| From my father I have
inherited a happy disposition, a cheerful soul. And who was
my father? Well, it is really not of any great importance; but
he was lively, chubby, round, and plump, both inside and out.
He personified the very opposite of his profession. And what
was his profession? If one told that in the very beginning of
a story, I am afraid that the reader would go no further; he
would put the book aside saying, "That is much too depressing
to read about." Yet my father was not an executioner. No, on
the contrary, his profession often let him assume a position
ahead of the very best society. This elevated post was his by
right, he had to be in front of bishops and princes. . . . He
was the driver of a hearse! |
Efter min Fader har
jeg faaet den bedste Arvepart, jeg har faaet et godt Humeur.
Og hvem var min Fader? Ja, det kommer nu ikke Humeuret ved!
han var livlig og trivelig, feed og rund, hans Ydre og Indre
ganske i Strid med hans Embede. Og hvad var hans Embede, hans
Stilling i Samfundet? Ja, skulde det skrives ned og trykkes
lige i Begyndelsen af en Bog, saa er det rimeligt at flere,
naar de læste det, lagde Bogen tilside og sagde, det seer mig
saa uhyggeligt ud, jeg skal ikke have af den Slags. Og dog var
min Fader hverken Rakker eller Skarpretter, tvertimod, hans
Embede bragte ham tidt i Spidsen for Stadens allerhæderligste
Mænd, og han var der ganske i sin Ret, ganske paa sin Plads;
han maatte være forrest, foran Bispen, foran Prindser af Blodet
-og han var forrest - - han var Ligvogns-Kudsk! |
| Well, now it has been
said! But this I can guarantee, that anyone who saw my father
in his black cloak and three-cornered hat, sitting high up on
a death stagecoach, would not have been reminded of sorrow and
the grave. For my father's face was round and smiling like the
sun. It was a face that said without opening its mouth, "Don't
worry, everything is all right, everything is for the best."
|
Nu er det sagt! og det
kan jeg sige, at naar man saae min Fader sidde der høit, foran
paa Dødens Omnibus, iført sin lange side, sorte Kappe, og med
den sortbefryndsede trekantede Hat paa Hovedet, og dertil saae
hans Ansigt, der livagtigt var, som man aftegner Solen, rundt
og leende, saa kunde man ikke tænke paa Sorg og Grav; det Ansigt
sagde: "det gjør ikke noget, det bliver meget bedre, end man
troer!" |
| It is from him I have
my happy disposition and the habit of visiting the churchyard
on my afternoon walk. Such a place is not really depressing
if you have a happy disposition and a cheerful soul. I also
read the Copenhagen News just as he did. |
See, fra ham har jeg
mit gode Humeur og den Vane, jævnlig at gaae ud paa Kirkegaarden;
og det er meget fornøieligt, naar man kun kommer der med et
godt Humeur, - og saa holder jeg Adresseavisen, ligesom ogsaa
han gjorde. |
| I am not so young any
more, I have neither wife nor children or library; but I do
subscribe to the Copenhagen News. It is sufficient for me as
it was for my father. It is useful and contains all the news
of real importance, such as, who is preaching in which church
on Sunday and who is preaching in which new book on weekdays.
It is filled with ads if you happen to need a new house, a servant,
new clothes, or food for your larder. It tells you who is having
a sale and who has been sold, who is holding a charity ball
and who was charitable enough to dance at it. It is also filled
with the kind of sweet verses that do not offend anyone. Then
there are the personal ads: marriages and engagements. Yes,
one can live very happily reading the Copenhagen News, and one
would even lie more comfortably in one's grave if one's coffin
were lined with it. It is softer than wood shavings. |
Jeg er ikke ganske ung,
- jeg har hverken Kone, Børn eller Bibliothek, men som sagt,
jeg holder Adresseavisen, den er mig nok, den er mig det bedste
Blad, og det var den ogsaa for min Fader; den gjør sit gode
Gavn og har Alt hvad et Menneske behøver at vide: hvem der prædiker
i Kirkerne og hvem der prædiker i de nye Bøger! hvor man faaer
Huus, Tjenestefolk, Klæder og Føde, hvem der "sælger ud" og
hvem der selv gaaer ud, og saa seer man saa megen Velgjørenhed
og saa mange uskyldige Vers, der ikke giør noget! Ægtestand,
der søges og Stævnemøder, som man indlader og ikke indlader
sig paa! altsammen simpelt og naturligt! Man kan saamæn meget
godt leve lykkeligt og lade sig begrave, ved at holde Adresseavisen
- og saa har man ved sit Livs Ende, saa deiligt meget Papir,
at man kan ligge blødt paa det, dersom man ikke holder af at
ligge paa Høvlspaaner. |
| Yes, the Copenhagen
News and the churchyard have always been the most edifying places
for my mind to wander. They have been the bathing establishments
of my soul, so to speak, and have kept me ever in good humor. |
Adresseavisen og Kirkegaarden,
det er og var altid mine to meest aandsvækkende Spadserefarter,
mine to meest velsignede Bade-Anstalter for det gode Humeur.
|
| Now anybody can let
his mind wander through the Copenhagen News, but please accompany
me on a stroll through the churchyard. Let us choose a day when
the sun is shining and trees and bushes are green. Each gravestone
is like a book on a library shelf. You can only read the title,
which usually tells everything and nothing about the book. But
I know the stories, I know them from my father or learned them
myself. I have written them down in my "grave book." Here all
the secrets of the graves are revealed; it is a useful and amusing
book. |
Enhver kan nu gaae ind
i Adresseavisen; men gaae med mig paa Kirkegaarden, lad os komme
der, naar Solen skinner og Træerne ere grønne; lad os gaae mellem
Gravene! hver af disse er som en lukket Bog med Ryggen op ad,
man kan læse Titelen, som siger hvad Bogen indeholder og siger
dog Ingenting; men jeg veed Beskeed, veed den fra min Fader
og fra mig selv. Jeg har det i min Gravbog, og det er en Bog,
jeg selv har gjort, til Nytte og Fornøielse; der ligge de Allesammen,
og endnu nogle Flere! |
| Here we are in the churchyard. |
Nu er vi paa Kirkegaarden.
|
| Behind that little iron
fence is the grave of a very unhappy man. There used to be a
rosebush near his tombstone, but it died. The ivy that covers
it now does not properly belong there but to the grave next
to it. When he was alive he was, as the world calls it, well
off. But he was a very unhappy man, and why? Because he took
everything too seriously, especially art. If he went to the
theater, could he enjoy the performance of a fine play with
his whole heart and soul? No, he would find that the lighting
was not quite right: the moon was a bit too bright. The stage
designer had placed a palm tree in a scene taking place in Denmark
or a beech tree in one from Norway. But do these things really
matter? After all, a play is just amusement. Why worry about
it? But he did, he could not help it. The audience applauded
either too much or too little. "The wood is wet, it won't catch
fire," he would say; and turn around to watch the other spectators.
Then he would notice that they laughed at the wrong places,
at something they shouldn't have laughed at, and that irritated
him. He was a very unhappy person and now he rests in his grave.
|
Her, bag det hvidmalede
Pinde-Gitter, hvor der indenfor engang stod et Rosentræ, - nu
er det borte, men en Smule Eviggrønt fra Naboens Grav strækker
sin grønne Finger derind, for dog at gjøre lidt Stads, -hviler
en meget ulykkelig Mand, og dog, da han levede, stod han sig
godt, som man siger, havde sit gode Udkomme, og lidt til, men
han tog sig Verden for nær, det vil sige Kunsten. Sad han en
Aften i Theatret for at nyde med hele sin Sjæl, saa var han
reent fra det, naar bare Maskinmesteren satte for stærkt et
Lys i hver Kjæbe paa Maanen, eller Luft-Soffiten hang foran
Koulissen hvor den skulde hænge bag ved, eller der kom et Palmetræ
paa Amager, Caktus i Tyrol og Bøgetræer høit oppe i Norge! Kan
det ikke være lige eet og det samme, hvem tænker over Sligt!
det er jo Comedie, og den skal man fornøie sig over. - Saa klappede
Publicum for meget, saa klappede det for lidt. "Det er vaadt
Brænde," sagde han, "det vil ikke fænge iaften!" og saa vendte
han sig om for at see, hvad det var for Folk, og saa saae han
at de loe galt, loe paa Steder hvor de ikke skulde lee, og det
ærgrede han sig over og leed ved og var et ulykkeligt Menneske,
og nu er han i Graven. |
| Here is buried a man
who was both happy and fortunate. He came from a very good family,
and in that he was fortunate, for otherwise nothing would ever
have come of him. But everything in this world is so wisely
arranged that it cannot help but put one in a good humor. He
was, so to speak, "embroidered both in front and in back" and
placed in the parlor. In the same manner that a valuable bellrope
decorated with pearls is hung there. Behind the showy bellrope
there is real rope, which you cannot see but which rings the
bell. He had a big strong rope behind him that, unseen and unheard,
did good service; and is, as a matter of fact, still doing it,
behind another embroidered bellrope. Yes, everything is so wisely
arranged that it is easy to be cheerful. |
Her hviler en meget
lykkelig Mand, det vil sige en meget fornem Mand af høi Byrd,
og det var hans Lykke, thi ellers var der aldrig blevet noget
af ham, men Alt er nu saa viseligt indrettet i Naturen, at det
er en Fornøielse at tænke derpaa. Han gik broderet for og bag
og var anbragt i Storstuen, som man anbringer den kostelige,
perlebroderede Klokkestreng, den har altid bag ved sig en god
tyk Snor, der gjør Tjenesten; han havde ogsaa en god Snor bag
ved, en Substitut, der gjorde Tjenesten og gjør den endnu bag
en anden ny, broderet Klokkestreng. Alting er nu saa viseligt
indrettet, at man sagtens kan have et godt Humeur. |
| Here rests a man . .
. This story is really too sad. . . . He lived sixty-seven years
and during all that time had only one ambition, to say something
witty. He finally thought of something that in his own opinion
was witty and that made him so happy that he died of a stroke.
He died from happiness because he had thought of something witty
to say, and the irony of it was that no one ever heard it. I
am sure he cannot even rest in his grave; after all, it might
be a lunchtime joke; and according to popular belief, the dead
can only rise around midnight. Imagine him telling it then;
nobody would laugh and he would return to his silent tomb. Oh,
it is a very unhappy grave. |
Her hviler, ja, det
er nu saa meget sørgeligt -! her hviler en Mand, som i syv og
tresindstyve Aar havde tænkt paa at sige et godt Indfald; han
levede alene for at faae et godt Indfald, og saa fik han virkelig
eet, efter egen Overbeviisning, og blev saa glad at han døde
i det, døde af Glæde over at have faaet det, og Ingen nød Gavn
deraf, Ingen hørte det gode Indfald. Jeg kan nu tænke, at han
ikke engang har Ro i sin Grav for det gode Indfald, thi sæt,
at det var et Indfald, der maatte siges til Frokost, naar det
skulde gjøre Virkning, og at han som død kun kan, efter almindelig
Mening, komme frem ved Midnat, saa passer ikke Indfaldet til
Tiden, Ingen leer og han kan gaae i Graven igjen med sit gode
Indfald. Det er en sørgelig Grav. |
| Next to him lies a woman
who was so miserly while she lived that she used to go out in
her back yard at night and meow like a cat, so that her neighbors
would think that she kept a pet. That is how tight she was!
|
Her hviler en meget
gjærrig Madame; mens hun levede, stod hun op om Natten og miavede,
for at Naboerne skulde troe at hun holdt Kat; saa gjærrig var
hun! |
| And here rests an old
maid of good family. She never attended a party without performing;
she used to sing, "Mi manca la voce!" and that was the only
time she ever told the truth. |
Her hviler en Frøken
af god Familie; altid i Selskab skulde hun lade sin Sangstemme
høre, og saa sang hun med i "mi manca la voce"! det var den
eneste Sandhed i hendes Liv! |
| Here is buried a maiden
of a different nature! Whenever loves canary bird twittered,
she put the fingers of common sense in her ears. She wanted
to get married but she never did. That is what one might call
an everyday story. It could have been told more brutally, but
let the dead sleep in peace. |
Her hviler en Jomfru
af en anden Slags! Naar Hjertets Kanarifugl begynder at skrige
op, saa putter Fornuften Fingrene i Ørene. Skjøn-Jomfru stod
i Ægtestands Glorie -! det er en Hverdagshistorie - men det
er pænt sagt. Lad de Døde hvile! |
| Under this large tombstone
lies a widow; she had the gall of an owl instead of a heart.
She used to search out the failings of friends and acquaintances
with the pains of a reformer visiting a slum. |
Her hviler en Enkefrue,
der havde Svanesang i Munden, og Ugle-Galde i Hjertet. Hun gik
om i Familier paa Rov efter Næstens Mangler, ligesom i gamle
Dage "Politivennen" gik om for at finde et Rendesteensbræt,
som ikke var der. |
| This is what is called
a family plot; even in death they keep as close as they did
in life. If the whole world and the newspapers said that a certain
thing had happened in a certain way, and then their youngest
child came from a school and said, "I have heard a different
story," they would agree with him, for he was part of the family.
If their cock crowed in the middle of the night, then they would
declare that it was morning, even though all the clocks and
night watchmen of the city said it was midnight. |
Her er en Familiebegravelse;
hvert Led af den Slægt holdt saadan sammen i Troen, at om hele
Verden og Avisen sagde, saaledes er det, og da den lille Søn
kom fra Skolen og sagde, "jeg har hørt det paa den Maade!" saa
var hans Maade den eneste rigtige, for han var af Familien.
Og vist er det, at traf det sig saa, at Familiens Gaardhane
galede ved Midnat, saa var det Morgen, om endogsaa Vægteren
og alle Byens Uhre sagde, det er Midnat. |
| The great Goethe ends
his Faust with the sentence: "Can be continued." Our little
walk in the cemetery can be continued too. I come here often!
If one of my friends or enemies makes life a little too hard
for me, then I go out to the cemetery and find a nice unused
plot and there I "bury" him or her. There they can lie peacefully
and harmlessly until I resurrect them as new and better human
beings. The story of their lives I write down in my grave book--seen
from my point of view, naturally. This is what everyone else
should do. Instead of being annoyed when someone harms you,
you should bury him immediately and then write his obituary.
Keep cheerful, read the Copenhagen News, that paper which people
are allowed to write themselves, as long as the journalists
hold the pen. And remember to visit the cemeteries. |
Den store Goethe slutter
sin "Faust" med, at den "kan fortsættes," det kan ogsaa vor
Vandring herud paa Kirkegaarden; her kommer jeg tidt! gjør En
eller Anden af mine Venner eller Ikke-Venner mig det for broget,
saa gaaer jeg herud, opsøger en Grønsværs-Plads og indvier den
til ham eller hende, hvem jeg vil have begravet, og saa begraver
jeg dem strax, saa ligge de der døde og magtesløse, indtil de
som nye og bedre Mennesker vende tilbage. Deres Liv og Levnet,
seet fra min Side, skriver jeg ind i min Gravbog, og saaledes
skulde alle Mennesker bære sig ad, ikke ærgre sig, naar Nogen
gjør dem det for galt, men strax begrave dem, holde paa sit
gode Humeur og paa Adresseavisen, dette af Folket selv skrevne
Blad, tidt med paaholdt Pen. |
| When my own time comes,
and my life has to be bound in a tombstone, write this inscription
on it: |
Kommer den Tid, at jeg
selv med mit Livs Historie skal indbindes i Graven, saa sæt
som Indskrift: |
| A HAPPY DISPOSITION! |
"Et godt Humeur!" |
| That was my story. |
Det er min Historie.
|
|