La Helikso ay la Rozarbo
verkita de Hans Christian Andersen
tradukita de He Yafu
Cirkum la gardeno etendisin hejo el hazelarbedos; ekster la hejo esin kampos ay graseyos kum bovinos ay xafos; sed ce la mido de la gardeno starin floranta rozarbo, sub kiu sidin helikso, kius xelo enhavin multo -- nome, la helikso self.
¡¡"Nur atendez til mia horo alvenon," hi dirin; "mi faron mor ol kreskizi rozos, naski nutos, or doni lakto, az la hazelarbedo, la bovinos ay la xafos."
"Mi ekspektan multo de yi," dirin la rozarbo. "cu mi raytan aski, kiam ji aperon?"
"Mi ne hastan," dirin la helikso. "Ciam yi insistan hasti. Tio ne ekscitan ekspekto."
La sekwanta yero la helikso kuxin en preske la sama loko, en la sunlumo sub la rozarbo, kiu denove burjenin ay naskin rozos same az frexa ay bela az antawe. La helikso bione rampin el sia xelo, etendin sia hornos, ay denove entirin ju.
"Cio esan tute same az pasintyere! Niom da progreso; la rozarbo ankore donan rozos, ay ne iran plu."
La somero ay la awtuno pasin; la rozarbo naskin rozos ay jermos til la nivo ekfalin ay la wetero farisin frosta ay weta; tiam ji klinin sia hedo, ay la helikso rampin alen la tero.
Nova yero ekisin; la rozos aperin, ay anke la helikso.
"Yi yam esan disyuna rozarbo," dirin la helikso. "Yi devan hasti ay morti. Yi yam donin al la mondo cio, kio yi havin en yi; cu tio multe gravin, esan asko, kiu mi mankan la tempo pripensi. Sed tiom esan klara ay evidenta, ke yi farin nio por yia interna developo, or yi esuz produkinta io alia. Cu yi volan diri io por defendi yi? Yi balde eson nio krom kano. Cu yi komprenan mi?"
"Yi timizan mi," dirin la rozarbo. "Mi niam pensin pri tio."
"Ne, yi niam strebin pensi pri io ayn. Cu yi iam dirin al yi self, kial yi florin, ay kiel yia florado okazan -- kial juste tiel ay ne aliel?"
¡¡"Ne," dirin la rozarbo. "Mi floran joyante, car mi ne povan aliel fari. La suno brilin ay warmizin mi, ay la aero frexizin mi; mi trinkin la klara roso ay la vigliza pluvo. Mi spirin ay mi vivin! El la tero levisin potenco en mi, dum anke desupre mi ricevin strongeco; mi sentin ciam novisanta ay ciam kreskanta felico, ay tial mi devin plu flori. Tia esin mia vivo; mi ne povin fari aliel."
¡¡"Yi enjoyin tre facila vivo," la helikso rimarkin.
"Certe. Cio esan donita al mi," dirin la rozarbo. "Sed ankore mor esan donita al yi. Yias esan un el tiu profunde pensanta animos, un el tiu vere donita mensos, kiu mirizan la mondo."
¡¡"Mi tute ne intendan fari tio," dirin la helikso, "La mondo esan nio por mi. Kiel mi rilatan al la mondo? Mi havan sufico por fari pri mi ay en mi."
"Sed cu mu ci tie sur la tero ne devan doni mua most guda partos al la alia, ay proponi tiom, kiom mu povan? Verdire, mi donin nur rozos. Sed yi --yi, tiom rice donita -- kio yi donin al la mondo? Kio yi donon al ji?"
¡¡"Kio mi donin? Kio mi donon? Mi sputan al ji; Ji valuan nio, ay ne koncernan mi. Law mi, yi plu naskez rozos; yi povon fari nio alia. La hazelarbedo naskez nutos, ay la bovinos ay xafos donez lakto; lu havan sia publiko. Mi havan mias en mi self. Mi ritirin en mi ay tie mi haltan. La mondo esan nio por mi."
Dirinte tio la helikso ritirin alen sia domo ay stopin la enireyo.
¡¡"Tio esan disjoya," dirin la rozarbo, "Mi ne povan rampi alen mi self, kiom ayn mi voluz fari tio; mi devan plu naski rozos. Tiam lu dropan sia folios, kiu la vento forblovan. Sed mi iam vidin, kiel oni putin rozo en la himn-libro de la mastrino, ay kiel un el mia rozos trovin loko sur la brusto de bela yunino, ay kiel alia esin kisata de la lipos de infano pro la gaya joyo de la vivo. Tio esin guda por mi; ji esin vera beno. Tiu esan mia rememoros, mia vivo."
Ay la rozarbo dure florin pro naiveco, dum la helikso lezure kuxin en sia domo -- la mondo esin nio por hi.
Yeros pasin.
En la tero la helikso terisin, ay anke la rozarbo. Even la suvenira rozo en la himn-libro fadin, sed en la gardeno trovisin alia rozarbos ay alia heliksos. Tiu lasta rampin alen sia domos ay sputan al la mondo, car ji ne koncernin lu.
Cu mu relegez ci tiu fabelo? Ji eson tute sama.
¡¡¡¡
The Snail and the Rose-Tree
By Hans Christian Andersen
Round about the garden ran a hedge of hazel-bushes; beyond the hedge were fields and meadows with cows and sheep; but in the middle of the garden stood a Rose-tree in bloom, under which sat a Snail, whose shell contained a great deal-that is, himself.
¡°Only wait till my time comes,¡± he said; ¡°I shall do more than grow roses, bear nuts, or give milk, like the hazel-bush, the cows and the sheep.¡±
¡°I expect a great deal from you,¡± said the rose-tree. ¡°May I ask when it will appear?¡±
¡°I take my time,¡± said the snail. ¡°You¡¯re always in such a hurry. That does not excite expectation.¡±
The following year the snail lay in almost the same spot, in the sunshine under the rose-tree, which was again budding and bearing roses as fresh and beautiful as ever. The snail crept half out of his shell, stretched out his horns, and drew them in again.
¡°Everything is just as it was last year! No progress at all; the rose-tree sticks to its roses and gets no farther.¡±
The summer and the autumn passed; the rose-tree bore roses and buds till the snow fell and the weather became raw and wet; then it bent down its head, and the snail crept into the ground.
A new year began; the roses made their appearance, and the snail made his too.
¡°You are an old rose-tree now,¡± said the snail. ¡°You must make haste and die. You have given the world all that you had in you; whether it was of much importance is a question that I have not had time to think about. But this much is clear and plain, that you have not done the least for your inner development, or you would have produced something else. Have you anything to say in defense? You will now soon be nothing but a stick. Do you understand what I say?¡±
¡°You frighten me,¡± said the rose-tree. ¡°I have never thought of that.¡±
¡°No, you have never taken the trouble to think at all. Have you ever given yourself an account why you bloomed, and how your blooming comes about-why just in that way and in no other?¡±
¡°No,¡± said the rose-tree. ¡°I bloom in gladness, because I cannot do otherwise. The sun shone and warmed me, and the air refreshed me; I drank the clear dew and the invigorating rain. I breathed and I lived! Out of the earth there arose a power within me, whilst from above I also received strength; I felt an ever-renewed and ever-increasing happiness, and therefore I was obliged to go on blooming. That was my life; I could not do otherwise.¡±
¡°You have led a very easy life,¡± remarked the snail.
¡°Certainly. Everything was given me,¡± said the rose-tree. ¡°But still more was given to you. Yours is one of those deep-thinking natures, one of those highly gifted minds that astonishes the world.¡±
¡°I have not the slightest intention of doing so,¡± said the snail. ¡°The world is nothing to me. What have I to do with the world? I have enough to do with myself, and enough in myself¡±
¡°But must we not all here on earth give up our best parts to others, and offer as much as lies in our power? It is true, I have only given roses. But you-you who are so richly endowed-what have you given to the world? What will you give it?¡±
¡°What have I given? What am I going to give? I spit at it; it¡¯s good for nothing, and does not concern me. For my part, you may go on bearing roses; you cannot do anything else. Let the hazel bush bear nuts, and the cows and sheep give milk; they have each their public. I have mine in myself. I retire within myself and there I stop. The world is nothing to me.¡±
With this the snail withdrew into his house and blocked up the entrance.
¡°That¡¯s very sad,¡± said the rose tree. ¡°I cannot creep into myself, however much I might wish to do so; I have to go on bearing roses. Then they drop their leaves, which are blown away by the wind. But I once saw how a rose was laid in the mistress¡¯s hymn-book, and how one of my roses found a place in the bosom of a young beautiful girl, and how another was kissed by the lips of a child in the glad joy of life. That did me good; it was a real blessing. Those are my recollections, my life.¡±
And the rose tree went on blooming in innocence, while the snail lay idling in his house-the world was nothing to him.
Years passed by.
The snail had turned to earth in the earth, and the rose tree too. Even the souvenir rose in the hymn-book was faded, but in the garden there were other rose trees and other snails. The latter crept into their houses and spat at the world, for it did not concern them.
Shall we read the story all over again? It will be just the same.
¡¡