| Once upon a time an
old poet--a really nice and kind old poet--was sitting cozily
by his potbelly stove toasting apples. Outside a storm was raging
and the rain was coming down by the bucket. "Anyone caught out
tonight won't have a dry stitch on," remarked the poet, and
sighed. |
Der var engang en gammel
Digter, saadan en rigtig god gammel Digter. En Aften, han sad
hjemme, blev det et forskrækkeligt ondt Veir udenfor; Regnen
skyllede ned, men den gamle Digter sad luunt og godt ved sin
Kakkelovn, hvor Ilden brændte og Æblerne snurrede. "Der
bliver da ikke en tør Traad paa de Stakler, som ere ude i det
Veir!" sagde han, for han var saadan en god Digter. |
| "Open the door! I am
wet and freezing!" cried a little child, and banged on the poet's
door, while the wind made all the windows rattle. |
"0, luk mig op! jeg
fryser og er saa vaad!" raabte et lille Barn udenfor. Det græd
og bankede paa Døren, medens Regnen skyllede ned og Blæsten
ruskede i alle Vinduer. |
| "Poor little fellow!"
exclaimed the poet, and hurried to open the door. There stood
a little boy; he was stark naked and the water was streaming
down his golden hair. He was so cold that he was trembling all
over; and had he not been let in, he certainly would have died
that night out in the awful storm. |
"Din lille Stakkel!"
sagde den gamle Digter, og gik hen at lukke Døren op. Der stod
en lille Dreng; han var ganske nøgen og Vandet drev af hans
lange gule Haar. Han rystede af Kulde, var han ikke kommet ind,
havde han vist maattet døe i det onde Veir. |
| "You poor little boy."
The poet took him by the hand. "Come in and sit down by the
stove and get dry. I'll give you wine and toasted apples. You
are a beautiful child!" |
"Din lille Stakkel!"
sagde den gamle Digter og tog ham ved Haanden. "Kom Du til mig,
saa skal jeg nok faae Dig varmet! Viin og et Æble skal Du faae,
for Du er en deilig Dreng!" |
| And that he was. His
eyes shone like two stars, and even though his golden hair was
wet, it curled most becomingly. He looked like an angel as he
stood there pale and shivering. In his hands he had a bow and
some arrows, which were much the worse for having been out in
the rain, for all the colors on the pretty arrows had run into
each other. |
Det var han ogsaa. Hans
Øine saae ud som to klare Stjerner, og skjøndt Vandet flød ned
af hans gule Haar, krøllede det sig dog saa smukt. Han saae
ud, som et lille Englebarn, men var saa bleg af Kulde og rystede
over sin hele Krop. I Haanden havde han en deilig Flitsbue,
men den var ganske fordærvet af Regnen; alle Couleurerne paa
de smukke Pile løbe ud i hinanden af det vaade Veir. |
| The old poet sat down
next to the stove with the child in his lap. He dried his hair
and warmed his hands in his own; then he gave him a toasted
apple and a glass of mulled wine. The boy soon recovered. The
color returned to his cheeks. He jumped down from the poet's
knees and began to dance around his chair. |
Den gamle Digter satte
sig ved Kakkelovnen, tog den lille Dreng paa sit Skjød, vred
Vandet af hans Haar, varmede hans Hænder i sine, og kogte sød
Viin til ham; saa kom han sig, fik røde Kinder, sprang ned paa
Gulvet, og dandsede rundt om den gamle Digter. |
| "You are a lively child,"
said the old poet, and smiled. "What is your name?" |
"Du er en lystig Dreng!"
sagde den Gamle. "Hvad hedder Du?" |
| "I am called Cupid,"
answered the boy. "Don't you know me? There are my bow and arrows.
I am good at shooting. Look, the moon has come out; the weather
is fine now." |
"Jeg hedder Amor!" svarede
han, "kjender Du mig ikke? Der ligger min Flitsbue! den skyder
jeg med, kan Du troe! See, nu bliver Veiret godt udenfor; Maanen
skinner!" |
| "But I am afraid your
bow and arrows are spoiled," the poet said. |
"Men Din Flitsbue er
fordærvet!" sagde den gamle Digter. |
| "That is too bad!" The
boy picked up the bow and glanced at it. "Now that it's dry
it looks all right," he argued. "Look, the string is taut. No
harm has come to it." Cupid slipped an arrow into the bow and
bent it. He took aim and the arrow pierced the old man's heart!
"There, you can see for yourself, my bow is fine," the naughty,
ungrateful boy said laughingly to the poor old poet who had
taken him into his warm living room and given him mulled wine
and the very best of his toasted apples. |
"Det var slemt!" sagde
den lille Dreng, tog den op og saae paa den. "0, den er ganske
tør, har slet ikke lidt nogen Skade! Strængen sidder ganske
stram! nu skal jeg prøve den!" saa spændte han den, lagde en
Piil paa, sigtede og skjød den gode gamle Digter lige ind i
Hjertet: "Kan Du nu see, at min Flitsbue ikke var fordærvet!"
sagde han, loe ganske høit og løb sin Vei. Den uartige Dreng!
saaledes at skyde paa den gamle Digter, der havde lukket ham
ind i den varme Stue, været saa god mod ham og givet ham den
deilige Viin og det bedste Æble. |
| The old poet lay on
the floor, weeping. He had really been hit, right in the heart.
"Oh . . . oh . . ." he moaned. "The mischievous child! I am
going to tell all the other boys and girls to beware of Cupid
and never to play with him, so he cannot do them any harm."
|
Den gode Digter laae
paa Gulvet og græd, han var virkelig skudt lige ind i Hjertet,
og saa sagde han: fy! hvor den Amor er en uartig Dreng! det
skal jeg fortælle til alle gode Børn, at de kunne tage sig iagt,
og aldrig lege med ham, for han gjør dem Fortræd!" |
| All the boys and girls
who were warned by the old poet did their best to be on the
alert against Cupid; but he fooled them anyway, because he is
very cunning. When a student is returning from a lecture at
the university, Cupid runs along beside him, wearing a black
robe and with a book under his arm. The student cannot recognize
him; he mistakes him for another student and takes his arm;
then Cupid shoots an arrow into his heart. The girls are not
safe from him, even in church when they are being confirmed.
In the theater, he sits astride the chandelier and nobody notices
him up there among the burning candles, but they feel it when
he shoots his arrows at them. He runs about in the royal parks
and on the embankment where your parents love to go for a walk.
He has hit their hearts with his arrows once, too. Ask them,
and see what they say. Cupid is a rascal! Don't ever have anything
to do with him! Imagine, he once shot your poor old grandmother,
right through the heart; it's so long ago that it no longer
hurts, but she hasn't forgotten it. Pooh! That mischievous Cupid!
Now you know what he is like and what a naughty boy he is. |
Alle de gode Børn, Piger
og Drenge, han fortalte det til, toge sig saadan iagt for den
slemme Amor, men han narrede dem alligevel, for han er saa udspeculeret!
Naar Studenterne gaae fra Forelæsninger, saa løber han ved Siden
af dem, med en Bog under Armen og en sort Kjole paa. De kunne
slet ikke kjende ham, og saa tage de ham under Armen og troe,
det er ogsaa en Student, men saa stikker han dem Pilen ind i
Brystet. Naar Pigerne gaae fra Præsten, og naar de staae paa
Kirkegulvet, saa er han ogsaa efter dem. Ja, han er alle Tider
efter Folk! Han sidder i den store Lysekrone paa Theatret og
brænder i lys Lue, saa Folk troe, det er en Lampe, men de mærke
siden noget andet. Han løber i Kongenshave og paa Volden! ja,
han har engang skudt Din Fader og Moder lige ind i Hjertet!
Spørg dem kun ad, saa skal Du høre, hvad de sige. Ja, det er
en slem Dreng, den Amor, ham skal Du aldrig have noget med at
gjøre! han er efter alle Folk. Tænk engang, han skjød endogsaa
en Piil paa gamle Bedstemoder, men det er længe siden, det er
gaaet over; men saadan noget glemmer hun aldrig. Fy, den slemme
Amor! Men nu kjender Du ham! veed, hvad han er for en uartig
Dreng! |
|