| At dawn, when the very
air seems red and pink, a great star shines brightly. It is
the star of morning. Its rays fall on the white walls of the
city as if it wanted to write upon them all the stories it knows:
all that it has seen through the thousands of years that it
has been observing our swift-moving world. |
I Dagningen, i den røde
Luft, skinner en stor Stjerne, Morgenens klareste Stjerne; dens
Straale zittrer mod den hvide Væg, som om den vilde der nedskrive,
hvad den veed at fortælle, hvad den i Aartusinder saae her og
der paa vor omdreiende Jord. |
| Listen! Here is one
of its stories: |
Hør een af dens Historier.
|
| Not long ago--and by
"Not long ago" the star means "a few hundred years ago"--its
rays followed a young artist who lived in the Papal States,
that capital of the world called Rome. Time has changed the
city, but not as rapidly as it changes a human being from infancy
to old age. The palace of the emperors is now as it was then:
a ruin where, among the broken marble columns, fig trees and
laurel bushes grew, and even stretched their limbs into the
baths that once boasted of having walls inlaid with gold. The
Colosseum was also a ruin. Church bells rang and the smell of
incense was everywhere. There was always some kind of procession
passing through the streets, in which lighted candles and colorful
baldachins were carried. The Church was holy and all- powerful;
and art was holy and at its height. In Rome lived the world's
greatest painter, Raphael, and that epoch's leading sculptor,
Michelangelo. The Pope himself admired these artists and paid
visits to their workshops. Yes, artists were esteemed, honored,
and even rewarded; but this does not mean that every great talent
was recognized. |
Nu nyligt, dens nyligt
er os Mennesker for Aarhundreder siden, fulgte mine Straaler
en ung Kunstner; det var i Pavestaten, i Verdensbyen Rom. Meget
der har i Tidernes Løb forandret sig, men ikke saa hurtigt,
som Menneskeskikkelsen gaaer over fra Barn til Olding. Keiserborgen
var, som endnu i Dag, Ruiner; Figentræet og Laurbærtræet voxte
mellem de omstyrtede Marmorsøiler og hen over de ødelagte, med
Guld i Væggen prangende Badekamre; Colossæum var en Ruin; Kirkeklokkerne
ringede, Røgelsen duftede, Processioner gik med Lys og straalende
Baldachiner gjennem Gaderne. Der var kirkehelligt, og Kunsten
var høi og hellig. I Rom levede Verdens største Maler Raphael;
her levede Tidsalderens første Billedhugger Michel Angelo; selv
Paven hyldede de To, beærede dem med Besøg; Kunsten var erkjendt,
hædret og lønnet. Men ikke alt Stort og Dygtigt er derfor seet
og kjendt. |
| In a narrow street was
an old house that had once been a temple. Here lived a young
artist who was poor and unknown. But he had friends--other artists
with the hopes and ideals of youth--who told him that he had
great talent and skill and that he was a fool for doubting it.
The young artist was never satisfied with his work. Every clay
figure that he made he destroyed the following day, so that
he never had any finished work; and one must have something
to show if one wants to be known and earn a living. |
I en lille, snever Gade
stod et gammelt Huus, det havde engang været et Tempel; her
boede en ung Kunstner; fattig var han, ubekjendt var han; ja,
han havde jo nok unge Venner, ogsaa Kunstnere, unge i Sind,
i Haab og Tanke; de sagde ham, at han var rig paa Talent og
Dygtighed, men han var en Nar, at han aldrig selv kunde troe
paa det. Han brød jo altid itu, hvad han havde formet i Leret,
han blev aldrig tilfreds, fik aldrig Noget færdigt, og det maa
man, for at det kan sees, erkjendes og skaffe Penge. |
| "You are a dreamer,"
one of his friends said. "That is your misfortune and the cause
of it is that you have not lived. You have not tasted life.
You ought to take a big healthy swallow and enjoy it. Youth
and life must be one! Look at the great Master Raphael, honored
by the Pope, admired by the world; but he does not say no to
either bread or wine." |
"Du er en Drømmer!"
sagde de, "og det er din Ulykke! men det kommer af, at Du ikke
har levet endnu, ikke smagt Livet, nydt det i store, sunde Drag,
som det skal nydes. I Ungdommen just, kan og skal man gjøre
Det og sig til Eet! see den store Mester Raphael, som Paven
hædrer, og Verden beundrer, han tager for sig af Vinen og Brødet!"
|
| "They say he not only
eats bread but devours the baker woman, the young and lovely
fornarina, as well," added Angelo, who was the boldest of the
young artists. |
"Han spiser Bagerkonen
med, den nydelige Forwarina!" sagde Angelo, een af de lystigste,
unge Venner. |
| His friends who talked
a great deal about their ideals were always trying to persuade
the young artist to join them in their pleasures: their revelries
that some call madness. And he was not disinclined. His blood
ran swiftly through his body, his imagination was strong, and
he could laugh and talk as wittily as any of his friends. But
when he stood in front of one of Raphael's paintings, it seemed
as if he caught a glimpse of God; and then what his friends
called "Raphael's gay life" disappeared like a morning mist.
The masters of antiquity had a similar effect on him. He felt
within himself a purity, a sense of piety, a feeling of the
power of goodness that made him want to create in marble as
these great men had. What he wanted to describe was how his
heart sought and sensed infinity, but how was he to do it? The
soft clay took the form his fingers commanded; but the next
day, as usual, he destroyed the figure. |
Ja, de sagde Alle saa
Meget, efter deres Ungdom og Forstand. De vilde have den unge
Kunstner med paa Lystighed, paa Vildskab, Galskab kan det ogsaa
kaldes; og dertil følte han ogsaa i Øieblikke Lyst; hans Blod
var varmt, Phantasien stærk; han kunde slaae med ind i den lystige
Tale, lee høit med de Andre; og dog, Det de kaldte "Raphaels
muntre Liv", sank hen for ham som Morgentaagen, saae han den
Guds Glands, der lyste ud fra den store Mesters Billeder; og
stod han i Vaticanet foran Skjønhedsskikkelserne, Mestre for
Aartusinder siden havde formet af Marmorblokken, da svulmede
hans Bryst, han følte i sig Noget saa høit, saa helligt, opløftende,
stort og godt, og han ønskede at skabe, at meisle ud af Marmorblokken
saadanne Skikkelser. Han vilde give et Billede af, hvad der
svang sig fra hans Hjerte op mod det Uendelige, men hvorledes,
og i hvilken Skikkelse. Det bløde Leer bøiede sig i Skjønhedsformer
for hans Fingre, men Dagen efter, som altid, brød han itu, hvad
han havde skabt. |
| One day he was passing
one of Rome's more splendid palaces. He paused in front of the
entrance. Looking through the frescoed archway, he saw a small
garden filled with roses. In the center of it there was a fountain;
water splashed into a marble basin, where large white calla
lilies, with their glossy green leaves, bloomed in abundance.
A young girl was there; she was walking--no, floating, for so
light was her step--near the fountain. She was the daughter
of the nobleman who owned the palace. The young artist had never
seen anyone so beautiful, so delicate, so dainty, so lovely
. . . except once: Raphael's Psyche; but that had been a painting
hanging on the wall of a palace, while this girl was alive.
|
En Dag gik han forbi
eet af de rige Paladser, af hvilke Rom har mange, han standsede
der ved den store, aabne Indgangsport, og saae billedsmykkede
Buegange omslutte en lille Have, der var overfyldt af de skjønneste
Roser. Store, hvide Callaer med deres grønne, saftige Blade
skøde op i Marmorkummen, hvor det klare Vand pladskede; og her
forbi svævede en Skikkelse, en ung Pige, Datteren af dette fyrstelige
Huus; saa fiin, saa let, saa deilig! saaledes havde han ingen
Qvinde seet, jo! malet af Raphael, malet som Psyche, i eet af
Roms Paladser. Ja, der var hun malet, her gik hun levende. |
| And as he went about
his poor workshop she remained alive in his mind; and he molded
a clay Psyche, which was an image of the young noblewoman. And
for the first time he was satisfied with his work. Here at last
was something of value: it was the girl. His friends came and,
when they saw it, they were jubilant. They had said he had great
talent; they had never doubted it; and now this work would reveal
his greatness to the world. |
I hans Tanke og Hjerte
var hun levende; og han gik hjem i sin fattige Stue og formede
i Leret Psyche; det var den rige, unge Romerinde, den adelsbaarne
Qvinde; og for første Gang saae han tilfreds paa sit Værk. Det
havde Betydning, det var hende. Og Vennerne, som saae det, jublede
høit i Glæde; dette Arbeide var en Aabenbarelse af hans Kunstner-Storhed,
den, de havde forud erkjendt, Verden skulde nu erkjende den.
|
| Clay has a fleshlike
aliveness but does not last as long as marble; nor has it the
whiteness. In marble his Psyche would come to life. He had a
block of marble. He had had it for years. In the yard behind
his father's house it lay, hidden by broken glass and discarded
vegetables: the tops of fennel and the rotten leaves of artichokes
had made it dirty; but underneath it was as white as the snow
of the mountains. |
Leret er vel kjødfuldt
og levende, men det har ikke Marmorets Hvidhed og Varighed;
i Marmorblokken maatte Psychen her faae Liv, og det kostbare
Stykke Marmor havde han; det laae allerede i mange Aar, som
Forældrenes Eiendom, i Gaarden; Flaskeskaar, Finochi Top, Levninger
af Artiskokker dyngede sig hen over og tilsølede det, men indeni
var det som Bjergets Snee; herfra skulde Psychen løfte sig. |
| One day a party of wealthy
Romans came to the humble street where the young artist lived.
They had left their coach behind in one of the broader streets.
They had come to see the young artist's work; but the star does
not tell us how they had happened to hear about it. Who were
these distinguished visitors? Poor young man! Or should we say
too happy young man? There before him, in his own workshop,
stood the young noblewoman. And when her father said, "But it
is you!" the girl smiled; and the artist could not have reproduced
her smile in marble--or her glance, which ennobled and crushed
him. |
En Dag traf det sig
saa, ja, den klare Stjerne fortæller Intet derom, den saae det
ikke, men vi vide det: et fornemt romersk Selskab kom i den
snevre, ringe Gade. Vognen holdt noget derfra, Selskabet kom
for at see den unge Kunstners Arbeide, ved et Tilfælde havde
det hørt derom. Og hvem vare de fornemme Besøgende. Stakkels
unge Mand! altfor lykkelige unge Mand, kunde han ogsaa kaldes.
Den unge Pige selv, stod her i Stuen, og med hvilket Smiil,
da hendes Fader sagde de Ord: "Det er jo Dig lyslevende!" det
Smiil kan ikke formes, det Blik kan ikke gjengives, det forunderlige
Blik, hvormed hun saae paa den unge Kunstner, det var et Blik
som løftede, adlede og - knuste. |
| "You must make that
figure in marble," the rich nobleman remarked. "When it is finished,
I shall buy it." His words brought life to the dead clay, to
the heavy marble, and to the young artist. |
"Psychen maa fuldføres
i Marmor!" sagde den rige Herre. Og det var Livsens Ord for
det døde Leer og for den tunge Marmorblok, som det var Livsens
Ord for den betagne unge Mand. "Naar Arbeidet er fuldført, kjøber
jeg det!" sagde den fyrstelige Herre. |
| A new era began in the
workshop: a time of joy and laughter. The morning star watched
the work progress. It was as if the clay itself had been inspired
by the visit of the model, as if once having seen those beautiful
features it could more readily become them. |
Det var som en ny Tid
rullede op i det fattige Værksted; Liv og Munterhed lyste derinde,
Travlhed blev der. Den lysende Morgenstjerne saae, hvorledes
Arbeidet skred frem. Leret selv var blevet som beaandet, fra
hun var her, det bøiede sig i forhøiet Skjønhed til de kjendte
Træk. |
| "Now I know what life
is," rejoiced the young man. "It is love! It is to be able to
appreciate loveliness and to delight in beauty. And what my
friends call 'life' is nothing but empty vanity, bubbles from
fermentation of the dregs, instead of the pure wine, drunk at
the altar to consecrate life." |
"Nu veed jeg, hvad Livet
er!" jublede han, "det er Kjærlighed! det er Opløftelse i det
Herlige, Henrykkelse i det Skjønne! hvad Vennerne kalde Liv
og Nyden, er Forkrænkelse, er Bobler i den gjærende Bærme, ikke
den rene, himmelske Alterviin, Indvielsen i Livet!" |
| The marble block was
raised into place and the tools made ready. The first rough
work was done. Measurements were made and marked in the marble
and large pieces of it chopped away. Soon the young artist had
to use all his craftsmanship and skill to give shape to the
stone. The beautiful figure of Psyche appeared. She was so light,
she seemed about to take flight. She danced, she smiled, and
in her smile was reflected the innocence of the young artist.
|
Marmorblokken blev reist,
Meislen hug store Stykker bort; der blev maalt, sat Punkter
og Mærker, det Haandværksmæssige gjort, til lidt efter lidt
Stenen blev Legeme, Skjønhedsskikkelse, Psychen, deilig som
Guds Billede i den unge Qvinde. Den tunge Steen blev svævende,
dandsende, luftiglet, en yndig Psyche, med Smilet, himmelsk
uskyldigt, som det havde speilet sig i den unge Billedhuggers
Hjerte. |
| The star of the rose-colored
dawn knew what affected the young man, why the color of his
cheek changed and his eyes brightened; for in creating he used
God's gift to reproduce God's work. |
Stjernen i den rosenfarvede
Morgen saae det og forstod tilvisse, hvad der rørte sig hos
den unge Mand, forstod den vexlende Farve paa hans Kinder, Blinket
fra hans Øine, idet han skabte, gjengav, hvad Gud havde givet.
|
| "You are a master as
the sculptors of ancient Greece were," his friends said. "Soon
the whole world will admire your Psyche." |
"Du er en Mester, som
hine i Grækernes Tid!" sagde de henrykte Venner. "Snart vil
hele Verden beundre din Psyche!" |
| "My Psyche . . ." he
repeated. "Yes, she must be mine. My work shall be immortal.
I have been given God's grace, and that makes me noble." |
"Min Psyche!" gjentog
han. "Min! ja, det maa hun være! ogsaa jeg er Kunstner, som
hine store Henfarne! Gud har forundt mig Naadegaven, løftet
mig høit, som den Adelsbaarne!" |
| He sank down on his
knees and wept because of his gratitude to God. But soon both
God and his tears were forgotten; instead he thought of his
Psyche, who stood before him, looking as if she had been cut
out of snow and blushing in the light of the dawn. |
Og han sank paa sine
Knæ, græd i Tak til Gud - og glemte igjen ham for hende, for
hendes Billed i Marmor, Psyche-Skikkelsen, der stod, som skaaren
af Snee, rødmende i Morgensolen. |
| He was going to see
her: the living, breathing girl who stepped so lightly, as if
she walked on air, the girl whose innocent words were music.
He went to the palace to report that the marble statue had been
finished. He walked through the rose-filled courtyard, where
water splashed out of the mouths of the little bronze dolphins
into the marble basin, in which calla lilies bloomed. He stepped
into the entrance hall, whose walls and ceilings were covered
with paintings and over whose doors were painted the family's
coat of arms. Servants dressed in livery, holding their heads
as proudly as horses do in winter when they wear sleigh bells
around their necks, walked to and fro; some were even reclining
arrogantly on the carved wooden benches, as if they were the
masters of the palace. He told one of them his errand and was
led up a flight of carpetcovered marble stairs, on either side
of which there were statues, to a great hall filled with paintings
and carpets, which had a mosaic floor. Such splendor made the
heart of the young visitor heavy and would have tied his tongue
had not his patron treated him so kindly. The nobleman spoke
so warmly to him that the young artist soon felt at ease. When
the interview was over, he asked the artist to visit the young
signorina as well, for she, too, would like to speak with him.
A servant accompanied him through beautiful banquet halls and
galleries until, finally, they came to the chamber of the young
girl. |
I Virkeligheden skulde
han see hende, den Levende, Svævende, hende, hvis Ord klang
som Musik. I det rige Palads kunde han bringe Efterretningen
om, at Marmor-Psychen var fuldført. Han kom derind, gik gjennem
den aabne Gaard, hvor Vandet pladskede fra Delphinerne i Marmorkummen,
hvor Callaerne blomstrede og de friske Roser vældede frem. Han
traadte ind i den store, høie Forhal, hvis Vægge og Loft prangede
i Farver med Vaabenmærker og Billeder. Pyntede Tjenere, stolte,
kneisende som Kaneheste med Bjælder, gik op og ned, Nogle havde
ogsaa strakt sig magelige, overmodige paa de udskaarne Træbænke;
de syntes Husets Herrer. Han sagde sit Ærende og blev nu ført
op ad den blanke Marmortrappes bløde Tæpper. Statuer stode paa
begge Sider; han kom gjennem rige Stuer med Billeder og skinnende
Mosaikgulve. Den Pragt og Glands gjorde Aandedraget noget tungt,
men snart igjen blev det let; den gamle fyrstelige Herre modtog
ham saa mildt, næsten hjerteligt, og da de havde talt, bad han
ham ved Afskeden at træde over til den unge Signora, hun vilde
ogsaa see ham. Tjenerne førte ham gjennem pragtfulde Stuer og
Sale til hendes Kammer, hvor hun var Pragten og Herligheden. |
| She talked to him and
no miserere, no holy chant, had ever touched his heart and lifted
his soul as much as her words. He grabbed her hand and kissed
it, and he thought it was softer than a rose petal and yet it
inflamed him. He was so excited, so aroused, that he hardly
knew what he was saying; words gushed out of his mouth and he
could no more control their flow than the crater can stop the
volcano from vomiting burning lava. He told her how much he
loved her. At first she appeared surprised, then insulted; and
finally proud and full of disdain, as if her hand by mistake
had touched the damp, clammy skin of a toad. Her cheeks grew
red and her lips pale; her eyes were afire and yet as dark as
the night. |
Hun talte til ham; intet
Miserere, ingen Kirkesang havde mere kunnet smelte Hjertet,
løfte Sjælen. Han greb hendes Haand, trykkede den til sine Læber;
ingen Rose er saa blød, men der gik en Ild fra denne Rose, en
Ild igjennem ham, en Opløftelse; der fløi Ord fra hans Tunge,
han vidste det ikke selv; veed Krateret, at det kaster glødende
Lava? Han sagde hende sin Kjærlighed. Hun stod overrasket, fornærmet,
stolt, og med en Haan, ja, et Udtryk, som havde hun pludselig
berørt den vaade, klamme Frø; hendes Kinder rødmede, Læberne
bleve blege; hendes Øine vare Ild, og dog sorte, som Nattens
Mulm. |
| "Madman!" she exclaimed.
"Leave me alone! Go away!" And as she turned her back to him
the expression on her beautiful face resembled that of the stone
creature whose hair is snakes. |
"Afsindige!" sagde hun.
"Bort! ned!" og hun vendte ham Ryggen. Skjønhedsansigtet havde
et Udtryk af hiint forstenende Ansigt med Slangehaarene. |
| He made his way out
of the palace as lifelessly as an object sinks into the sea.
Once in the street, he walked like a sleepwalker; but when he
reached his workshop he awoke in rage and pain. He grabbed his
mallet and lifted it: he was about to destroy the marble statue.
Someone grasped his arm; it was Angelo, who until now he had
not noticed was there. |
Som en synkende, livløs
Ting kom han ned paa Gaden, som en Søvngænger naaede han hjem
og opvaagnede i Raseri og Smerte, greb sin Hammer, løftede den
høit i Veiret og vilde sønderslaae det smukke Marmorbilled;
men i sin Tilstand mærkede han ikke, at Vennen Angelo stod tæt
ved ham, greb ham med kraftigt Tag i Armen. |
| "What were you about
to do? Have you gone mad?" he shouted. |
"Er Du bleven gal? hvad
har Du for?" |
| They began to wrestle,
but Angelo was the stronger. The young artist gave up and threw
himself into a chair. |
De brødes med hinanden;
Angelo var stærkere, og med dybe Aandedræt kastede den unge
Kunstner sig ned over en Stol. |
| "What has happened?"
Angelo asked kindly. "Pull yourself together and tell me." |
"Hvad er der skeet?"
spurgte Angelo. "Tag Dig dog sammen! tal!" |
| But what was there to
tell? What could the young artist say? Angelo's questions were
answered by silence, and he soon stopped trying to unravel a
secret to which he had no threads. |
Men hvad kunde han tale?
Hvad kunde han sige. Og da Angelo ikke kunde faae fat i Taletraaden,
lod han den være gjemt. |
| "Your blood will grow
thick and stop flowing from all your dreaming! Admit that you
are a man. If you live only for your ideals, then life will
break you! Drink some wine, get a little drunk, and you will
sleep better. Let a beautiful girl be your physician. The girls
of the Campagna are as lovely as the princess in the marble
castle. Both are daughters of Eve, and in paradise you would
not be able to see the difference between them. . . . Come,
follow me. Let Angelo be your guide, your angel of life. It
shall come to pass that you, too, will grow old; then your body
will have collapsed like an abandoned cottage. The sun will
still shine and the world will still be filled with laughter,
but you will be like a broken reed, unable to take nourishment,
I do not believe what the priests tell of a life beyond the
grave. It is a fiction, a fairy tale for children, delightful
if you can convince yourself that it's true. I don't want to
live through dreams but in reality. Be a man and come with me."
|
"Du faaer tykt Blod
i det evige Drømmeri! vær dog Menneske, som vi Andre, og lev
ikke i Idealer, saa knækker man over! faae Dig en lille Ruus
af Vinen, saa sover Du deiligt ovenpaa! lad en smuk Pige være
din Doctor! Pigen fra Campagnen er deilig, som Prindsessen i
Marmorslottet, Begge ere Evadøttre og ikke at skjelne fra hinanden
i Paradiis! Følg Du din Angelo! Din Engel er jeg, Livsens Engel!
Der kommer en Tid, Du bliver gammel, Legemet falder sammen,
og saa en smuk Solskinsdag, naar Alting leer og jubler, ligger
Du som et vissent Straa, der ikke mere groer! jeg troer ikke,
hvad Præsterne sige, at der er et Liv bag Graven! det er en
smuk Indbildning, et Eventyr for Børn, fornøielig nok, naar
man kan bilde sig det ind, jeg lever ikke i Indbildninger, men
i Virkeligheden! kom med! bliv Menneske!" |
| Angelo had come at the
right time. A fire was burning in the young artist's blood;
his soul seemed to have changed, he wanted to tear himself away
from the life he had led, from all his old habits. He wanted
to be free from his former self. So that day he followed Angelo. |
Og han drog ham med
sig, han kunde det i dette Øieblik; der var en Ild i den unge
Kunstners Blod, en Forandring i hans Sjæl, en Trang efter at
rive sig løs fra alt det Gamle, alt Det, han var vant til, rive
sig ud af sit eget gamle Jeg, og han fulgte i Dag Angelo. |
| On the outskirts of
Rome was a little restaurant. It was built in the ruins of an
ancient bath and was the favorite meeting place for young artists.
Big yellow lemons hung among the dark shining foliage that almost
hid the ancient red brick walls. The restaurant itself was located
in a deep vault that resembled a grotto. A lamp burned in front
of a picture of the Madonna and in the great fireplace a fire
was burning, over which food was roasted, boiled, and fried.
Outside, under the lemon and laurel trees, stood some tables.
|
I en Udkant af Rom laae
et af Kunstnere besøgt Osterie, bygget ind i Ruinen af et gammelt
Badekammer; de store, gule Citroner hang mellem det mørke, glindsende
Løv og dækkede en Deel af de gamle, rødgule Mure; Osteriet var
en dyb Hvælving, næsten som en Hule ind i Ruinen; en Lampe brændte
derinde foran Madonna-Billedet; en stor Ild blussede paa Skorstenen,
her blev stegt, kogt og braset; udenfor, under Citron og Laurbærtræer,
stode et Par dækkede Borde. |
| The young men were greeted
with shouts of joy from their friends. They ate little but drank
a lot, for wine makes you cheerful. They sang and someone began
to play on a guitar. It was a saltarello and they started to
dance. Two Roman girls, who earned their living as models for
the artists, joined in the lively dance. They were lovely bacchantes.
They had not the figure or the bearing of Psyche: they were
not roses but two young, fresh carnations in full bloom. |
Lystigt og jublende
bleve de To modtagne af Vennerne; Lidt spiste man, Meget drak
man, det gav Munterhed; sjunget blev der og spillet Guitar;
Saltarello klang, og den lystige Dands begyndte. Et Par unge
Romerpiger, Modeller for de unge Kunstnere, traadte med i Dandsen,
blandede sig med i Lystigheden; to nydelige Bacchantinder! ja,
de havde ikke Psyche-Skikkelse, vare ikke fine, smukke Roser,
men friske, kraftige, blussende Nelliker. |
| How hot it was that
day, even at sunset. Blood was afire, air was afire, and there
was fire in every glance. The air seemed filled with gold and
roses; that was the substance of life, gold and roses. |
Hvor var det varmt paa
denne Dag, varmt selv ved Solnedgang; Ild i Blodet, Ild i Luften,
Ild i hvert et Blik. Luften svømmede i Guld og Roser, Livet
var Guld og Roser. |
| "At last you are among
us! Let yourself go, let the currents that are flowing all about
you and within yourself carry you." |
"Nu endelig engang er
Du med! lad Dig bære af Strømmen om Dig og i Dig!" |
| "Never before have I
felt so well and happy," the young artist replied. "You are
right: all of you are right! I have been a fool, a dreamer.
Man belongs to the world of reality, not to the world of the
imagination." |
"Aldrig før var jeg
saa sund og glad!" sagde den unge Kunstner. "Du har Ret, I have
Alle Ret, jeg var en Nar, en Drømmer, Mennesket hører til Virkeligheden
og ikke til Phantasien!" |
| Through the narrow streets
the young people walked, playing their guitars and singing.
The lovely carnations of the Campagna were with them. |
Med Sang og klingende
Guitarrer drog de unge Mænd i den klare, stjernelyse Aften fra
Osteriet gjennem Smaagaderne; de to blussende Nelliker, Campagnens
Døttre, vare med i Toget. |
| In Angelo's studio,
among the half-finished sketches and the glowingly colorful,
ornate paintings, their voices grew soft but not less passionate.
Everywhere drawings of the daughters of the Campagna could be
seen in all their robust loveliness; and yet they were much
more beautiful in reality. The six-armed candelabrum burned
brightly, casting its light in all directions, and the passion-filled
faces of the young people shone as if they were gods. |
I Angelos Stue, mellem
omstrøede Skizzer, henslængte Foglietter og glødende, yppige
Billeder, klang Stemmerne mere dæmpede, men ikke mindre ildfulde;
paa Gulvet laae i Tegning mangt et Blad, Campagnens Døttre i
vexlende, kraftig Deilighed saa lig, og dog vare de selv langt
skjønnere. Den sexarmede Lampestage lod alle sine Væger brænde
og lyse; og indenfra brændte og lyste frem Menneskeskikkelsen
som Guddom. |
| "Apollo! Jupiter! To
your heaven do I want to ascend. Now, at this moment, for the
first time, the flower of life is blooming in my heart." |
"Apollo! Jupiter! ind
i Eders Himmel og Herlighed løftes jeg! det er som Livsens Blomst
i dette Minut sprang ud i mit Hjerte!" |
| Yes, it bloomed, bent
its head, and withered. A strange, horrible smell of corruption
blended itself with the odor of roses, it lamed his mind and
blinded his sight. The fireworks of sensuality were over and
darkness came. |
Ja, den sprang ud -
knækkede, faldt, og en bedøvende, hæslig Dunst hvirvlede ud,
blendede Synet, bedøvede Tankerne, Sandsernes Fyrværkeri slukkedes,
og det blev mørkt. |
| He reached home and
sat down on the bed. "Shame!" The word was not only on his tongue,
it came from his heart. "Wretch! Leave me alone! Go away!" and
he sighed deeply and painfully. |
Han naaede sit Hjem,
satte sig paa sin Seng, samlede sig. "Fy!" klang det fra hans
egen Mund, fra hans Hjertegrund. "Elendige! bort! ned -!" Og
han drog et Suk saa smertefuldt. |
| "Leave me alone. Go
away!" Those were the words that the living Psyche had said
to him. He lay down on the bed; his thoughts became unclear
and he fell asleep. |
"Bort! ned!" disse hendes
Ord, den levende Psyches Ord lød i hans Bryst, lød fra hans
Læber. Han heldede sit Hoved til Puderne, uklar blev Tanken,
og han sov. |
| At dawn he awoke. What
had happened? Was it all a dream: the visit to the restaurant,
the evening and the night with the girls of the Campagna? .
. . No, it was real; and now he knew that reality that he had
never known before. |
I Dagningen foer han
op, samlede sig paany. Hvad var det? Havde han drømt det Hele?
drømt hendes Ord, Besøget i Osteriet, Aftenen med Campagnens
purpurrøde Nelliker? - Nei, Alt var Virkeligheden, den han ikke
før havde kjendt. |
| Through the purple dawn
shone the clear star of morning. Its light fell upon him and
upon the marble Psyche. He trembled when he saw the divine innocence
of the sculpture. Convinced that his glance sullied it, he threw
a cloth over it. For a moment he let his hands glide over the
figure, but he could not look at it. |
I den purpurfarvede
Luft skinnede den klare Stjerne, dens Straale faldt paa ham
og Marmor-Psychen, han selv zittrede ved at betragte Uforkrænkelighedens
Billede, ureent var hans Blik, syntes han. Klædet kastede han
hen over den, endnu engang berørte han det for at afsløre Skikkelsen,
men han kunde ikke betragte sit Værk. |
| Silently, motionlessly,
turned inward--into himself--he sat through the long day. He
knew nothing about what was happening outside in the world,
and no one knew what took place within him, in his soul. |
Stille, mørk, rullet
i sig selv, sad han den lange Dag, ikke fornam han, hvad der
rørte sig udenfor, Ingen vidste, hvad der rørte sig indenfor
i dette Menneskehjerte. |
| Days passed and weeks.
The nights were the longest. Then one morning the star saw him
get out of bed. He was pale and feverish. Walking over to the
marble statue, he lifted the cloth and gazed at his work. His
face was filled with anguish and pain. Bending under its weight,
with great difficulty he carried it out into the garden, where
there was an abandoned well. It had long since dried up and
was half filled with rubbish and dirt. Into it the young artist
threw the marble Psyche; then he filled up the hole with earth,
and spread branches and nettles over the burial place. |
Der gik Dage, der gik
Uger; Nætterne vare de længste. Den blinkende Stjerne saae ham
en Morgen bleg, feberskjælvende, reise sig fra Sengen, gaae
hen til Marmorbilledet, løfte Klædet tilside, see med et Blik
saa smerteligt, saa inderligt paa sit Værk og derpaa, næsten
segnende under Vægten, slæbe Statuen ud i Haven. Der var en
forfalden, udtørret Brønd, et Hul kunde det kaldes, i det sænkede
han Psychen, kastede Jord hen over den, smed Qvas og Nelder
over den friske Gravning. |
| "Leave me alone! Go
away!" That was the funeral oration. |
"Bort! ned!" var den
korte Gravtale. |
| The star saw everything
through the rose-red dawn and mirrored itself in the two tears
on the young man's pale cheeks. Everyone who saw him agreed
that he was dying. |
Stjernen saae det fra
den rosenrøde Luft og zittrede i to tunge Taarer paa den unge
Mands dødblege Kinder, han, den Febersyge, - den Dødsyge, kaldte
de ham paa Sygeleiet. |
| From the nearby monastery
Brother Ignatius arrived. He was both a friend and a physician.
He came with the comfort and consolation of religion. He talked
of man's sins, of God's grace and forgiveness, and of the peace
and happiness to be found within the Church. |
Klosterbroderen Ignatius
kom som Ven og Læge, kom med Religionens Trøsteord, talte om
Kirkens Fred og Lykke, Menneskenes Synd, Naaden og Freden i
Gud. |
| And his words fell like
the rays of the sun on the moist, fermenting earth. A mist rose
and in a mist can be seen strange shapes and pictures. From
these "islands" floating above him, the young artist saw himself
looking down at all mankind. Errors and disappointments had
guided his life. Art was only an enchantress who with her magic
gave him vain dreams of earthly glory. She could make us all
false to ourselves, false to our friends, false to God. The
snake was ever whispering: "Taste and you shall be a god." |
Og Ordene faldt som
varme Solstraaler paa den vaade, gjærende Grund; den dampede,
og løftede Taageskyer, Tankebilleder, Billeder, som havde deres
Virkelighed; og fra disse svømmende Øer saae han ned over Menneskelivet:
Feilgreb, Skuffelser var det, havde det været for ham. Kunsten
var en Troldqvinde, der bar os ind i Forfængelighed, ind i jordiske
Lyster. Falske vare vi mod os selv, falske mod vore Venner,
falske mod Gud. Slangen talte altid i os: "smag og Du skal blive
som Gud!" |
| He felt that now, at
last, he had found the road to truth and peace. In the Church
God's light shone in all its glory; in the tranquillity of the
monk's cell his soul would know eternity. |
Nu først syntes han
at have forstaaet sig, fundet Veien til Sandheden og Freden.
I Kirken var Guds Lys og Klarhed, i Munkecellen den Ro, hvor
Mennesketræet kunde voxe op gjennem Evigheden. |
| Brother Ignatius encouraged
him and a child of the world became a servant of the Church.
The young artist bade the world adieu. |
Broder Ignatius støttede
hans Tanke, og Beslutningen stod fast. Et Verdensbarn blev en
Kirkens Tjener, den unge Kunstner gav Afkald paa Verden, gik
i Kloster. |
| How kindly, how happily
his new brothers greeted him, and how like a festival on a high
holy day it was when he took his vows. "Here," he thought, "God
is our sunlight; it shines from the holy paintings and from
the cross." At sunset, he would stand at the open window of
his cell and look out over the ancient city with its crumbled
temples and gigantic but dead Colosseum. Especially in spring,
when there were roses everywhere, the evergreens were fresh,
the acacia trees were in bloom, the yellow and red of the lemons
and oranges could be seen through the dark foliage, and the
palm trees waved their great leaves in the breeze, he felt himself
to be more alive and to feel more deeply than he ever had before.
The broad, silent Campagna stretched toward the blue, snow-covered
mountains. Everything melted into one, everything spoke of peace
and beauty: a fairy tale, everything was a dream! |
Hvor kjærligt, hvor
glad hilsedes han af Brødrene; hvor søndagsfestlig var Indvielsen.
Gud, syntes han, var i Kirkens Solskin, straalede i det fra
de hellige Billeder og fra det blanke Kors. Og da han nu i Aftenstunden,
ved Solnedgang, stod i sin lille Celle og aabnede Vinduet, saae
ud over det gamle Rom, de sønderbrudte Templer, det mægtige,
men døde, Colossæum, saae det i Foraarstiden, da Akasierne blomstrede,
det Evigtgrønne var friskt, Roserne mylrede frem, Citroner og
Oranger skinnede, Palmerne viftede, følte han sig greben og
opfyldt, som aldrig før. Den aabne, stille Campagne strakte
sig mod de blaanende, sneebedækkede Bjerge, de syntes malede
paa Luften; Alt sammensmeltende, aandende Fred og Skjønhed,
saa svømmende, saa drømmende, - en Drøm det Hele! |
| Yes, the world was a
dream. Dreams can reign for hours and can be recaptured for
hours, but life in a monastery is made up of years: many years,
long years. |
Ja, en Drøm var Verden
her, og Drømmen raader i Timer og kan komme igjen i Timer, men
Klosterlivet er et Liv af Aaringer, lange, mange. |
| Unclean, evil thoughts
come from inside yourself, he learned. What were these strange
flames that seemed to set his body on fire? Where did the evil
come from that he wanted no part of, yet that seemed always
to be present within him? He punished his body, but the evil
did not come from the surface but from deep within him. One
part of his soul was supple as a snake and could bend and twist
itself around his conscience, so that it became one with it--and
thus could come under the cloak of the all-loving, who would
console him: the saints who pray for us; the Madonna who prays
for us; and Jesus, God's son, who has given his life for us.
He asked himself whether it was his childlike innocence or the
flightiness of youth--which made everything and nothing seem
serious--that had made him seek refuge in God's mercy and grace
and had made him feel that he had been elevated, chosen out
of so many, to give up the vanity of the world, to become a
son of the Church. |
Indenfra kommer Meget,
der gjør Mennesket ureent, maatte han sande! hvad var det for
Flammer, der stundom gjennemblussede ham? Hvad var det for et
Væld af det Onde, Det, som han ikke vilde, der bestandigt vældede
frem. Han straffede sit Legeme, men indenfra kom det Onde. Hvad
var det for en Aandens Deel i ham, der saa smidig, som Slangen,
bøiede sig om sig selv og krøb med hans Samvittighed ind under
Alkjærlighedens Kaabe og trøstede: de Hellige bede for os, Moderen
beder for os, Jesus selv har givet sit Blod for os. Var det
Barnesind eller Ungdoms lette Sind, der gjorde, at han gav sig
hen i Naaden og syntes at føle sig løftet ved den, løftet over
saa Mange; thi han havde jo stødt fra sig Verdens Forfængelighed,
han var en Kirkens Søn. |
| One day, many years
later, he met his friend Angelo, who recognized him immediately.
|
En Dag, efter mange
Aar, mødte han Angelo, der kjendte ham. |
| "My friend!" he cried.
"Are you happy now? You have sinned by throwing away the gift
God gave you. Read the parable of the ten pieces of silver.
The Master who told it, told the truth. What have you won? What
have you sought and what have you gained? Is your life not a
life of dreams? Have you not created a religion out of your
own head, as all monks do? What if it is only dreams? Only imagination?
Only beautiful thoughts?" |
"Menneske!" sagde han,
"ja, det er Dig! Er Du nu lykkelig? - Du har syndet mod Gud
og kastet hans Naadegave fra Dig, forspildt din Sendelse i denne
Verden. Læs Parablen om de betroede Penge! den Mester som fortalte
den, han gav Sandhed! Hvad har Du nu vundet og fundet! Laver
Du Dig ikke et Drømmeliv! laver Dig en Religion efter dit Hoved,
som de nok Alle gjøre det. Om nu Alt var en Drøm, en Phantasie,
smukke Tanker kun!" |
| "Satan, leave me alone!"
shouted the monk, and fled from his friend Angelo. |
"Viig fra mig, Satan!"
sagde Munken og gik fra Angelo. |
| "That was the devil
. . . my personal devil. I have recognized him," said the monk.
"Once I gave him a finger and he grabbed my whole hand. . .
. No," he sighed. "That is not true. The evil is within myself.
It is within Angelo. Yet to him it is no burden. He holds his
head high and seems to prosper. And I . . . I search for happiness
and comfort in the consolation of religion. But what if it is
only consolation? If everything here, as in the world I left
behind, is but vain dreams: an illusion that disappears as the
beautiful pink color of the sunset, or changes when you come
close to it as the blueness of the distant mountains does? Eternity,
you are a great ocean of endless stillness. You fill us with
curiosity and foreboding; you beckon and call; but if we step
out upon your quiet waters we disappear, die, cease to exist.
A fraud! Deceit! . . . Leave me alone! Go away!" |
"Der er en Djævel, en
personlig Djævel! jeg saae ham i Dag!" mumlede Munken. "Jeg
rakte ham engang en Finger, han greb min hele Haand -! Nei",
sukkede han, "i mig selv er det Onde, og i dette Menneske er
det Onde, men han knuges ikke af det, han gaaer med opreist
Pande, har sin Velværen; - og jeg griber efter min Velværen
i Religionens Trøst -! om den kun var Trøst! om Alt her, som
Verden, jeg slap, var smukke Tanker kun! Bedrag, som de røde
Aftenskyers Deilighed er det, som det bølgeblaanende Skjønne
i de fjerne Bjerge! nærved ere de anderledes! Evighed, Du er
som det store, uendelige, blikstille Ocean, der vinker, kalder,
fylder os med Anelser, og stige vi derud, da synke vi, vi forsvinde,
- døe, - høre op at være til! - Bedrag! bort! ned!" |
| Without tears, sunken
into himself, he knelt on his hard bed. Why did he kneel? Was
it for the stone cross in the wall? No, it was out of habit
that his body assumed that position. |
Og uden Taarer, sjunken
i sig selv, sad han paa sit haarde Leie, knælende - for hvem?
Steenkorset, der sad i Muren? Nei, Vanen lod Legemet synke i
denne Bøining. |
| The deeper he looked
into his soul, the darker it seemed to him. "There is nothing
within me, and there is nothing outside me. My life has been
wasted." And this thought grew, like snow sliding down the mountainside,
until it was an avalanche that crushed him. |
Jo dybere han saae ind
i sig selv, desmørkere syntes det ham. "Intet derinde, Intet
derude! forspildt dette Liv!" Og denne Tankesneebold rullede,
voxte, knuste ham - slettede ham ud. |
| "No one do I dare tell
about this worm within my heart. This secret is my prisoner;
if I told it, I would be its captive." |
"Ingen tør jeg betroe
om den nagende Orm herinde! min Hemmelighed er min Fange, slipper
jeg den, er jeg dens!" |
| Faith and doubt wrestled
within him. |
Og Gudskraften i ham
led og stred. |
| "0 Master! Master!"
he cried out, in his despair. "Have pity on me and give me faith.
I threw Your gift away. Your purpose I ignored. I did not have
the strength! You gave me the skill but not the strength! Immortality,
the Psyche in my heart-- Leave me alone! Go away! Why can you
not be buried like the Psyche I once created? That one part
of my life, let it remain buried in the grave, never to be resurrected."
|
"Herre! Herre!" udbrød
han i sin Fortvivlelse, "vær barmhjertig, giv mig Tro! - Din
Naadegave kastede jeg fra mig, min Sendelse i denne Verden!
jeg manglede Kraften, Du gav mig den ikke. Udødeligheden, Psychen
i mit Bryst, - bort, ned! - begraves skal den som hiin Psyche,
mit bedste Livsblink! - aldrig opstaaer den af Graven!" |
| The star of dawn shone
brightly; someday even that star would cease to be. Only the
human soul is immortal. The star's rays fell on the whitewashed
walls of the cell, but they wrote no message there of God's
greatness and grace, nor of the all-embracing love that lives
within the heart of those who truly believe. |
Stjernen i den rosenrøde
Luft lyste, Stjernen, der tilvisse skal udslukkes og henveires,
medens Sjælene leve og lyse; dens zittrende Straale faldt paa
den hvide Væg, men ingen Skrift satte den der om Herligheden
i Gud, om Naaden, om Alkjærligheden, den der klinger i den Troendes
Bryst. |
| "The Psyche within my
heart will never die," he thought, and then he asked himself
aloud, "Will it be conscious forever? Can that which is beyond
understanding happen? Yes! Yes! That which is incomprehensible
is my own soul! 0 God, 0 Master, it is You and Your whole world
that are beyond understanding and let it remain so: a wonder
of power and glory and love!" |
"Psychen herinde aldrig
døe! - Leve i Bevidsthed? - kan det Ufattelige skee? - Ja! ja!
ufattelig er mit Jeg. Ufattelig Du, o Herre! hele din Verden
ufattelig! - et Underværk af Magt, Herlighed - Kjærlighed!"
|
| His eyes brightened
and then they grew glazed. The ringing of the church bells was
the last sound he heard in this world; the man was dead. They
buried him in earth brought from Jerusalem and mixed with the
dust of the pious dead. |
Hans Øine lyste, hans
Øine brast. Kirkeklokkens Klang var den sidste Lyd over ham,
den Døde; og han kom i Jord, hentet fra Jerusalem, blandet med
Støv af fromme Døde. |
| Years went by; then,
as was the custom, his skeleton was dug up and dressed in a
monk's frock, while in his hands was placed a rosary. Finally
he was put in a niche among other human bones, in the tombs
of the monastery. Outside, above him, the sun shone; inside
there was the sweet smell of incense; mass was being recited.
|
Efter Aaringer toges
Beenraden frem, som de døde Munkes før ham, den iførtes den
brune Kutte, fik en Perlesnor i Haanden og stilledes i Niche
af Menneskeknogler, som de fandtes her i Klostrets Begravelse.
Og Solen skinnede udenfor, og Røgelsen duftede derinde, Messerne
læstes. |
| Again the years passed,
many years. |
Aaringer gik. |
| The skeletons fell apart
and became merely bones. With the skulls the monks constructed
a wall around the church of the monastery, and his skull was
among them. There were so many dead. No one knew their names
or remembered any of them. Look! In the bright sunshine you
could see something moving. What was it? A bright-colored lizard
had made his home in that skull, and ran in and out of the holes.
That was all the life that now existed in the space where once
there had been great thoughts, happy dreams, love of art and
all innocent beauty; where tears had fallen, and where hope
of immortality had lived. |
Knogler og Been faldt
fra hinanden, mellem hinanden; Dødninghoveder stilledes op,
de dannede en heel Kirkens ydre Muur; der stod ogsaa hans i
det brændende Solskin, der vare saa mange, mange Døde, Ingen
kjendte nu Navnene paa dem, heller ikke paa ham. Og see, i Solskinnet
rørte sig noget Levende inde i de to Øiehuler, hvad var det!
et broget Fiirbeen sprang derinde i den hule Pandeskal, smuttede
ud og ind af de tomme, store Øiehuler. Den var nu Livet derinde
i det Hoved, hvor eengang de store Tanker, lyse Drømme, Kjærlighed
til Kunsten og det Herlige havde løftet sig, hvorfra hede Taarer
vare trillede, og hvor Haabet levede for en Udødelighed. Fiirbenet
sprang, forsvandt; Pandeskallen smuldrede, blev Støv i Støvet.
|
| Centuries later, the
morning star shone as before, as brightly as it had for thousands
of years. The air had been made red by the upcoming sun: as
red as a rose, as red as blood. |
Det var Aarhundreder
efter. Den klare Stjerne skinnede uforandret, klar og stor,
som i Aartusinder, Luften lyste i Rødt, frisk som Roser, blussende
som Blod. |
| Where there once had
been a narrow street and the remains of an old temple there
now stood a convent. That morning a young nun had died and a
grave was being dug in the cloister's garden. A shovel struck
stone and something brilliantly white could be seen beneath
the dirt. The earth was lifted carefully. First a shoulder appeared,
then a woman's head. That beautiful pink summer morning, a sculpture
of Psyche had been unearthed, while a grave was being dug for
a nun. Everyone agreed that it was beautiful. "A perfect work
of art from that period which was the height of artistic achievement."
But whose work was it? Who was the master who had created it?
No one knew but the star of dawn, who knew of his earthly struggle,
his trial, his weaknesses, his humanity! But all that was dead,
had disappeared, turned to dust. But his gain, his profit from
his struggle and his search, the glory that proved the godliness
within him, his Psyche, will never die. It will live beyond
the name of its creator. His spark still shines here on earth
and is admired, appreciated, and loved. |
Hvor eengang var en
snever Gade med Levninger af et gammelt Tempel, laae nu ud til
Pladsen et Nonnekloster; her i Haven blev gravet en Grav, en
ung Nonne var død og skulde i denne Morgenstund sænkes i Jorden.
Spaden stødte mod en Steen; blendende hvid skinnede den; det
hvide Marmor var at see, det rundede sig til en Skulder, den
kom mere frem; forsigtigere førtes Spaden; et Qvindehoved blev
at see, - Sommerfuglevinger. Fra Graven, hvori den unge Nonne
skulde nedlægges, løftede man i den rosenrøde, blussende Morgen
en deilig Psycheskikkelse, meislet af det hvide Marmor. "Hvor
er den deilig! fuldendt, et Kunstværk fra den bedste Tid!" sagde
man. Hvo kunde være Mesteren? Ingen vidste det, Ingen kjendte
ham uden den klare i Aartusinder lysende Stjerne; den kjendte
hans Jordlivs Gang, hans Prøve, hans Svaghed, hans dette: "kun
Mennesket!" - men det var dødt, veiret hen, som Støvet maa og
skal, men Udbyttet af hans bedste Stræben, det Herligste, som
viste det Guddommelige i ham, Psychen, der aldrig døer, der
overstraaler Eftermælet, Blinket fra den her paa Jorden, selv
dette blev her, blev seet, erkjendt, beundret og elsket. |
| The light of the morning
star shone on the Psyche and on that happy crowd of people who
stood admiring that soul that had been carved in marble. |
Den klare Morgenstjerne
i den rosenfarvede Luft sendte sin blinkende Straale paa Psychen
og paa de Lyksaligheds Smiil om Mund og i Øie hos de Beundrende,
der saae Sjælen meislet af Marmorblokken. |
| What belongs to the
earth follows the winds and is forgotten; only the stars can
remember forever. What belongs to heaven shines in its creator
and, when he dies, his Psyche lives still. |
Hvad Jordisk er, veires
hen, forglemmes, kun Stjernen i det Uendelige veed det. Hvad
Himmelsk er, straaler selv i EfterMælet, og naar Eftermælet
slukkes - da lever endnu Psychen! |
|