the rose tree
around the garden ran a hedge of hazels；beyondthis hedge lay fields and meadows，with cows and sheep；but in the midst of the garden stood a blooming rose
tree；and under it lived a snail，who had a good deal inhis shell-namely，himself．
"wait till my time comes！"he said：" i shall dosomething more that produce roses and bear nuts；or givemilk，like the cows and the sheep！"
"i expect a great deal of you"，said the rose tree．"but may i ask when it will appear？"
"i take my time．"replied the snail．"you are al-ways in such a hurry．you don't rouse people's interestby suspense．"
next year the snail lay almost in the same spot, inthe sunshine under the rose tree，which again bore budsthat bloomed into roses，always fresh，always new．andthe snail crept half-way out，put out its horns and thendrew them in again．
"everything looks just like last year．there has beenno progress．the rose tree sticks to roses；it gets no far-ther．"
the summer passed，the autumn came；the rose tree had always flowers and buds，until the snow fell andthe weather became raw and cold； then the rose treebowed its head and the snail crept into the ground．
a new year began； and the roses came out， and thesnail came out also．
"you're an old rose tree now！" said the snail．"you must make haste and come to an end， for you havegiven the world all that was in you： whether it was of anyuse is a question that i have had no time to consider；butso much is clear and plain，that you have done notinng atall for your own development，or you would have producedsomething else．how can you answer for that？in a littletime you will be nothing at all but a stick．do you under-stand what i say？"
"you alarm me！"replied the rose tree．"i neverthought of that at all．"
"no，you have not taken the trouble to consider anything．have you ever given an account to yourself， why you bloomed， and how it is that your blooming comesabout-why it is thus， and not otherwise．"
"no，"answered the rose tree．"i bloomed in glad-ness，because i could not do anything else the sun was so warm，and the air so refreshing．i drank the pure dewand the fresh rain，and i lived，i breathed．out of theearth there arose a power within me，from above there came down a strength：i perceived a new ever-increasinghappiness，and consequently i was obliged to bloom overand over again； that was my life； i could not do other-wise．
"you have led a very pleasant life，"observed the snail．
"certainly．everything was given to me，"said the rose tree．"but more still was given to you．you are oneof those deep thoughtful characters，one of those highlygifted spirits，which will cause the world to marvel．"
"i've no intention of doing anything of the hind，"cried the snail．"the world is nothing to me．what havei to do with the world？i have enough of myself and in myself．"
"but must we not all，here on earth， give to othersthe best that we have，and offer what lies in our power？certainly i have only given roses．but you—you who havebeen so richly gifted—what have you given to the world？what do you intend to give？
"what have i given—what do i intend to give？i spit at it．it's worth nothing．it's no business of mine．continue to give your roses， if you like：you can't doanything better．let the hazel bush bear nuts，and thecows and ewes give milk：they have their public；but ihave nine within myselr—i retire within myself，and there i remain．the world is nothing to me．"
and so ths snail retired into his house，and closed up the entrance after him．
"that is very sad！"said the rose tree．"i cannotcreep into myself，even if i wish it —i must continue to produce roses．they drop their leaves，and are blown away by the wind but i saw how a rose was laid in the matron's hymn-book，and one of roses had a place on the bosom of a fair young girl，and another was kissed by the lips of a child in the full joy of life．that did me good；it was a real blessing．that's my remembrance—my life！"
and the rose tree went on blooming in innocence， while the snail lay idly in his house—the world did not concern him．
and rolled by．
the snail had become dust in the dust and the rose tree was earth in the earth；the rose of remembrance in the hymn-book was faded，but in the garden bloomed fresh rose trees，in the garden grew new snails； and these still crept into their houses，and spat at the world，for it did not con- cern them．
suppose we begin the story again，and read it right through．it will never alter．
蜗牛和玫瑰树
在一个花园的周围，有一排榛树编的篱笆。篱笆的外面是田地和草场，上面有许多母牛和羊。不过在花园的中央有一株开着花的玫瑰树。树底下住着一只蜗牛。他的壳里面有一大堆东西——那就是他自己。
“等着，到时候看吧！”他说。“我将不止开几次花，或结几个果子，或者像牛和羊一样，产出一点儿奶。”
“我等着瞧你的东西倒是不少哩！”玫瑰树说。“我能不能问你一下，你的话什么时候能够兑现呢？”
“我心里自然有数，”蜗牛说。“你老是那么急！一急就把我弄得紧张起来了。”
到了第二年，蜗牛仍然躺在原来的地方，在玫瑰树下面晒太阳。玫瑰树倒是冒出了花苞，开出了那永远新鲜的花朵。
蜗牛伸出一半身子。把触角探了一下，接着就又缩回去了。
一切东西跟去年完全一样！没有任何进展。玫瑰树仍然开着玫瑰花；他没有向前迈一步！
夏天过去了，秋天来了。玫瑰树老是开着花，冒出花苞，一直到雪花飘下来，天气变得阴森和寒冷为止。这时玫瑰树就向地下垂着头，蜗牛也钻进土里去。
新的一年又开始了。玫瑰花开出来了，蜗牛也爬出来了。
“你现在成了一株老玫瑰树了！”蜗牛说。“你应该早点准备寿终正寝了，你所能拿出的东西全都拿出来了；这些东西究竟有什么用处，是一个问题。我现在也没有时间来考虑。不过有一点是很清楚的：你没有对你个人的发展做过任何努力，否则你倒很可能产生出一点别的像样的东西呢。你能回答这问题吗？你很快就会只剩下一根光杆了！你懂得我的意思吗？”
“你简直吓死我！”玫瑰树说。“我从来没有想到过这一点。”
“是的，你从来不费点脑筋来考虑问题。你可曾研究一下，你为什么要开花，你的花是怎样开出来的——为什么是这样，而不是别样吗？”
“没有，”玫瑰树说。“我在欢乐中开花，因为我非开不可。太阳是那么温暖，空气是那么清爽。我喝着纯洁的露水和大滴的雨点。我呼吸着，我生活着！我从土中得到力量，从高空吸取精气；我感到一种快乐在不停地增长；结果我就不得不开花，开完了又开。这是我的生活，我没有别的办法！”
“你倒是过着非常轻快的日子啦，”蜗牛说。
“一点也不错。我什么都有！”玫瑰树说。“不过你得到的东西更多！你是那种富于深思的人物，那种得天独厚的、使整个世界惊奇的人物。”
“我从来没有想到这类事儿，”蜗牛说。“世界不关心我！我跟世界又有什么关系呢？我自己和我身体里所有的东西已经足够了。”
“不过，在这个世界上，难道我们不应该把我们最好的东西，把我们的能力所能办得到的东西都拿出来么？当然，我只能拿出玫瑰花来。可是你？……你是那么得天独厚，你拿出什么东西给这世界呢？你打算拿出什么东西来呢？”
“我拿出什么东西呢？拿出什么东西？我对世界吐一口唾沫！世界一点用也没有，它和我没有什么关系。你拿出你的玫瑰花来吧，你做不出什么别的事情来！让榛树结出果子吧，让牛和羊产出奶吧；他们各有各的群众，但是我身体里也有我的群众！我缩到我身体里去，我住在那儿。世界和我没有什么关系！”
蜗牛就这样缩进他的屋子里去了，同时把门带上。
“这真是可悲！”玫瑰树说。“即使我愿意，我也缩不进我的身体里面去——我得不停地开着花，开出玫瑰花。花瓣落下来，在风里飞翔！虽然如此，我还看到一朵玫瑰夹在一位主妇的圣诗集里，我自己也有一朵玫瑰被藏在一个美丽年轻的女子的怀里，另一朵被一个充满了快乐的孩子拿去用嘴唇吻。我觉得真舒服，这是真正的幸福。这就是我的回忆——我的生活！”
于是玫瑰老是天真地开着花，而那只蜗牛则懒散地呆在他的屋子里。世界和他没有什么关系。
许多年过去了。
蜗牛成了尘土中的尘土，玫瑰树也成了泥巴中的泥巴。那本圣诗集里作为纪念的玫瑰也枯萎了；可是花园里又开出新的玫瑰花来；花园里又爬出新的蜗牛来。这些蜗牛钻进他们的屋子里去，吐出唾沫，这个世界跟他们没有什么关系。
我们要不要把这故事从头再读一遍？……它决不会有什么两样。
这篇小故事发表于1862年在哥本哈根出版的《新的童话和故事集》第2卷第2部里。它是作者1861年5月在罗马写成的。据说故事的思想来源于安徒生个人的经验。这里的玫瑰树可能就代表他自己——创作家，而蜗牛则影射评论家——他们不创作，但会发表一些深奥的、作哲学状的议论，如：“你为什么要开花，你的花是怎样开出来的——为什么是这样，而不是别样呢？”安徒生在意大利旅行的时候，收到一封从丹麦寄来的信，拆开一看，里面是一份批评他的作品的剪报。