task 1
成为圣者的秘诀
从前，在一个国家里，有一位做了无数善事的善心者。国王非常欣赏他的善举，便封他为圣者。
有一天，圣者过八十大寿，国王前来庆贺，特别带来一位画家，想通过画家的笔，将这位圣者慈祥的容貌画下来，作为世人的典范。
用完晚餐之后，众多的嘉宾前来观赏这幅慈爱的画。肖像画家将这幅画像拿出来的时候，所有人大吃一惊。因为画里的'人根本没有慈善的面貌，反而充满暴戾，粗野，邪恶的气息。国王一看，生气地要人把画家拖出去鞭打。
这时，圣者听到惊呼声，跑了过来，他看到这幅画后，跪倒在地：“国王，这画里的人，才是真实的我啊。”国王惊诧地问：“为什么?”圣者道：“这就是我一生挣扎着，不想去做的那个人啊。”
在这世上，没有天生的圣者，惟有能时时刻刻自我反省，自我检视的人，才能成为圣者。
参考译文：
The secret of being a saint
Once upon a time there lived in a country a do-gooder. The king was very appreciative of his deeds and decided to honour him as a saint by a decree. On the saint's eightieth birthday, the king was invited to his birthday celerbration. He brought with him a painter so as to do a picture of the kindly saint as a paragon for his countrymen.
When the feast is over all the guests were asked to have a look at the picture. To their great surprise, when the picture was shown, what they saw was not a kind but a ruthless and cruel look. The king was very angry at seeing this and ordered his men to beat the painter.
Upon hearing the noise, the saint rushed to the scene to have a look at the picture. After viewing it, the saint knelt down and said, "your majesty, the person in the picture is none other than me." Why?" said the king, dumbfounded. "This has been the very person whom I have never wanted to be."
In this world, there are no naturally born saints; only those who can do self-criticism and sel-examination, can become saints.
task 2
次日，他们的马车修好了,上山来接他们。 在就要离开旅馆之际，伯爵的老仆赶来了，送来一根包扎整齐的玫瑰枝条，并转达了伯爵旅途愉快的祝福。 小城中的居民都赶来目送他们离去，孩童们也追随在车子后面，一直跟到小城门外。 开始他们还能听到身后散乱的脚步声，但不久车子便驶入山谷，而这座喧闹的小城依然高高耸立于他们头顶的山颠。
她把玫瑰种在家中.玫瑰的长势非常好,枝繁叶茂;每年六月，在片片绿叶与新芽之中，绽放出绚丽的红花，散发出浓郁的香味,仿佛它的根须之间依旧燃烧着那位意大利情人的愤怒与没能实现的渴望。 当然老伯爵肯定早已去世多年;而她也记不起他的名字了，甚至连她所住过的那座小城的名字也忘记了，虽然她曾经在拂晓之时看它犹如满天的繁星在空中闪烁。
参考译文：
The next day, when their mended carriage had come up to fetch them, and they were just starting to drive away from the inn, the Conte's old servant appeared with the rose-cutting neatly wrapped up, and the compliments and wishes for a buon viaggio from her master. The town collected to see them depart, and the children ran after their carriage through the gate of the little city. They heard a rush of feet behind them for a few moments, but soon they were far down towards the valley; the little town with all its noise and life was high above them on its mountain peak.
She had planted the rose at home, where it had grown and flourished in a wonderful manner; and every June the great mass of leaves and shoots still broke out into a passionate splendour of scent and crimson colour, as if in its root and fibres there still burnt the anger and thwarted desire of that Italian lover. Of course the old Conte must have died many years ago; she had forgotten his name, and had even forgotten the name of the mountain city that she had stayed in, after first seeing it twinkling at dawn in the sky, like a nest of stars.
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