安徒生童話故事第40篇：城堡上的一幅畫(huà)The Sunbeam and the Capt
引導(dǎo)語(yǔ)：關(guān)于城堡上的一幅畫(huà)的安徒生童話故事，與大家分享閱讀學(xué)習(xí)。
這是秋天，我們站在城堡上，望著海上的許多船只和對(duì)面遠(yuǎn)處在晚霞中隆起的瑞典的海岸線。在我們后面，城壘陡峭地向下傾斜。這兒有許多美麗的古樹(shù)，它們枯黃的葉子正在從枝子上蕭蕭往下落。再下面就是木柵欄圍著的凄涼的房子。這些房子的'內(nèi)部——哨兵在這兒巡邏——是既狹窄而又陰慘。不過(guò)最陰慘的是鐵欄桿后面的那個(gè)黑洞，因?yàn)樵谶@兒坐著許多囚徒——罪行最重的犯人。
落日的一絲光線射進(jìn)一個(gè)囚犯的小室里來(lái)。太陽(yáng)是不分善惡，什么東西都照的!那個(gè)陰沉的、兇惡的囚犯對(duì)這絲寒冷的光線狠狠地看了一眼。一只小鳥(niǎo)向鐵窗飛來(lái)。鳥(niǎo)兒向惡人歌唱，也向好人歌唱!它唱出簡(jiǎn)單的調(diào)子：“滴麗!滴麗!”不過(guò)它停下來(lái)，拍著翅膀，啄下一根羽毛，使它脖子上的羽毛都直立起來(lái)。這個(gè)戴著腳鐐的壞人望著它，于是他兇惡的臉上露出一種溫柔的表情。一個(gè)思想——一個(gè)他自己還不能正確地加以分析的思想——在他的心里浮起來(lái)了。這思想跟從鐵窗里射進(jìn)來(lái)的太陽(yáng)光有關(guān)，跟外面盛開(kāi)的那幾棵春天的紫羅蘭的香氣有關(guān)。這時(shí)獵人吹起一陣輕快而柔和的號(hào)角聲。那只小鳥(niǎo)從這囚徒的鐵窗飛走了;太陽(yáng)光也消逝了;小室里又是一片漆黑;這個(gè)壞人的心里也是一片漆黑。但是太陽(yáng)光曾經(jīng)射進(jìn)他的心里，小鳥(niǎo)的歌聲也曾經(jīng)透進(jìn)去。
美麗的狩獵號(hào)角聲呵，繼續(xù)吹吧!黃昏是溫柔的，海水是干靜的，一點(diǎn)風(fēng)也沒(méi)有。
城堡上的一幅畫(huà)英文版：
The Sunbeam and the Captive
IT is autumn. We stand on the ramparts, and look out over the sea. We look at the numerous ships, and at the Swedish coast on the opposite side of the sound, rising far above the surface of the waters which mirror the glow of the evening sky. Behind us the wood is sharply defined; mighty trees surround us, and the yellow leaves flutter down from the branches. Below, at the foot of the wall, stands a gloomy looking building enclosed in palisades. The space between is dark and narrow, but still more dismal must it be behind the iron gratings in the wall which cover the narrow loopholes or windows, for in these dungeons the most depraved of the criminals are confined. A ray of the setting sun shoots into the bare cells of one of the captives, for God’s sun shines upon the evil and the good. The hardened criminal casts an impatient look at the bright ray. Then a little bird flies towards the grating, for birds twitter to the just as well as to the unjust. He only cries, “Tweet, tweet,” and then perches himself near the grating, flutters his wings, pecks a feather from one of them, puffs himself out, and sets his feathers on end round his breast and throat. The bad, chained man looks at him, and a more gentle expression comes into his hard face. In his breast there rises a thought which he himself cannot rightly analyze, but the thought has some connection with the sunbeam, with the bird, and with the scent of violets, which grow luxuriantly in spring at the foot of the wall. Then there comes the sound of the hunter’s horn, merry and full. The little bird starts, and flies away, the sunbeam gradually vanishes, and again there is darkness in the room and in the heart of that bad man. Still the sun has shone into that heart, and the twittering of the bird has touched it.
Sound on, ye glorious strains of the hunter’s horn; continue your stirring tones, for the evening is mild, and the surface of the sea, heaving slowly and calmly, is smooth as a mirror.
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