"The Will-o'-the-Wisps Are in Town,"
Said the Bog Witch - Lygtemændene ere i Byen, sagde Mosekonen.
1865
| Once there was a man
who was well acquainted with fairy tales. They used to come
knocking at his door. But lately he had not had any such visitors,
and he wondered why the fairy tales didn't come any more. True,
he had not thought of the fairy tales during the last few years
and had not been expecting them to just come to his door, for
outside there was war and inside--in the houses--there were
the sorrow and despair that war brings. |
Der var en Mand, som
engang vidste saa mange nye Eventyr, men nu vare de slupne for
ham, sagde han; Eventyret, der af sig selv gjorde Visit, kom
ikke mere og bankede paa hans Dør; og hvorfor kom det ikke?
Ja, det er sandt nok, Manden havde i Aar og Dag ikke tænkt paa
det, ikke ventet, at det skulde komme at banke paa, og det havde
vist heller ikke været her, thi udenfor var Krig og indenfor
Sorg og Nød, som Krigen fører med sig. |
| Without thinking of
the dangers, the stork and the swallow had made their long journey
home, only to find their nests destroyed, the houses in the
villages burned, and the fences around the fields broken. In
the churchyards the enemy horses grazed among the tombstones.
These were hard times, dark times, but even periods of unhappiness
must end. |
Stork og Svale kom fra
deres lange Reise; de tænkte paa ingen Fare, og da de kom var
Reden brændt, Menneskenes Huse brændte, Ledet af Lave, ja reent
borte; Fjendens Heste traadte paa de gamle Grave. Det var haarde,
mørke Tider: men ogsaa de faae Ende. |
| "Now it is over," he
said, but still the fairy tales did not come and knock at his
door. |
Og nu havde de Ende,
sagde man, men endnu bankede ikke Eventyret paa, eller lod høre
fra sig. |
| |
"Det er vel dødt og
borte med de mange Andre!" sagde Manden. Men Eventyret døer
aldrig! |
| A whole year went by,
and he missed them sorely. |
Og der gik over et heelt
Aar, og han længtes saa saare. |
| "Maybe they'll never
come again," he thought. He recalled vividly the many forms
that they had taken in the past. One had been a lovely young
girl with a wreath of flowers in her hair and a birch branch
in her hand. She had been as beautiful and fresh as spring itself,
with eyes as deep and clear as the little lakes in the forest.
Often the fairy tale had been a peddler, who would take his
pack from his back and open it right there in the living room;
and out would come the loveliest silk ribbons and every one
had a verse on it. Best of all had it been when the fairy tale
came as a little old woman with silver-white hair, and eyes
large with age and filled with knowledge. For she could tell
tales from the really ancient times: from the era before the
one in which the princesses spun on golden spinning wheels and
were guarded by dragons. And she could make the stories seem
so alive that you saw spots in front of your eyes and the floor
became black with human blood. Oh, she told gruesome tales,
dreadful to hear and see, and yet such a pleasure, for they
had happened so very long ago. |
"Mon dog ikke Eventyret
skulde komme igjen og banke paa!" Og han huskede det saa levende
i alle de mange Skikkelser, det var kommet til ham; snart ungt
og deiligt, Foraaret selv, en yndig lille Pige med Skovmærkekrands
om Haaret og Bøgegreen i Haanden; hendes Øine skinnede som dybe
Skovsøer i klart Solskin; snart var det ogsaa kommet som Bissekræmmer,
havde aabnet Kramkisten og ladet Silkebaand flagre med Vers
og Indskrift fra gamle Minder; men allerdeiligst var det dog,
naar det kom som gammel Moerlille med sølvhvidt Haar og med
Øine saa store og saa kloge, da vidste hun ret at fortælle om
de allerældste Tider, længe endnu før Prindsesserne spandt paa
Guldteen, mens Drager og Lindorme laae udenfor og passede paa.
Da fortalte hun saa levende, at der kom sorte Pletter for Øinene
af Enhver som hørte derpaa, Gulvet blev sort af Menneskeblod;
grueligt at see og at høre, og dog saa fornøieligt, for det
var saalænge siden at det var skeet. |
| "I wonder whether she
will ever come again," said the man, and looked so intently
at the door that he saw black spots in front of his eyes and
on the floor. "But maybe it is not blood," he muttered, "maybe
it is bits from the mourning bands of the dark days that are
only just past." |
"Mon hun ikke mere skulde
banke paa!" sagde Manden og stirrede mod Døren, saa at der kom
sorte Pletter for Øinene, sorte Pletter paa Gulvet; han vidste
ikke om det var Blod eller Sørgeflor fra de tunge, mørke Dage.
|
| Suddenly it occurred
to him that the fairy tales might be in hiding like the princesses
in the old tales: that, like the princesses, they wanted to
be found, and when, finally, they were discovered they would
be more brilliant and more beautiful than they had ever been
before. |
Og som han sad, kom
ham i Tanke, om ikke Eventyret havde skjult sig, ligesom Prindsessen
i de rigtige gamle Eventyr, og vilde nu søges op; blev hun funden,
da straalede hun i ny Herlighed, deiligere end nogensinde før.
|
| "Who knows where a fairy
tale can hide? It can be under a piece of straw that has been
carelessly dropped at the edge of a well. I must be careful
. . . ever so careful. It can be hidden in a withered flower
that has been pressed between the leaves of one of the big,
heavy books on my bookshelves." |
"Hvo veed! maaskee ligger
hun skjult i det henkastede Straahalm, der vipper paa Brøndkanten.
Forsigtig! forsigtig! maaskee har hun gjemt sig i en vissen
Blomst, lagt ind i en af de store Bøger paa Hylden!" |
| The man walked over
to his bookcase and took down the latest book; it was very serious
and he thought it would help to clear his mind. There was no
flower pressed between any of its leaves, but only a learned
discourse concerning the national hero of his country: Holger
the Dane. It seems that this very courageous man had never existed
but had been invented by a French monk, who wrote a novel that
was "translated into and widely printed in the Danish language."
So Holger the Dane could never have taken part in any battle,
nor was he liable to come to save his native land, if and when
the nation were in mortal danger. Danish children could sing
of his exploits, and even the grownups could hope it was not
only a legend that he would return; but Holger the Dane was
no different from William Tell. Both of them were no more than
hot air, not worth wasting one's time on, according to the author
of this very scholarly book. |
Og Manden gik hen, aabnede
en af de allernyeste til at faae Forstand af; men der laae ingen
Blomst, der stod at læse om Holger Danske; og Manden læste,
at hele den Historie var opfunden og sat sammen af en Munk i
Frankrig, at det var en Roman, der var bleven 'oversat og prentet
udi det danske Sprog;' at Holger Danske slet ikke havde været
og altsaa, slet ikke kom igjen, som vi havde sjunget om og saa
gjerne vilde troet paa. Det var med Holger Danske, som med Vilhelm
Tell, kun Mundsveir, ikke til at forlade sig paa, og det stod
i Bogen skrevet sammen med stor Lærdom. |
| "I believe what I believe,"
said the man, and put the book back. "No path is made where
no foot has trod." |
"Ja, jeg troer nu hvad
jeg troer!" sagde Manden, "der groer ikke Veibred, hvor ingen
Fod har traadt!" |
| He went to the window
sill and looked at the plants and flowers. Maybe the fairy tale
had hidden in the red tulip with the golden-edged petals, or
in the rose, or in the colorful camellia. But he did not find
any fairy tale; only the sunshine playing among the leaves.
|
Og han lukkede Bogen,
satte den paa Hylden og gik saa hen til de friske Blomster i
Vindueskarmen; der maaskee havde Eventyret skjult sig i den
røde Tulipan med de guldgule Kanter, eller i den friske Rose,
eller i den stærkt farvede Camellia. Solskinnet laae mellem
Bladene, men ikke Eventyret. |
| "The flowers that bloomed
in our days of sorrow were more beautiful than these. But those
we cut and made into wreaths to decorate the coffins that were
draped in flags. Maybe the fairy tale was buried with the flowers.
But would not the flowers have known, and the earth? Yes, even
the coffin would have sensed it; and the new flowers as they
bloomed--and even each blade of grass--would have told us that
fairy tales do not die. |
"Blomsterne, her stode
i Sorgens Tid, vare alle langt smukkere; men de bleve skaarne
af, hver een, bundne i Krandse, lagte ned i Kiste og over den
bredtes Flaget. Maaskee med de Blomster er Eventyret jordet!
Men derom maatte Blomsterne have vidst, og Kisten havde fornummet
det, Jorden havde fornummet det, hvert lille Græsstraa, der
skød frem, vilde have fortalt det. Eventyret døer aldrig! |
| "Maybe it has been here
and knocked at my door, but I did not hear it. Then life seemed
so hard to bear, and all our thoughts were dark. Spring seemed
an intrusion then, and the songs of the birds and the fresh
green leaves on the trees, that should have made us happy, instead
almost made us angry. Even the old songs that we loved were
put aside with all the other things that were so dear to us,
because our hearts were too heavy to bear them. Yes, then the
fairy tale could have knocked on our doors and it would not
have been heard; and no one would have bade it welcome. It probably
just knocked and when no one answered it walked away. |
Maaskee har det ogsaa
været her og banket paa, men hvo havde dengang Øre for det,
Tanke for det! Man saae mørk, tungsindig, næsten vred til Foraarets
Solskin, dets Fugleqvidder, og alt det fornøielige Grønne; ja
Tungen kunde ikke bære de gamle, folkefriske Sange, de bleve
skrinlagte med Saameget, vort Hjerte havde kjært. Eventyret
kan godt have banket paa; men det er ikke hørt, ikke sagt velkommen,
og saa er det blevet borte. |
| "I shall go out and
search for it, |
Jeg vil gaae at søge
det op. |
| out in the country,
in the forest, by the open sea." |
Ud paa Landet! ud i
Skoven ved den aabne Strand!" |
| Far away from any city
there stood an old castle with red brick walls, corbie gables,
and towers, one of which had a banner flying above it. Here
the nightingale sits singing on the branch of a beech tree,
gazing at the apple blossoms and believing them to be roses.
In summer the bees swarm around their queen, singing their own
songs. In the autumn storms raid the forest, whip the leaves
from the branches, to tell of man's fate. At Christmas, from
the open sea, one hears the song of the wild swan, while up
at the castle everyone moves closer to the stove and is in a
mood to hear the old ballads and sagas. |
Der ude ligger en gammel
Herregaard med røde Mure, takket Gavl og vaiende Flag paa Taarnet.
Nattergalen synger under de fiintfryndsede Bøgeblade, mens den
seer paa Havens blomstrende Æbletræer og troer at de bære Roser.
Her har i Sommersolen Bierne travlt, og med summende Sang sværme
de om deres Dronning. Efteraarsstormen veed at fortælle om den
vilde Jagt, om Menneskeslægter og Skovens Løv, der fare hen.
Ved Juletid synge de vilde Svaner ude fra det aabne Vand, mens
inde i den gamle Gaard, ved Kakkelovnsilden, man føler sig stemt
til at høre Sange og Sagn. |
| In the older part of
the garden there was an avenue of chestnut trees, and there,
attracted by their shade, walked the man who had set out to
find a fairy tale. For here the wind had once sung to him the
story of "Valdemar Daae and His Daughters." Here, too, a druid,
who lived in an old oak tree--she is the mother of all the fairy
tales--had told him the tale of the old oak tree's last dream.
When his grandmother on his mother's side had been alive, there
had been hedges here that had been carefully trimmed; but now
there were only ferns and nettles that grew as they pleased
and concealed almost all the sculpture. The mosses grew right
up into the old stone figures' eyes. For all of that they could
see just as well as they always had been able to, but the man
who was searching for the fairy tale could not. He could not
see the fairy tales any more. Where could they be? |
Ned i den gamle Deel
af Haven, hvor den store Allee af vilde Kastanier lokker med
sit Halvmørke, gik Manden, der søgte Eventyret; her havde engang
Vinden suset for ham om Valdemar Daa og hans Døttre. Dryaden
i Træet, det var Eventyrmoer selv, havde her fortalt ham det
gamle Egetræes Drøm. I Moermoers Tid stode her beskaarne Hækker,
nu voxte kun Bregner og Nelder; de bredte sig over henslængte
Rester af gamle Steenfigurer; der voxte dem Mos i Øinene, men
de kunde ligesaa godt see som før, det kunde Manden efter Eventyr
ikke, han saae ikke Eventyret. Hvor var det? |
| From the tops of the
old trees crows by hundreds cried, "Here! Here! Here!" |
Hen over ham og de gamle
Træer fløi Krager i hundredeviis og skrege: "herfra! herfra!"
|
| He left the garden by
crossing the bridge over the moat, and entered the little copse
of alder trees. Here were the henyard and the duckpond, and
the little hexagonal house where the old woman who ruled over
this little world lived. She knew exactly how many eggs had
been laid and how many chickens had been hatched; but she was
not a fairy tale, for she had been both baptized and vaccinated,
and lying in the top drawer of her chest, she had certificates
to prove it. |
Og han gik: fra Haven
hen over Gaardens Voldgrav, ind i Ellelunden; der stod et lille
sexkantet Huus med Hønsegaard og Andegaard. Midt i Stuen sad
den gamle Kone, som styrede det Hele og vidste nøiagtigt om
hvert Æg, der blev lagt, hver Kylling, der kom ud af Ægget;
men hun var ikke Eventyret, som Manden søgte; det kunde hun
bevise ved christelig Døbeattest og Vaccinationsattest, begge
laae i Dragkisten. |
| Not far from the old
woman's house was a hillock covered with red hawthorn and lovely
yellow laburnum bushes. Here there was an old tombstone. It
had been brought there many years before from the churchyard
in the market town, where it had been chiseled to honor the
memory of a former member of the town council. There he was
surrounded by his wife and five daughters, all wearing ruff
collars and with their hands folded. If you look long enough
at such a stone it becomes part of your thoughts; then it is
as if your mind has entered the stone until both are one, and
it will tell you about bygone times. In any case, that was what
happened to the man who was looking for the fairy tale. This
particular day, he found a living butterfly resting on the stone
head of the councilor. It fluttered its wings and flew a little
distance away, as if it meant to show the man what was growing
there. He bent down. The butterfly had alighted on a four-leaf
clover. Four-leaf clovers bring good luck, and here there was
not only one but seven of them. "Luck comes in crowds," said
the man, and picked them all and put them in his pockets. "They
say that good luck is like ready cash, but I would have preferred
to find a fairy tale," he added with disappointment. |
Udenfor, ikke langt
fra Huset, er en Høi med Rødtjørn og Guldregn; her ligger en
gammel Gravsteen, der for mange Aar siden kom herhid fra Kjøbstadkirkegaarden,
et Minde om en af Byens hæderlige Raadmænd; hans Hustru og hans
fem Døttre, Alle med foldede Hænder og Pibekrave, staae omkring
ham, udhugne i Stenen. Man kunde saalænge betragte denne, at
den ligesom virkede paa Tankerne og disse igjen paa Stenen,
saa at denne fortalte om gamle Tider; idetmindste var det saaledes
gaaet Manden, der søgte Eventyret. Idet han nu kom her, saae
han en levende Sommerfugl sidde lige i Panden paa Raadmandens
udhuggede Billede; den slog med Vingerne, fløi et lille Stykke
og satte sig igjen tæt ved Gravstenen for ligesom at vise, hvad
der groede. Der groede en Fiirkløver, der groede hele syv ved
Siden af hinanden. Kommer Lykken, kommer den fuldtop! han plukkede
Kløverne og puttede dem i Lommen. Lykken er ligesaa god som
rede Penge, men et nyt, deiligt Eventyr var dog endnu bedre,
tænkte Manden, men det fandt han ikke der. |
| The large red sun went
down, and from the meadows vapors rose. The bog witch was brewing
something. |
Solen gik ned, rød og
stor; Engen dampede, Mosekonen bryggede. |
| It was late in the evening.
The man stood alone by the window in his room and looked out
over the garden, the fields, the meadows, and beyond them to
the seacoast. The moon was almost full and its rays played upon
the mist and made the meadow appear like a silver lake, as if
the moon wished to prove the old legend true that told how there
once had been a lake there. The man thought about the book he
had read explaining that William Tell and Holger the Dane were
merely folklore. "As the moonlight can make the lake that is
no longer there reappear, so can the beliefs of the ordinary
people make the legends of old live. Oh yes, Holger the Dane
is not dead! And when his country is in mortal danger he will
come back!" the man concluded. |
Det var ud paa Aftenen;
han stod alene i sin Stue, saae ud over Haven, over Eng, Mose
og Strand; Maanen skinnede klar, der laae en Damp hen over Engen,
som var den en stor Sø, og det havde her engang ogsaa været,
der gik Sagn herom, og i Maaneskinnet viste sig Syn for Sagn.
Da tænkte Manden paa, hvad han inde i Byen havde læst, at Vilhelm
Tell og Holger Danske, ikke havde været til, men i Folketroen
blive de dog, som Søen herude, levende Syn for Sagn. Jo, Holger
Danske kommer igjen! |
| There was a noise at
the window. Perhaps it was a bird: an owl or a bat; the kind
of guests one does not open the window for, no matter how often
they knock. Suddenly the window opened by itself and there stood
an old woman looking in at him. |
Idet han saaledes stod
og tænkte, slog Noget ganske stærkt paa Vinduet. Var det en
Fugl? En Flaggermuus eller en Ugle? Ja, dem lukker man ikke
ind, om de banke paa. Vinduet sprang op af sig selv, en gammel
Kone saae ind paa Manden. |
| "I beg your pardon!"
exclaimed the man, very surprised. "Who are you? You must be
standing on a ladder because my room is on the second story."
|
"Hvad behager!" sagde
han. "Hvem er Hun? Lige ind i første Etage seer Hun. Staaer
Hun paa Stige?" |
| "You have four-leaf
clovers in your pocket, seven of them, and one is a six-leaf
clover." The old woman sniffed and looked about the room. |
"De har en Fiirkløver
i Lommen," sagde hun, "ja De har hele syv, hvoraf den ene er
en Sexkløver!" |
| "Who are you?" demanded
the man. |
"Hvem er Hun?" spurgte
Manden. |
| "I am the bog witch,"
she replied at last. "The bog witch who brews, that's me. And
I am brewing beer right now, but one of the bog children, in
a fit of temper, pulled the tap out of the barrel and cast it
up here, at the castle, where it hit your window; and now all
the beer is running out, which is really to no one's advantage."
|
"Mosekonen!" sagde hun.
"Mosekonen, som brygger; det var jeg ifærd med; Tappen sad i
Tønden, men en af de smaa Moseunger rev i Kaadhed Tappen af,
kylede den lige herop imod Gaarden, hvor den slog mod Vinduet;
nu løber Øllet af Tønden og det er Ingen tjent med." |
| "Please," began the
man, who was looking for a fairy tale, "could you tell me--"
|
"Siig mig dog!" sagde
Manden. |
| "Maybe I could," she
interrupted, "but now I have something more important to attend
to." And she was gone. |
"Ja, vent lidt!" sagde
Mosekonen, "nu har jeg Andet at tage vare!" og saa var hun borte.
|
| Just as the man was
about to close the window she was back again. |
Manden var ved at lukke
Vinduet, saa stod Konen der igien. |
| "Well, that's done,"
she said. "Half of the beer has run out, and I'll have to brew
again tomorrow, if the weather keeps. What did you want to ask
me? I've come back again because I always keep my word. Besides,
you have seven four-leaf clovers in your pocket, one of which
is a six-leaf clover, and that I respect. A six-leaf clover
is one of nature's medals. It can be found growing along the
side of the road but not by just anyone. What do you want? Don't
stand on ceremony, I have to get back to my barrels and my brewing."
|
"Nu er det gjort!" sagde
hun, "men det halve Øl kan jeg brygge om imorgen, om det bliver
Veir dertil. Naa, hvad har De saa at spørge om? Jeg kom igjen,
for jeg holder altid mit Ord, og De har i Lommen syv Fiirkløver,
hvoraf den ene er en Sexkløver, det giver Respect, det er Ordenstegn,
som groe ved Landeveien, men ikke findes af Enhver. Hvad har
De saa at spørge om? Staa nu ikke der som en løierlig Tip, jeg
maa snart afsted til min Tap og min Tønde!" |
| The man asked the bog
witch whether she had seen a fairy tale. |
Og Manden spurgte om
Eventyret, spurgte om Mosekonen havde seet det paa sin Vei.
|
| "By the eternal brewing
vat!" said the bog witch, and laughed. "Haven't you known enough
fairy tales? I am sure most people have. In our times, we have
more important things to think about. Why, even the children
don't care about them any more. The little girls would rather
have a new dress; and as for the boys, I think they'd prefer
a cigar. To listen to fairy tales! You are behind the times!
Today we don't listen, we do things!" |
"Ih, du store Brygning!"
sagde Konen, "har De endnu ikke nok af Eventyret? Det troer
jeg da rigtignok at de Fleste har. Her er Andet at tage vare,
Andet at passe paa. Selv Børnene ere komne ud over det. Giv
Smaadrengene en Cigar og Smaapigerne en ny Crinoline, det holde
de mere af! Høre paa Eventyr! Nei her er sandelig Andet at tage
vare, vigtigere Ting at udrette!" |
| "What do you mean?"
asked the man. "How can you know so much about the world when
you only associate with frogs and will-o'-the-wisps?" |
"Hvad mener De med det?"
sagde Manden. "Og hvad veed De om Verden? De seer jo kun Frøer
og Lygtemænd!" |
| "Yes, you be careful
of the will-o'-the-wisps; they've got loose. Come down to the
meadow and I'll tell you about it. I haven't the time to stand
here any longer. But hurry, while your four-leaf clovers are
still fresh and the moon is up." |
"Ja tag De Dem iagt
for Lygtemændene!" sagde Konen, "de ere ude! de ere slupne løs!
dem skulle vi tale om! kom De til mig i Mosen, hvor min Nærværelse
er nødig; der skal jeg sige Dem det Hele, men skynd Dem lidt
mens Deres syv Fiirkløver med den ene Sexer ere friske og Maanen
endnu er oppe!" |
| And away she went. |
Væk var Mosekonen. |
| The bell in the tower
clock struck twelve. Before the quarter chimes were heard, the
man had run through the garden and was approaching the meadow.
The fog was gone. The bog witch had finished her brewing. |
Klokken slog tolv paa
Taarnuhret, og før den slog Qvarteerslag var Manden ude i Gaarden,
ude af Haven og stod i Engen. Taagen havde lagt sig, Mosekonen
holdt op at brygge. |
| "What a time it took
you," said the bog witch. "Troll beings are faster than human
beings. I am glad I was born a troll." |
"Det varede længe før
De kom!" sagde Mosekonen. "Troldtøi kommer hurtigere frem, end
Mennesker, og jeg er glad ved at jeg er født Troldtøi!" |
| "What can you tell me?"
The man was quite out of breath because he had hurried so much.
"Is it something about a fairy tale?" |
"Hvad har De nu at sige
mig?" spurgte Manden. "Er det et Ord om Eventyret?" |
| "Can't you talk about
anything else?" The bog witch sounded irritated. |
"Kan De da aldrig komme
videre, end at spørge om det?" sagde Konen. |
| "Can you tell me what
the poetry of the future will be like?" |
"Er det da om Fremtids-Poesien,
De kan tale?" spurgte Manden. |
| "Don't be so high-flown.
Come down to earth and maybe I'll answer you," replied the bog
witch. "You only think about poetry and the fairy tale--as if
she were the madam who ruled the roost. She is probably older
than I am though she looks younger. I know her quite well. .
. . I was young once myself--and that's not a disease that only
children suffer from. I was quite a beautiful elf maiden then.
And, like the others, I danced by the light of the moon and
listened to the song of the nightingale; and I went for walks
in the forest where I sometimes met the fairy tale. She was
always running about. She would sleep one night in a tulip and
the next in a rose; and then she used to like to dress herself
up in the mourning crepe that was draped around the candles
in the church." |
"Bliv bare ikke høitravende!"
sagde Konen, "saa skal jeg nok svare! De tænker kun paa Digteriet,
spørger om Eventyret, ligesom om hun var Madamen for det Hele!
hun er nok bare den Ældste, men hun gaaer altid for den Yngste.
Jeg kjender hende nok! jeg har ogsaa været ung, og det er ingen
Børnesygdom. Jeg har engang været en ganske net Elverpige og
dandset med de Andre i Maaneskinnet, hørt paa Nattergalen, gaaet
i Skoven og mødt Eventyrfrøkenen, der altid var ude at føite.
Snart tog hun Natteleie i en halv udsprunget Tulipan eller i
en Engblomme; snart smuttede hun ind i Kirken og svøbte sig
i Sørgefloret, der hang fra Alterlysene!" |
| "You know a lot of lovely
things," said the man quite humbly. |
"De veed deilig Besked!"
sagde Manden. |
| "I know as much as you
do, anyway," said the bog witch, and wrinkled her nose, which
wasn't as pretty as it had been when she was an elf maiden.
"Poetry and the fairy tales are cut from the same cloth; and
as far as I am concerned, they can go and lie down wherever
they please. All their work and all their talk--the same stuff
can be brewed both cheaper and faster than they do it. I'll
give you some for nothing. I have a chestful of bottled poetry.
There you will find the essence of poetry, the very best of
it, brewed from both bitter and sweet herbs: all the poetry
that a man needs, and he can put a drop or two on his handkerchief
for Sundays and holidays." |
"Jeg skulde da sagtens
vide ligesaa Meget, som De veed!" sagde Mosekonen. "Eventyr
og Poesi, ja de er to Alen af eet Stykke: de kunne gaae at lægge
sig hvor de ville. Al deres Værk og Tale kan man brygge efter
og have bedre og billigere. De skal faae dem hos mig for Ingenting.
Jeg har et heelt Skab fuldt af Poesi paa Flasker. Det er Essentsen,
det Fine af den; Urten, baade den søde og beeske. Jeg har paa
Flaske Alt hvad Menneskene behøve af Poesi, for om Helligdagene
at faae Lidt paa Lommetørklædet at lugte til!" |
| "How amazing!" exclaimed
the man. "You mean you actually have poetry in bottles?" |
"Det er ganske forunderlige
Ting, De siger," sagde Manden. "Har De Poesi paa Flasker?" |
| "More than you could
bear to sniff," answered the bog witch. "Have you heard the
story about the girl who stepped on a loaf of bread to avoid
getting her shoes dirty? I believe someone wrote it down and
it has since been printed." |
"Meer end De kan taale!"
sagde Konen. "De kjender vel Historien om Pigen, som traadte
paa Brødet, for ikke at smudske sine nye Skoe? Den er baade
skreven og trykt." |
| "I am the one who wrote
it," said the man. |
"Den har jeg selv fortalt,"
sagde Manden. |
| "Well, in that case
you must be familiar with it. Do you remember what happened
to the girl, how she sank down into the ground? Well, she landed
right in my brewery, on the very day when the Devil's great-grandmother
was paying me a visit. 'Give me that creature who's just sunk
down here as a memento,' begged the Devil's great-grandmother,
'and I'll put her on a pedestal to remind me of my visit with
you.' So I gave her the girl and the Devil's great-grandmother
in return gave me her portable medicine chest--not that I have
any use for it, it's filled with poetry in bottles. Look around!
You have your seven four-leaf clovers in your pocket and one
of them is a six-leaf clover, so you ought to be able to see
it." |
"Ja, saa kan De den,"
sagde Konen, "og veed, at Pigen sank lige ned i Jorden til Mosekonen,
just som Fandens Oldemoer gjorde Visit for at see Bryggeriet.
Hun saae Pigen, som sank, og udbad sig hende til Postament,
en Erindring om Besøget, og hun fik hende, og jeg fik en Foræring,
som jeg har intet Gavn af, et Reise-Apothek, et heelt Skab fyldt
med Poesi paa Flasker. Oldemoer sagde, hvor Skabet skulde staae,
og der staaer det endnu. See engang! De har jo Deres syv Fiirkløver
i Lommen, hvoraf den ene er en Sexkløver, saa vil De nok kunne
see det!" |
| There in the middle
of the meadow was something that looked like the stump of an
alder tree, but it was the cabinet that had belonged to the
Devil's great-grandmother. "Anyone in the whole world could
come and make use of it, the problem is to be able to find it,"
said the bog witch. The cabinet could be opened in front and
in back, on all four sides, and at the comers. It was a work
of art and yet it resembled an ordinary tree stump. Poets from
all over the world, but especially from our own Denmark, were
to be found here in imitation. The best of their work had been
selected, criticized, improved upon, and finally brought up
to date. With great talent--that is the word generally used
when one does not want to say "genius"--the Devil's great-grandmother
had taken from nature the smell or the taste that seemed most
like this or that poet, added a bit of witchcraft to it, and
presto! she had poetry in bottles, preserved for eternity. |
Og virkeligt, midt i
Mosen laae ligesom en stor Elletrunte, det var Oldemoers Skab.
Det stod aabent for Mosekonen og for Enhver i alle Lande og
i alle Tider, sagde hun, naar de kun vidste, hvor Skabet stod.
Det var til at aabne for og bag, paa alle Sider og Kanter, et
heelt Konststykke, og saae dog kun ud som en gammel Elletrunte.
Alle Landes Poeter, især vort eget Lands, vare her lavede efter;
Geisten af dem var speculeret ud, recenseret, renoveret, concentreret
og sat paa Flaske. Med stort Instinkt, som det kaldes, naar
man ikke vil sige Geni, havde Oldemoer taget det i Naturen,
der ligesom smagte af den eller den Poet, sat lidt Djævelskab
til, og saa havde hun hans Poesi paa Flaske for hele Fremtiden.
|
| "Let me have a look
inside!" begged the man. |
"Lad mig see engang!"
sagde Manden. |
| "I have more important
things than that to talk with you about," the bog witch insisted.
|
"Ja, men der er vigtigere
Ting at høre!" sagde Mosekonen. |
| "But now that we are
here," mumbled the man as he opened the chest. "There are bottles
of all different sizes," he said excitedly. "What's in this
one? . . . And in that?" |
"Men nu ere vi ved Skabet!"
sagde Manden og saae derind. "Her ere Flasker af alle Størrelser.
Hvad er der i den? Og hvad i den?" |
| "That one is called
'Aroma of May.'" The bog witch stared at the small green bottle.
"I haven't tried it, but they say that, if you spill a little
on the floor, where it falls a beautiful pond appears, the kind
you find in the forest in which water lilies and mint are growing.
A drop or two in a notebook, even one from the first grade,
and you have a comedy of fragrance strong enough to be produced
and long enough to make you fall asleep. I am sure that it is
meant as a compliment to me that the label reads: 'Brewed by
the Bog Witch.'" |
"Her er det, de kalde
Maiduft!" sagde Konen, "jeg har ikke prøvet den, men jeg veed,
at slaaer man af den kun en lille Slat paa Gulvet, saa staaer
der strax en deilig Skovsø, med Aakander, Brudelys og vilde
Krusemynter. Man helder bare to Draaber paa en gammel Stilebog,
selv fra nederste Classe, og saa bliver Bogen en heel Duft-Komedie,
som man meget godt kan opføre og falde isøvn over, saa stærkt
dufter den. Det skal nok være en Høflighed mod mig, at der staaer
skrevet paa Flasken: 'Mosekonens Bryg.' |
| Another bottle was called
"Scandal." It looked as if it contained only dirty water, and
that was what was in it; but a powder of town gossip, made up
of two grains of truth and two barrels of lies, had been added
to make it fizz. The mixture had been carefully stirred with
a birch branch--not one that had been used on a criminal's back
or by a schoolmaster on naughty children, but a branch that
had been taken from a broom with which the gutters were swept.
|
Her staaer Skandale-Flasken.
Det seer ud, som om der kun var snavset Vand i den, og det er
snavset Vand, men med Bruuspulver af Bysladder; tre Lod Løgn
og to Gran Sandhed, rørt om med en Birkeqvist, ikke fra en Spidsrod,
lagt i Saltlage og skaaren ud af Synderens blodige Krop, eller
en Stump fra Skolemesterens Riis, nei lige tagen fra Kosten,
der feiede Rendestenen. |
| There was also a bottle
of devotional poetry, ready to be set to music like the psalms.
Every drop in the bottle had been inspired by the portals of
hell, and penned with the sweat and blood of penance. Some say
that this bottle contains only the gall of doves; but others,
who know nothing about zoology, claim that doves are so good
and gentle that they don't have any gall. |
Her staaer Flasken med
den fromme Poesi, udi Psalmetone. Hver Draabe har Klang, som
Smæld af Helvedes Porte, og er lavet af Tugtelsens Blod og Sved;
Nogle sige, det er kun Duegalde; men Duerne ere de frommeste
Dyr, de have ingen Galde, sige Folk, der ikke kunne Naturhistorie."
|
| There stood the bottle
of all bottles: the largest of them all, and it took up half
the space in the cabinet. It was filled with true-to-life everyday
stories. It had been doubly sealed with skin from both the hide
and the bladder of a pig, because it lost its flavor so easily.
From this bottle, every nation could make its own soup, all
depending on how you turned and tipped the bottle. There was
old German blood soup with robber dumplings; tasteless English
governess soup; a French potage a la Coque, made from the legs
of cock and sparrows' eggs--in Danish, it is called cancan soup.
There was also a soup for those who like high society, with
counts and courtiers in the bottom of the plate and a greasy
glob of philosophy floating on top. Oh, there was an endless
variety in that bottle; but the best soup of all was Copenhagen
soup, at least that was what everybody in Denmark said. |
Her stod Flasken for
alle Flasker; den bredte sig i det halve Skab: Flasken med Hverdagshistorier;
den var bunden til baade med Svineskind og med Blæreskind, for
den kunde ikke taale at tabe af sin Kraft. Hver Nation kunde
her faae sin egen Suppe, den kom eftersom man vendte og dreiede
Flasken. Her var gammel tydsk Blodsuppe med Røverboller, ogsaa
tynd Huusmandssuppe med virkelige Hofraader, der laae som Rødder,
og hen over dem svømmede philosophiske Fedtøine. Der var engelsk
Gouvernante-Suppe og den franske Potage a la Kock, lavet paa
Hanebeen og Spurveæg, paa Dansk kaldet Cancan-Suppe; men den
bedste af Supperne var den kjøbenhavnske. Det sagde Familien.
|
| Tragedy had been put
into champagne bottles because it must begin with a bang. Light
comedy was nothing but a bottleful of sand to throw into the
eyes of the audience. There were bottles of the more vulgar
kind of comedy but they were empty except for the playbills,
on which the titles were in the boldest type: "Do You Dare to
Spit in the Machine?" "A Right to the Jaw." "The Sweet Donkey."
|
Her stod Tragedien paa
Champagneflaske; den kunde knalde, og det skal den. Lystspillet
saae ud som fiint Sand til at kaste Folk i Øinene, det vil sige,
det finere Lystspil; det grovere var ogsaa paa Flaske, men bestod
kun af Fremtids-Placater, hvor Navnet paa Stykket var det Kraftigste.
Der var udmærkede Komedie-Navne, saaledes: "Tør Du spytte i
Værket?", "Een paa Gummerne," "Det søde Asen" og "Hun er sprøitefuld!"
|
| The man looked thoughtfully
at all the bottles, but the bog witch had no patience with them,
she had more important matters to think about. |
Manden faldt ganske
hen i Tanker derved, men Mosekonen tænkte længere frem, hun
vilde have Ende paa det. |
| "You have looked long
enough at that junk shop," she said. "Now you know what's to
be found there, but what it is really important for you to know
I haven't told you yet. The will-o'-the-wisps are in town; and
some people, who have more sense in their legs than in their
heads, have already fallen into the bog chasing them. This is
more important than talking about poetry or fairy tales. Maybe
I should keep quiet about it, but something--I don't know what
it is, maybe fate--bids me speak. It is stuck in my throat and
has to come out: the will-o'-the-wisps are in town! They are
on the loose. Beware, all human beings!" |
"Nu har De vel seet
nok i Kramkisten!" sagde hun, "nu veed De, hvad der er; men
det Vigtigere, De skulde vide, veed De ikke endnu. Lygtemændene
ere i Byen! Det har Mere at betyde, end Poesi og Eventyr. Jeg
skulde nu holde Mund dermed, men det maa være en Styrelse, en
Skjæbne, Noget, der gaaer mig over, det er sat mig i Qværken,
det maa herud. Lygtemændene ere i Byen! de ere slupne løs! tag
Eder iagt, Mennesker!" |
| "I don't understand
a word you're saying," said the man, who looked as confused
as he was. |
"Det forstaaer jeg ikke
et Ord af!" sagde Manden. |
| "Make yourself comfortable.
Sit down on the cabinet, but be careful not to fall in and break
the bottles; after all, you know what's inside them. I shall
tell you all about the great event. It happened only yesterday.
It has happened once or twice before in history, but that doesn't
make it any less important. There are three hundred and sixty-four
days left. You know how many days there are in a year, I suppose."
|
"Vær saa god at sætte
Dem paa Skabet!" sagde hun, "men fald ikke ind i det og slaae
Flaskerne itu; De veed, hvad der er i dem. Jeg skal fortælle
den store Begivenhed; den er ikke ældre end fra igaar; den er
hændet tidligere. Denne har endnu trehundrede og fireogtredsindstyve
Dage at løbe paa. De veed vel, hvormange Dage der er i Aaret?"
|
| With that as an introduction
the bog witch finally began her tale: |
Og Mosekonen fortalte.
|
| "Yesterday a great event
took place out in the swamp. A will-o'-the-wisp was born; that
is, twelve will-o'-the-wisps were born, for that is the number
there is in a litter. And it was a very special event, for these
will-o'-the-wisps, if they want to, can change themselves into
human beings, and live and rule among you as if they had been
born of women. It caused great excitement; and all the will-o'-the-wisps--both
the male and the female--were dancing in the fields. There are
female will-o'-the-wisps, but there is none in that litter.
I was sitting on the cabinet, right where you are now, and had
all twelve of the little ones in my lap. They were shining like
glowworms and had already begun to hop about. They grew by the
minute; and within a quarter of an hour they were as big as
their father or their uncles. Now it is an old law--a boon granted
long ago to the will-o'-the-wisps--that when the moon is in
the particular position that it was last night, and the wind
is blowing from the particular direction that it did last night;
then all of the will-o'-the-wisps born during that hour and
that minute can become human beings. For a whole year they have
a chance to show what use they can make of their powers. A will-o'-the-wisp
can move so quickly that he can travel around the whole world.
The only things he needs to be careful of are sea and storm,
which could put out his light. They can enter any human being--man
or woman --they choose to and imitate his talk and behavior
to perfection. If during one year the will-o'-the-wisp can make
three hundred and sixty-five people err in a grand, not a small
way, leaving the road of truth and decency, then he will be
rewarded by being appointed to the greatest position that a
will-o'-the-wisp can hope for; namely, to become a runner in
front of the Devil's carriage of state. He will be given a bright
orange uniform and taught how to breathe fire. Now that is something
to make any will-o'-the-wisp lick his chops. But there are also
dangers for such an ambitious will-o'-the-wisp. If a human being
sees through his disguise, he can blow out the light and back
into the swamp the will-o'-the-wisp must go. If he gets sick
with longing for his family and the bog, his light will flicker
and finally go out; and that is the end of him, he can never
be relighted. And even if he does manage to remain a whole year
among men, he still runs a risk; for if he fails to turn three
hundred and sixty-five people from searching for truth and beauty,
and doing good, then he must lie forever in a rotten tree and
just glow, without being able to move about. And no punishment
could be worse for a will-o'-the-wisp because they do so like
to gallivant about. While they sat in my lap I told them of
the honor they could achieve, but also of the risks they would
have to run. I warned them that it would be more comfortable
and secure to remain in the marsh, instead of running after
fame and glory. But they were already imagining themselves dressed
in bright orange and breathing fire out of their mouths. Some
of the old will-o'-the-wisps said, 'Stay with us.' But there
were others who encouraged them. 'Go and play all the tricks
you can on human beings,' they cried. 'Man has drained our swamps
and dried up the meadows, what will become of our descendants?'
|
"Her var Stort paafærde
igaar, ude i Sumpen! her var Barnegilde! her blev født en lille
Lygtemand, her blev født tolv af det Kuld, som det er givet,
at de kunne, om de ville, træde op som Mennesker og agere og
commandere imellem disse, ligesom om de vare fødte Mennesker.
Det er en stor Begivenhed i Sumpen, og derfor dandsede som Smaalys,
hen over Mose og Eng, alle Lygtemænd og Lygtekoner; der er ogsaa
Hunkjøn, men de ere ikke i Omtale. Jeg sad paa Skabet der og
havde paa mit Skjød alle de tolv smaa, nyfødte Lygtemænd; de
skinnede som Sanct Hansorme; de begyndte allerede at hoppe,
og hvert Minut toge de til i Størrelse, saa at, før et Qvarteer
var omme, saae hver af dem ligesaa stor ud, som Fader eller
Onkel. Nu er det en gammel medfødt Lov og Begunstigelse, at
naar Maanen netop staaer som den stod igaar, og den Vind blæser
som blæste igaar, saa er det givet og forundt alle de Lygtemænd,
som i den Time og i det Minut fødes, at kunne blive Mennesker,
og hver af dem, et heelt Aar igjennem, rundt om øve deres Magt.
Lygtemanden kan løbe Landet rundt og Verden med, om han ikke
er bange for at falde i Søen eller blæses ud i en svær Storm.
Han kan fare lige lukt ind i Mennesket, tale for ham og gjøre
alle Bevægelser, han vil. Lygtemanden kan paatage sig hvilkensomhelst
Skikkelse, Mand eller Qvinde, handle i deres Aand, men med hele
sin egen Yderlighed, saa at der kommer ud af det hvad han vil;
men i eet Aar maa han vide og forstaae at føre trehundrede og
femogtredsindstyve Mennesker paa gal Vei og det i stor Stiil,
føre dem bort fra det Sande og det Rigtige, da opnaaer han det
Høieste, en Lygtemand kan drive det til, at blive Løber foran
Fandens Stadskarreet, faae gloende brandguul Kjole og Luen lige
ud af Halsen. Det kan en simpel Lygtemand slikke sig om Munden
efter. Men der er ogsaa Fare og stort Bryderi for en ærgjærrig
Lygtemand, der agter at spille en Rolle. Faaer Mennesket Øinene
op for hvem han er, og kan blæse ham væk, saa er han væk og
maa tilbage i Sumpen; og dersom, før Aaret er omme, Lygtemanden
betages af Længsel efter at komme til sin Familie, opgiver sig
selv, saa er han ogsaa væk, kan ikke længer brænde klart, gaaer
snart ud og kan ikke tændes igjen; og er Aaret endt, og han
da endnu ikke har ført tre hundrede og femogtredsindstyve Mennesker
bort fra Sandheden og hvad godt og deiligt er, saa er han dømt
til at ligge i raaddent Træ og skinne uden at kunne røre sig,
og det er den frygteligste Straf for en livlig Lygtemand. Alt
dette vidste jeg og alt dette sagde jeg de tolv smaa Lygtemænd,
jeg sad med paa Skjødet, og de vare som ellevilde af Glæde.
Jeg sagde dem, at det var det Sikkreste og Mageligste at opgive
Æren og ikke at bestille Noget; det vilde de unge Blus ikke,
de saae sig allerede gloende brandguul med Luen ud af Halsen.
"Bliv hos os!" sagde nogle af de Gamle. "Driv Spil med Menneskene!"
sagde de Andre. "Menneskene tørre vore Enge ud, de draine! hvad
skal der blive af vore Efterkommere!" |
| "'We want to breathe
fire! We want to breathe fire!' shouted the newly born will-o'-the-wisps;
and there was nothing more to discuss. |
"Vi ville flamme mig
flamme!" sagde de nyfødte Lygtemænd, og saa var det afgjort.
|
| "To celebrate the decision
there was a minute-long dance; it couldn't have been shorter.
The elf maidens joined in the dance, but that was in order not
to appear too proud, for in truth they preferred dancing by
themselves. Then came the time for the giving of gifts to the
twelve will-o'-the-wisps. Down in the swamp we call it playing
ducks and drakes because the presents are skimmed across the
water like stones. Each of the elf maidens gave a will-o'-the-wisp
a piece of her veil. 'Take it,' the elf maidens explained, 'for
as soon as you have it in your hands, you'll know all the difficult
dance steps; you'll be able to do all the swings and turns,
exactly when and as you should; and you'll have a bearing that
will make you respected in the proudest company.' The raven
taught every will-o'-the-wisp to say, 'Braaaa . . . Braaaa .
. . Braaaaa.' And that is well worth knowing how to say, especially
at the right moment. The stork and the owl presented their gifts,
but they said that they weren't worth mentioning, so I won't
tell what they were. While these festivities were going on,
King Valdemar and his men came riding by. And when the old king,
who has been condemned to hunt until Judgment Day, heard of
the event he gave away two of his hounds as a gift. These dogs
are as swift as the wind and can carry as many as three will-o'-the-wisps
at a time on each of their backs. Two old nightmares, who earn
their living by hauling wares for those who live in the swamp,
taught the will-o'-the-wisps the art of slipping through keyholes,
which means that every door will be open to them. Two witches--but
no relations of mine--offered to show the will-o'-the-wisps
the way to town. Usually they ride on their own long hair, which
they tie into knots to have something hard to sit on; but this
time they rode on King Valdemar's dogs and had on their laps
the young will-o'-the-wisps, who were setting out on their travels
to bewilder and mislead human beings. Whoosh! And away they
went! Now you know everything that happened last night. The
will-o'-the-wisps are in town and they've already started their
work. Exactly how or what they are doing I cannot say. But I
have had a pain in the big toe of my left foot most of the day
and there's always a reason for that." |
Her blev strax Minut-Bal,
kortere kunde det ikke være! Elverpigerne svang sig tre Gange
rundt med alle de Andre, for ikke at synes storagtige; de dandse
ellers helst med sig selv. Saa blev der givet Faddergave: "kastet
Smut", som det hedder. Foræringerne fløi, som Kiselstene, hen
over Mosevandet. Hver af Elverpigerne gav en Flig af deres Slør:
'Tag den!' sagde de, 'saa kan Du strax den høiere Dands, de
vanskeligste Sving og Vendinger, naar det kniber; Du faaer den
rette Holdning og kan vise Dig i de strunkeste Selskaber. Natravnen
lærte hver af de unge Lygtemænd at sige: 'Bra', bra', brav!'
sige det paa det rette Sted, og det er en stor Gave, der lønner
sig selv. Uglen og Storken lode ogsaa Noget falde, men det var
ikke værd at tale om, sagde de, og saa tale vi ikke om det.
Kong Valdemars vilde Jagt foer just hen over Mosen, og da det
Herskab hørte om Stadsen, sendte de til Foræring et Par fine
Hunde, der jage med Vindens Fart og nok kunne bære en Lygtemand
eller tre. To gamle Marer, som ernære sig ved at ride, vare
med ved Gildet; de lærte strax fra sig den Konst at slippe ind
igjennem et Nøglehul, det er som om alle Døre stode aabne for
En. De tilbøde at føre de unge Lygtemænd til Byen, hvor de vidste
god Besked. De rede sædvanligviis gjennem Luften paa deres eget
lange Nakkehaar, som de havde bundet Knude paa, for at sidde
haardt, men nu satte de sig hver skrævs over den vilde Jagts
Hunde, toge paa Skjødet de unge Lygtemænd, der skulde ind at
forlede og forvilde Menneskene, -hutsch! vare de borte. Det
var Altsammen igaar Nat. Nu ere Lygtemændene i Byen, nu have
de taget fat, men hvordan og hvorledes, ja siig mig det! Jeg
har en Veirtraad igjennem min store Taa, den siger mig altid
Noget!" |
| "What a fairy tale!"
exclaimed the man, who had not said a word while the bog witch
was talking, but who had felt like interrupting a couple of
times. |
"Det er et heelt Eventyr!"
sagde Manden. |
| "No, it is only the
beginning of the adventure," the bog witch corrected him. "Do
you know what shapes the will-o'-the-wisps have taken or whose
bodies they may enter, in order to lead the poor human creatures
astray?" |
"Ja, det er da kun Begyndelsen
til eet!" sagde Konen. "Kan De fortælle mig, hvorledes Lygtemændene
nu tumle og tee sig, i hvilke Skikkelser de ere traadte op for
at faae Menneskene paa gale Veie!" |
| "It is a whole novel
about will-o'-the-wisps, and in twelve volumes: one for each
will-o'-the-wisp. . . . Or better still, a musical comedy,"
the man said excitedly. |
"Jeg troer nok," sagde
Manden, "der kunde skrives en heel Roman om Lygtemændene, hele
tolv Dele, een om hver Lygtemand, eller maaskee endnu bedre,
en heel Folkekomedie!" |
| "Why don't you write
it?" the bog witch asked. A moment later she added, "But maybe
you shouldn't." |
"Den skulde De skrive!"
sagde Konen, "eller hellere lade være!" |
| "It is a great deal
easier and pleasanter not to." The man sighed. "If I write anything,
then I shall be at the mercy of the newspapers, and that is
as horrible for an author, as it is for a will-o'-the-wisp to
lie in a rotten tree stump and glow, without being able to move
or say a word." |
"Ja, det er mageligere
og behageligere!" sagde Manden, "saa slipper man for at tøires
i Avisen, og det er tidt ligesaa trangt som for en Lygtemand
at ligge i raaddent Træ, skinne og ikke turde sige et Muk!"
|
| "That's for you to decide,"
said the bog witch. "Let those write who can; and those who
can't, they can write too. They need only come to me and I'll
let them take anything they want from the cabinet filled with
bottled poetry. . . . But as for you, my good man, it seems
to me that you have had enough ink on your fingers already.
You have reached an age when you ought to be old enough not
to chase fairy tales. Have you understood my tale? Do you realize
what is going on?" |
"Mig er det lige fedt!"
sagde Konen, "men lad hellere de Andre skrive, de som kunne
og de som ikke kunne. Jeg giver fra min Tønde en gammel Tap,
den lukker op Skabet med Poesi paa Flasker, derfra kunne de
faae hvad der skorter for dem! men De, min gode Mand, synes
mig nu at have blækket Deres Fingre nok til og maa være kommen
til den Alder og Sathed, ikke hvert Aar at løbe efter Eventyr,
nu her er langt vigtigere Ting at gjøre! De har vel dog forstaaet,
hvad der er paafærde?" |
| "I know that the will-o'-the-wisps
are in town. You have told me so. I have heard it and, what
is more, I have understood what it means," the man replied sadly.
"But what do you want me to do? If I start saying that certain
honorable men are only will-o'-the-wisps in disguise, I'll be
stoned." |
"Lygtemændene ere i
Byen!" sagde Manden, "jeg har hørt det, jeg har forstaaet det!
men hvad vil De, at jeg skal gjøre? Jeg vil jo blive dænget
over, om jeg seer og siger Folk: see engang, der gaaer en Lygtemand
i hæderlig Kjole -!" |
| "They can wear skirts
as well," said the bog witch, looking at him thoughtfully. "They
can enter a woman, too. They don't mind going to church, but
they prefer to creep inside the minister and hold the sermon.
On election day they are busy; they are speaking not for their
country's sake but for their own. They become artists, too.
But when they have taken over art, then there is no art. . .
. I talk on and on. . . . Whatever it was that got stuck in
my throat is almost gone now. I have spoken against my own family--for,
though distant, the will-o'-the-wisps are cousins of mine--and
now I am the savior of humanity! I don't know why I have done
it, it is certainly not to get a medal. It's the maddest thing
I could do: to tell everything to a poet and now the whole town
will know about it." |
"De gaae ogsaa i Skjørter!"
sagde Konen. "Lygtemanden kan paatage sig alle Skikkelser og
træde op paa alle Steder. Han gaaer i Kirke, ikke for Vorherres
Skyld, maaskee er han faret i Præsten! Han taler paa Valgdag,
ikke for Land og Riges Skyld, men kun for sin egen; han er Konstner,
baade i Farvepotten og i Theaterpotten, men faaer han ganske
Magten, saa er Potten ude! Jeg snakker og jeg snakker, jeg maa
ud med hvad der sidder mig i Qværken, til Skade for min egen
Familie; men jeg skal nu være Menneskenes Redningskone! Det
er sandelig ikke med min gode Villie eller for Medaillens Skyld.
Jeg gjør det Galeste, jeg kan, jeg siger det til en Poet, og
saa faaer da snart hele Byen det at vide!" |
| "But no one will care,"
said the man. "Not one person will pay any attention to anything
I say. They will all believe that I am telling a fairy tale
when I say: 'Beware! The will-o'-the-wisps are in town!' said
the bog witch!" |
"Byen lægger sig det
ikke paa Hjertet!" sagde Manden. "Det vil ikke anfegte et eneste
Menneske, de troe Allesammen at jeg fortæller et Eventyr, idet
jeg med den inderligste Alvor siger dem: Lygtemændene ere i
Byen, sagde Mosekonen, tag Eder iagt!'" |
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