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。地上覆盖着一层雪，就像是一块用山石凿成的大理石似的。天高气爽，风尖锐得像矮神1锤炼成的匕首；一棵棵树像白珊瑚似地立着，像繁花满树的杏枝。这里清新得就和在高高的阿尔卑斯山上一样。夜晚天上闪烁着北极光和无数眨着眼的繁星，煞是好看。

　　风暴起了，乌云升起，抖散漫天的鹅绒。雪花纷纷飘落，填平了崎岖不平的道路，盖住了房屋，铺满了开阔的田野和封闭的街巷。但是我们坐在温暖的屋子里，坐在熊熊的火炉旁，有人在讲古。我们听到了这样一段英雄的故事：

　　在宽阔的大海边有一座巨塚，子夜时分在这座巨塚上坐着被埋在里面的那位英雄的幽灵。他曾是一位国君，他的额上金环闪光，他的头发在风中飘扬。他身穿铠甲，头低垂着，一副愁容，像一个不幸的精灵，深深地歎息着。

　　接着驶来一艘船。水手们抛下锚，上了岸。他们中间有一位吟游歌手，他朝着国王的幽灵走了过来，问道：“你为何这样悲伤，甚么东西在折磨你？”

　　死者於是说道：“没有人歌颂过我一生的事迹，这事迹便销声匿迹，没有了，没有歌将它传颂到各国、送入人们心中。因此，我不得安宁，也不能安息。”

　　於是他讲起了自己的所作所为和伟大的功勳，那些他同时代人知道但没有被人歌颂的业绩，因为那时没有吟游歌手。这样老歌手拨动了竖琴的琴弦，唱起了英雄年轻时的勇敢、壮年时的力量和他善行的伟大。死者的脸因而绽出了光彩，像月光中白云的边缘。幽灵在明亮和光彩中升起，十分愉快幸福，然后如同一道北极光消失了，剩下的只是一座绿草覆盖的坟塚，和一些没有鲁纳2文字的墓石。不过在坟墓的上方，当琴弦发出余音的时候，就像刚刚从竖琴弦上飞出来一样，飞来一只鸟- -最美丽的歌鸟。它的声音像画眉那样清脆，像人心那样充满了活力。远方飞回的候鸟听着它，像是听到了故国的歌曲。鸟儿飞过了高山，飞过了深谷，飞过原野，飞过森林，它是民歌的鸟，它永远不会死去。

　　我们听到了这个传说。我们是在一间屋子里听到的，是在外面白色的蜂群3在飞舞，风暴在肆虐的冬夜听到的。鸟儿不仅给我们唱出英雄的业绩，还唱出丰富多彩的、甜蜜而柔和的情歌，唱北欧的信仰。它的曲调中、语言中有童话；有谚语和韵文。这种谚语韵文就像是死者舌下的鲁纳文字一样被唱了出来，人们於是通过民歌的鸟，认识了民歌的鸟的祖国。

　　在原始信仰的远古时代，在海盗时期，它的巢是筑在吟游歌手的竖琴之上的，在骑士时代，拳头掌握着公平、正义的天秤，权力便是正义。在农民如同狗的时代，歌鸟又到哪里去找避身之处呢？凶残和愚昧都不考虑它。在骑士的寨堡的窗旁，寨子的女主人在羊皮纸上把这些古老的传说写成歌和传奇文字4.茅草屋的小妇人和到处游荡的货郎，坐在她家的凳子上在讲述着。在他们的头上，那只只要世上有它立足之地便永不会死的小鸟，民歌的鸟儿，扇着翅膀飞着，啾啾唱着。

　　现在，它在这里面为我们歌唱。外面是暴风雪和黑夜，它在我们的舌下摆了鲁纳文，我们认识了我们的祖国。上帝用民歌鸟的歌给我们讲母亲的语言。古老的记忆浮现了，淡去的色彩又焕然一新。传说和民歌又溢出幸福的佳酿，使心灵和思想都陶醉了，於是这个夜晚便成了圣诞欢会。雪花飞舞，冰块嘎吱作响，风暴肆虐。它们威力无穷，它们是主，但不是上帝。

　　这是冬日，风尖利得像矮鬼炼成的匕首。雪花在飘扬——我们觉得它飞舞了好多天好几个星期了，变为一座巨大的雪山盖住了这个城，它是冬夜一个沉重的梦。地上的一切全都被掩盖住了，只有教堂上的金十字架——信仰的象徵，兀立在雪墓之上，在蓝色的天空中，在明媚的阳光中闪光。

　　被掩埋的城市上空飞翔着太空的鸟儿，有的小，有的大。它们啾啾地叫着，每个鸟儿都张开嘴尽情地唱着。

　　先飞来的是一群麻雀，它们唱的是街头巷尾、巢里屋中的小事；它们知道前屋后屋里的一切故事。“我们知道那被埋掉的城市。”它们说道。“里面有生命的东西都在啾！啾！啾！”大黑渡鸦和乌鸦飞过白雪。“呱！呱！”它们叫喊着。“下面还可以找到东西，还有可以吃的残剩东西，这是最重要的。这是下面大多数的意见，这意见顶呱呱，顶呱呱，顶呱呱！”野天鹅飕飕地拍着翅膀飞过，歌唱着雪层下安息着的城市里的人们的思想和灵魂仍在萌发的高尚和伟大的情操。那里没有死亡，生命仍存在着。从教堂风琴发出的乐音中我们感受到这些。这乐音像是从妖山5传来的声音，是奥西扬式6的歌，是瓦尔库7那飕飕的翅膀的搏击声。何等和谐的声是民歌的鸟儿的歌声，就在这一瞬间：上帝温暖的呼吸从上面扑来，雪山裂开了，阳光照到了里面。春天来了，飞鸟来了，来了新的后裔，带着同样的故乡之歌回来了。听一听这一年的英雄颂歌吧！暴风雪的狂威，冬夜短暂的梦！一切都融化了，一切都在永不死亡的民歌的鸟的美妙的歌声中昇华。

　　1以前北欧人迷信，说山野间有精灵矮鬼，他们都是极能干的铁匠，打出的刀锐利万分。

　　2丹麦远古时代的习俗，在死者的舌下要放一块刻有鲁纳文的小石片，死者可不朽。

　　3指雪花。这是安徒生很喜欢用的词。

　　4北欧的许多古诗文都是由妇女记在羊皮上的。

　　5指海贝的浪漫剧《妖山》。

　　6詹姆斯·玛克弗尔逊（1736-1796）改编了中世纪高卢诗人奥西扬（生活在13世纪）的诗作。

　　7指奥·布农维的芭蕾舞《瓦尔库》。