes chase each other， the ice cracks， the storm rules without， for he has the might， he is lord—but not the LORD OF ALL.
It is winter time. the wind is sharp as a two-edged sword， the snow-flakes chase each other； it seems as though it had been snowing for days and weeks， and the snow lies like a GREat mountain over the whole town， like a heavy dream of the winter night. Everything on the earth is hidden away， only the golden cross of the church， the symbol of faith， arises over the snow grave， and gleams in the blue air and in the bright sunshine.
And over the buried town fly the birds of heaven， the small and the GREat； they twitter and they sing as best they may， each bird with his beak.
First comes the band of sparrows： they pipe at every trifle in the streets and lanes， in the nests and the houses； they have stories to tell about the front buildings and the back buildings.
“We know the buried town，” they say； “everything living in it is piep！ piep！ piep！”
the black ravens and crows flew on over the white snow.
“Grub， grub！” they cried. “There's something to be got down there； something to swallow， and that's most important. That's the opinion of most of them down there， and the opinion is goo-goo-good！”
the wild swans come flying on whirring pinions， and sing of the noble and the GREat， that will still sprout in the hearts of men， down in the town which is resting beneath its snowy veil.
No death is there—life reigns yonder； we hear it on the notes that swell onward like the tones of the church organ， which seize us like sounds from the elf-hill， like the songs of Ossian， like the rushing swoop of the wandering spirits' wings. What harmony！ That harmony speaks to our hearts， and lifts up our souls！ It is the Bird of Popular Song whom we hear.
And at this moment the warm breath of heaven blows down from the sky. There are gaps in the snowy mountains， the sun shines into the clefts； spring is coming， the birds are returning， and new races are coming with the same home sounds in their hearts.
Hear the story of the year： “The night of the snow-storm， the heavy dream of the winter night， all shall be dissolved， all shall rise again in the beauteous notes of the Bird of Popular Song， who never dies！”
那是冬季。地上覆蓋着一層雪，就像是一塊用山石鑿成的大理石似的。天高氣爽，風尖銳得像矮神1錘鍊成的匕首；一棵棵樹像白珊瑚似地立着，像繁花滿樹的杏枝。這裏清新得就和在高高的阿爾卑斯山上一樣。夜晚天上閃爍着北極光和無數眨着眼的繁星，煞是好看。
風暴起了，烏雲升起，抖散漫天的鵝絨。雪花紛紛飄落，填平了崎嶇不平的道路，蓋住了房屋，鋪滿了開闊的田野和封閉的街巷。但是我們坐在溫暖的屋子裏，坐在熊熊的火爐旁，有人在講古。我們聽到了這樣一段英雄的故事：
在寬闊的大海邊有一座巨塚，子夜時分在這座巨塚上坐着被埋在裏面的那位英雄的幽靈。他曾是一位國君，他的額上金環閃光，他的頭髮在風中飄揚。他身穿鎧甲，頭低垂着，一副愁容，像一個不幸的精靈，深深地歎息着。
接着駛來一艘船。水手們拋下錨，上了岸。他們中間有一位吟遊歌手，他朝着國王的幽靈走了過來，問道：“你爲何這樣悲傷，甚麼東西在折磨你？”
死者於是說道：“沒有人歌頌過我一生的事蹟，這事蹟便銷聲匿跡，沒有了，沒有歌將它傳頌到各國、送入人們心中。因此，我不得安寧，也不能安息。”
於是他講起了自己的所作所爲和偉大的功勳，那些他同時代人知道但沒有被人歌頌的業績，因爲那時沒有吟遊歌手。這樣老歌手撥動了豎琴的琴絃，唱起了英雄年輕時的勇敢、壯年時的力量和他善行的偉大。死者的臉因而綻出了光彩，像月光中白雲的邊緣。幽靈在明亮和光彩中升起，十分愉快幸福，然後如同一道北極光消失了，剩下的只是一座綠草覆蓋的墳塚，和一些沒有魯納2文字的墓石。不過在墳墓的上方，當琴絃發出餘音的時候，就像剛剛從豎琴絃上飛出來一樣，飛來一隻鳥- -最美麗的歌鳥。它的聲音像畫眉那樣清脆，像人心那樣充滿了活力。遠方飛回的候鳥聽着它，像是聽到了故國的歌曲。鳥兒飛過了高山，飛過了深谷，飛過原野，飛過森林，它是民歌的鳥，它永遠不會死去。
我們聽到了這個傳說。我們是在一間屋子裏聽到的，是在外面白色的蜂羣3在飛舞，風暴在肆虐的冬夜聽到的。鳥兒不僅給我們唱出英雄的業績，還唱出豐富多彩的、甜蜜而柔和的情歌，唱北歐的信仰。它的曲調中、語言中有童話；有諺語和韻文。這種諺語韻文就像是死者舌下的魯納文字一樣被唱了出來，人們於是通過民歌的鳥，認識了民歌的鳥的祖國。
在原始信仰的遠古時代，在海盜時期，它的巢是築在吟遊歌手的豎琴之上的，在騎士時代，拳頭掌握着公平、正義的天秤，權力便是正義。在農民如同狗的時代，歌鳥又到哪裏去找避身之處呢？兇殘和愚昧都不考慮它。在騎士的寨堡的窗旁，寨子的女主人在羊皮紙上把這些古老的傳說寫成歌和傳奇文字4.茅草屋的小婦人和到處遊蕩的貨郎，坐在她家的凳子上在講述着。在他們的頭上，那隻只要世上有它立足之地便永不會死的小鳥，民歌的鳥兒，扇着翅膀飛着，啾啾唱着。
現在，它在這裏面爲我們歌唱。外面是暴風雪和黑夜，它在我們的舌下襬了魯納文，我們認識了我們的祖國。上帝用民歌鳥的歌給我們講母親的語言。古老的記憶浮現了，淡去的色彩又煥然一新。傳說和民歌又溢出幸福的佳釀，使心靈和思想都陶醉了，於是這個夜晚便成了聖誕歡會。雪花飛舞，冰塊嘎吱作響，風暴肆虐。它們威力無窮，它們是主，但不是上帝。
這是冬日，風尖利得像矮鬼煉成的匕首。雪花在飄揚——我們覺得它飛舞了好多天好幾個星期了，變爲一座巨大的雪山蓋住了這個城，它是冬夜一個沉重的夢。地上的一切全都被掩蓋住了，只有教堂上的金十字架——信仰的象徵，兀立在雪墓之上，在藍色的天空中，在明媚的陽光中閃光。
被掩埋的城市上空飛翔着太空的鳥兒，有的小，有的大。它們啾啾地叫着，每個鳥兒都張開嘴盡情地唱着。
先飛來的是一羣麻雀，它們唱的是街頭巷尾、巢裏屋中的小事；它們知道前屋後屋裏的一切故事。“我們知道那被埋掉的城市。”它們說道。“裏面有生命的東西都在啾！啾！啾！”大黑渡鴉和烏鴉飛過白雪。“呱！呱！”它們叫喊着。“下面還可以找到東西，還有可以吃的殘剩東西，這是最重要的。這是下面大多數的意見，這意見頂呱呱，頂呱呱，頂呱呱！”野天鵝颼颼地拍着翅膀飛過，歌唱着雪層下安息着的城市裏的人們的思想和靈魂仍在萌發的高尚和偉大的情操。那裏沒有死亡，生命仍存在着。從教堂風琴發出的樂音中我們感受到這些。這樂音像是從妖山5傳來的聲音，是奧西揚式6的歌，是瓦爾庫7那颼颼的翅膀的搏擊聲。何等和諧的聲是民歌的鳥兒的歌聲，就在這一瞬間：上帝溫暖的呼吸從上面撲來，雪山裂開了，陽光照到了裏面。春天來了，飛鳥來了，來了新的後裔，帶着同樣的故鄉之歌回來了。聽一聽這一年的英雄頌歌吧！暴風雪的狂威，冬夜短暫的夢！一切都融化了，一切都在永不死亡的民歌的鳥的美妙的歌聲中昇華。
1以前北歐人迷信，說山野間有精靈矮鬼，他們都是極能幹的鐵匠，打出的刀銳利萬分。
2丹麥遠古時代的習俗，在死者的舌下要放一塊刻有魯納文的小石片，死者可不朽。
3指雪花。這是安徒生很喜歡用的詞。
4北歐的許多古詩文都是由婦女記在羊皮上的。
5指海貝的浪漫劇《妖山》。
6詹姆斯·瑪克弗爾遜（1736-1796）改編了中世紀高盧詩人奧西揚（生活在13世紀）的詩作。
7指奧·布農維的芭蕾舞《瓦爾庫》。
