The Tales of Hans Christian Andersen

The Wood Nymph - Dryaden.

1868

We are going to Paris to see the, great exhibition. Vi reise til Udstillingen i Paris.
Now we are there. The journey did not take long, and there was no witchcraft involved; we went by steam, across both the sea and the land. Nu ere vi der! det var en Flugt, en Fart, aldeles uden Trolddom; vi gik med Damp i Fartøi og paa Landevei.
Our age is the age in which fairy tales come true. Vor Tid er Eventyrets Tid.
Now we are in the middle of Paris in a grand hotel. There are even potted plants along the staircases, and soft carpeting covers every step. Vi ere midt i Paris, i et stort Hotel. Blomster pynte heelt op ad Trappen, bløde Tæpper hen over Trinene.
Our room is comfortable. The doors to the balcony are open, and from it you can look down on the square. There spring came that day in the form of a young chestnut tree with new and tender leaves. The other trees on the square still have barren branches, and one of them no longer belongs to the living. It has gone out, and there it lies, outstretched on the ground, dug up by the roots. The young chestnut tree that is to take its place is still standing in the wagon which brought it this morning from the country. Vor Stue er hyggelig, Balcondøren staaer aaben ud til en stor Plads. Dernede boer Foraaret, det er kjørt til Paris, indtruffet paa samme Tid som vi, det er kommet i Skikkelse af et stort ungt Kastanietræ, med nys udsprungne, fine Blade; hvor er det klædt i Foraars-Deilighed fremfor de andre Træer paa Pladsen! et af disse er aldeles gaaet ud af de levende Træers Tal, og ligger, rykket op med Rod, kastet hen over Jorden. Der, hvor det stod, skal nu det friske Kastanietræ plantes og groe.
It is several decades old, which is young for a chestnut tree. It grew up close to an old oak tree, under which there was a bench. Here during the summer an old priest liked to sit and tell stories to the children of the village. The young chestnut tree listened too--or rather, the wood nymph or dryad, as they are called, liked to listen. Every tree, as you know, has a nymph within it. This dryad was still a child. She could remember the time when she had been younger and the chestnut tree was so small that it had hardly reached above the tallest grass, and had been shorter than the ferns. The grass and the ferns had been full grown, but the tree hadn't. It had drunk of the air and sunshine, the rain and the dew; and each year it had grown. The wind had shaken it, but that had been necessary and only good for the tree: it was part of being brought up. Endnu har det Plads, høit stillet op, paa den tunge Vogn, der i denne Morgen bragte det til Paris, flere Mile borte fra, paa Landet. Der havde det staaet i Aaringer tæt ved en mægtig Eeg, og under den sad tidt den gamle velsignede Præst, der talte og fortalte for de lyttende Børn. Det unge Kastanietræ hørte med derpaa; Dryaden inde i det var jo Barn endnu; hun kunde huske tilbage i Tiden, da Træet var saa lille, at det kun ragede lidt op over de høie Græsstraa og Bregner. De vare da saa store de kunde blive, men Træet voxte og tog til hvert Aar, drak Luft og Solskin, fik Dug og Regn og blev, som nødvendigt var, rusket og rystet af de stærke Vinde. Det hører til Opdragelsen.
The dryad had been happy, satisfied with her lot. She loved the sunshine and the songs of the birds, but best of all she liked to listen to a human voice. She understood human language as well as she understood the animals. Dryaden var glad ved sit Liv og sin Leven, ved Solskinnet og Fuglenes Sang, men dog gladest ved Menneskenes Stemme, hun forstod deres Tale ligesaa godt som hun forstod Dyrenes.
Dragonflies, butterflies, even houseflies would come visiting everything that had wings. Gossip they all did. They told about the village, the vineyards, the school, and the old castle with its park, where there were canals and a lake. Down in the water there lived animals that flew under water. They were very intelligent and knew so much that they never said anything. Sommerfugle, Guldsmede og Fluer, ja, Alt hvad flyve kunde, aflagdeVisit; sladdre gjorde de Allesammen: fortalte om Landsbyen, Viinmarken, Skoven, det gamle Slot med Parken, hvori var Canaler og Damme; dernede i Vandet boede ogsaa levende Væsener, der paa deres Maade kunde flyve fra Sted til Sted under Vandet, Væsener med Kundskab og Tænkning; de sagde ikke Noget, saa kloge vare de.
The swallow had told the dryad about the beautiful goldfish, the fat tench, and the old algae-covered carp. The swallow was good at describing them, but--as she admitted herself--it wasn't the same as seeing the fish with one's own eyes. But how was the dryad ever to be able to do that? She was imprisoned in her tree and had to be satisfied with seeing the landscape from where she stood and trying to imagine all the human activity. Og Svalen, der havde dukket ned i Vandet, fortalte om de smukke Guldfiske, om den fede Brasen, de tykke Suder og de gamle, mosgroede Karudser. Svalen gav en meget god Beskrivelse, men man seer dog bedre selv, sagde den; men hvor skulde nogensinde Dryaden faae de Væsener at see! hun maatte lade sig nøie med at kunne see ud over det deilige Landskab og fornemme den travle Menneskevirksomhed.
Guests were welcome but, of all of them, she liked best the old priest who came to sit beneath the oak tree and told stories to the children about the history of France: tales about great deeds done in bygone days, about the men and women whose names are still mentioned with reverence. Deiligt var det, men deiligst dog, naar den gamle Præst stod her under Egen og fortalte om Frankrig, om Stordaad af Mænd og Qvinder, hvis Navne nævnedes i Beundring gjennem alle Tider.
The dryad heard about Joan of Arc, Charlotte Corday, Henry IV, and Napoleon. She heard the stories of the lives of all those dead whose names still echo in living hearts. France is a great country. Here freedom was born, and skill and talent are nourished. Dryaden hørte om Hyrdepigen Jeanne d'Arc, om Charlotte Corday, hun hørte om ældgammel Tid, om Henrik den Fjerdes og Napoleon den Førstes Tid, og heelt op i Nutid om Dygtighed og Storhed; hun hørte Navne, i hvert var en Klang ind i Folkets Hjerte: Frankrig er Verdens-Landet, Snillets Jordbund med Frihedens Krater!
The children listened with great attention to the old priest, and the dryad listened too. She was a schoolgirl like the others. She would look up at the sky. That was her picture book, and the ever changing shapes of the clouds were the illustrations for the stories she heard. Landsbybørnene hørte andægtigt til, Dryaden ikke mindre; hun var Skolebarn med de Andre. Hun saae i de seilende Skyers Skikkelse Billed paa Billed af hvad hun havde hørt fortælle.
  Skyhimlen var hendes Billedbog.
She was happy living in the beautiful French countryside, yet she could not help feeling that the birds, and every other animal that could fly, were more fortunate than she was. Even the fly could travel and see much more than she could. Hun følte sig saa lykkelig i det skjønne Frankrig, men havde dog en Følelse af at Fuglene, at hvert Dyr, der kunde flyve, vare langt mere begunstigede end hun. Selv Fluen kunde see sig om, vidt omkring, langt ud over Dryadens Synskreds.
France was so large and beautiful, as the dryad knew, and she could see only so small a part of it. The country was as wide as a world, with vineyards, forests, and great towns. The greatest of them all was Paris. The birds had been there; but she--the wood nymph--would never see it. Frankrig var saa udstrakt og herligt, men hun saae kun en lille Plet deraf; verdensvidt strakte Landet sig med Viinmarker, Skove og store Byer, og af alle disse var Paris den herligste, den mægtigste. Derhen kunde Fuglene naae, men aldrig hun.
Among the children of the village was a little girl who was terribly poor; her clothes were only rags, but she was beautiful. She sang, laughed, and danced, and braided bright red flowers in her jet-black hair. Der var imellem Landsbyens Børn en lille Pige, saa pjaltet, saa fattig, men deilig at see paa; altid sang hun og loe hun, bandt røde Blomster i sit sorte Haar.
"You must never go to Paris," said the old priest. "Poor child, if you ever go there, it will be your ruin." "Kom ikke til Paris!" sagde den gamle Præst. "Stakkels Barn! kommer Du der, det bliver din Fordærv!"
She went to Paris anyway, Og dog gik hun derhen.
and the dryad often thought about her, for the wood nymph had the same longing as the girl had had for the great city. Dryaden tænkte tidt paa hende, de havde jo Begge samme Lyst og Længsel efter den store Stad.
A few years went by. Det blev Vaar, Sommer, Høst, Vinter; et Par Aar gik hen.
The dryad's tree blossomed for the first time and the birds sang about it. A fine carriage drove by; the horses were beautiful. An elegant lady held the reins herself, while the groom sat behind. The dryad recognized her, and so did the old priest. He shook his head sadly and said: Dryadens Træ bar sine første Kastanieblomster, Fuglene qviddrede derom i det deilige Solskin. Da kom hen ad Veien en stadselig Vogn med en fornem Dame, selv kjørte hun de letspringende smukke Heste; en pyntet lille Jockey sad bag paa. Dryaden kjendte hende igjen, den gamle Præst kjendte hende igjen, rystede med Hovedet og sagde bedrøvet:
"You went to Paris and it became your ruin, poor Marie." "Du kom derind! det blev din Fordærv, stakkels Mari!"
"She, poor!" thought the dryad. "Why, she is so different. She is dressed like a duchess, and the change was made by Paris; it must be a magic town. Oh, if only I could go there myself and see its glory, its splendors. Even the clouds are illuminated at night. I have seen it when I look in the direction of the city." "Hun en Stakkel!" tænkte Dryaden, "nei, hvilken Forvandling! hun er klædt op til Hertuginde! det blev hun i Fortryllelsens Stad. 0 var jeg dog der i al den Glands og Pragt! den lyser selv op paa Skyerne i Natten, naar jeg seer derhen, hvor jeg veed at Byen findes."
Every night the dryad looked toward Paris and saw the golden fog on the horizon. On clear, moonlit nights, it could not be seen and she missed the great sailing clouds that told her stories of Paris. Ja, derhen, mod den Kant saae Dryaden hver Aften, hver Nat. Hun saae den straalende Taage i Synskredsen; hun savnede den i den lyse, maaneklare Nat; hun savnede de seilende Skyer, der viste hende Billeder fra Stad og Historie.
A child looks at her picture book, the dryad at the world of clouds, for it is her book of thoughts, from it she draws her inspiration. Barnet griber efter sin Billedbog, Dryaden greb efter Skyverdenen, hendes Tankebog.
It was summer and the cloudless sky was like an empty page. For days it had been like that. Den sommervarme, skyfrie Himmel var hende et tomt Blad, og nu i flere Dage havde hun kun seet et saadant.
Every animal, every plant dozed from the heat, and so did the human beings. Det var den varme Sommertid, med solhede Dage uden Luftning; hvert Blad, hver Blomst laae som i en Døs, Menneskene med.
Then suddenly a great bank of clouds rose in the direction where Paris lay. Da løftede sig Skyer, og det i den Kant, hvor i Natten den straalende Taage forkyndte: her er Paris.
The clouds grew and became a gigantic mountain landscape. Then they spread until they covered the horizon as far as the wood nymph could see. Skyerne løftede sig, formede sig som et heelt Bjergland, skøde sig frem gjennem Luften, ud over det hele Landskab, saa vidt Dryaden kunde øine.
Like layer upon layer of great blue-black stone cliffs, the clouds rose higher and higher in the air. Then lightning burst from them.--"They, too, are the servants of God," the old priest had said.--Suddenly a bolt of lightning, blue-white and as bright as the sun, emerged from the cliff of clouds. It struck the great oak tree and split it down to its roots; the trunk was cloven in two, as if it had wanted to embrace the messenger of light. Skyerne laae som sortblaae mægtige Klippeblokke Lag paa Lag høit i Luften. Lynstraalerne foer ud, "ogsaa de ere Gud Herrens Tjenere", havde den gamle Præst sagt. Og der kom et blaanende, blendende Lyn, et Lysblink, som var det Solen selv, der sprængte Klippeblokkene, Lynet slog ned og splintrede til Roden det gamle mægtige Egetræ; dets Krone skiltes, Stammen skiltes, flækket faldt det, som bredte det sig ud for at omfavne Lysets Sendebud.
No brass cannon sounding at the birth of a prince has ever let forth such noise as the peal of thunder that rang out on the death of the old oak tree. The rain streamed down; then a mild wind blew: the storm was over. It was like a Sunday. The people of the village ran out to look at the old oak tree. The priest gave a little speech, and a painter made a drawing of the tree itself, so they would always be able to remember it. Ingen Malmkanoner mægte at runge gjennem Luft og over Land ved et Kongebarns Fødsel, som Tordendrønet her ved det gamle Egetræes Bortgang. Regnen strømmede ned, den forfriskende Vind luftede, Uveiret var forbi, der blev saa søndagsfestligt. Byens Folk samlede sig om den fældede gamle Eeg; den gamle Præst talte Hæders-Ord, en Maler tegnede Træet selv til blivende Minde.
"Everything passes," said the dryad. "Passes as the clouds pass by in the sky: pass and never return." "Alt farer hen!" sagde Dryaden, "farer hen, som Skyen, og kommer aldrig igjen!"
The old priest never came back. The "roof" of his schoolhouse was gone and so was the bench. The children, too, stayed away. But fall came, and winter was followed by spring and summer; and during all the changing seasons the wood nymph looked longingly at that spot on the horizon where the lights of Paris shone like a golden fog. Trains rushed out of the city, great black locomotives running along the iron rails, both night and day. From all comers of the world people came to look at the new wonder of Paris. Den gamle Præst kom her ikke meer; Skoletaget var faldet, Lærerstolen borte. Børnene, de kom her ikke, men Efteraaret kom her, Vinteren kom her, men ogsaa Foraaret, og i al den vexlende Tid saae Dryaden hen mod den Kant hvor hver Aften og Nat, fjernt i Synskredsen, Paris lyste som en straalende Taage. Ud fra den fløi Locomotiv ved Locomotiv, det ene Banetog ved det andet, efter det andet, susende, brusende, og det paa alle Tider; ved Aften og Midnat, ved Morgen og hele den lyse Dag kom Togene, og fra hver og ind i hver stimlede det fra alle Verdens Lande med Mennesker; et nyt Verdens-Under havde kaldt dem til Paris.
What was this new wonder? Hvorledes aabenbarede sig dette Under?
"It is the flower of art and industry that now is blooming on the barren sandy soil of the Field of Mars. A gigantic sunflower on whose leaves one can read lessons in geography and statistics and become as clever as a schoolteacher. Knowledge, lifted up into the realm of poetry, to be the power and pride of nations." That was one explanation. Here is another: "A fairy tale flower, a lotus spreading its green leaves over the sandy ground, like a velvet carpet; it shot forth in spring and will be full grown in its magnificence come summer; but by fall it will be gone, it is a plant without roots." "En Konstens og Industriens Pragtblomst", sagde de, "er skudt frem paa Marsmarkens planteløse Sand; en kæmpestor Solsikke, af hvis Blade man kan lære Geographi, Statistik, faae Oldermands Kundskab, løftes op i Konst og Poesi, kjende Landenes Størrelse og Storhed." - "En Eventyrblomst", sagde Andre, "en broget Lotusplante, der breder ud over Sandet sine grønne Blade, som Fløielstæpper, skudte frem i det tidlige Foraar, Sommertiden skal see den i al dens Pragt, Efteraarets Storme vil veire den hen, der bliver ei Blad eller Rod."
Outside the military school is an area that in times of peace is called the Field of Mars. It is a large sandy expanse without a blade of grass, as though it had been cut out of the Sahara Desert, there where the mirage exists, building castles and planting gardens in the air. Now on the Field of Mars such castles were built, such gardens grew, and they were real. It was the Paris World's Fair of 1867. Udfor "Militair-Skolen" strækker sig Krigens Arena i Fredens Tid, Marken uden Græs og Straa, et Stykke Sandsteppe, skaaret ud af Afrikas Ørken, hvor Fata Morgana viser sine sælsomme Luftslotte og hængende Haver; paa Marsmarken stode de nu prægtigere, mere vidunderlige, thi de vare Virkelighed ved Snillet.
"The palace of Aladdin is being constructed day by day; hour by hour, it grows more beautiful," people say. The endless halls have been decorated with colorful marble. Master Bloodless has a round pavilion of his own, to exhibit his steel and iron limbs. Works of art in stone, metal, and weaving show the diversity of mind and spirit of the people of the world. Halls of painting, of flowers, of everything that human skill and intelligence have produced, from ancient times up to our own, have been collected here. "Nutidens Aladdins Slot er reist!" lød det, "Dag for Dag, Time for Time udfolder det meer og meer sin rige Herlighed. Med Marmor og Farver prange de uendelige Haller. Mester "Blodløs" rører her sine Staal- og Jern-Lemmer i Maskinernes store Ring-Sal. Konstværker i Metal, i Steen, i Vævning forkynde det Aandens Liv, der rører sig i Verdens Lande; Billedsale, Blomsterpragt, Alt hvad Aand og Haand kan skabe i Haandværkerens Værksted er her stillet til Skue; selv Oldtids Minder fra gamle Slotte og Tørvemoser have givet Møde.
This enormous market place--this gaudy sight--has to be transformed into miniature, into toy size, before one can understand it in its entirety. Det overvældende store, brogede Skue maa gjøres smaat, trænges sammen til et Legetøi, for at kunne gjengives, opfattes og sees i Heelhed.
The Field of Mars has become a gigantic Christmas table, decked with everything--knickknacks from everywhere, the bric-a-brac of greatness, each nation exhibiting what is peculiarly its own. Marsmarken bar som et stort Julebord et Industriens og Konstens Aladdins Slot, og rundt om dette var stillet Nips fra alle Lande: Storheds Nips; hver Nation fik en Erindring om sit Hjem.
There is a royal Egyptian castle attended and guarded by Bedouins on camels from the land of the burning sun. Russian stables, with the horses from the great steppes, are there; and even a little thatched cottage, flying the Danish flag, which is next to Gustav Vasa's house, carved in wood by the artisans from Dalarna. An American log cabin, English cottages, and French pavilions stand beside kiosks or theaters or churches in a strange and wonderful chaos. Before all these buildings there are green lawns, flowering bushes, rare trees, and little running streams of clear water. In great greenhouses tropical forests grow and magnificent roses brought from Damascus bloom. What fragrance! What color! Her stod Ægyptens Kongeslot, her Ørkenlandets Karavanserai; Beduinen paa sin Kameel, kommende fra sit Solland, jog forbi; her bredte sig russiske Stalde med ildfulde, prægtige Heste fra Stepperne; det lille straatækkede danske Bondehuus stod med sit Danebrogs Flag nær Gustav Vasas prægtigt i Træ skaarne Huus fra Dalarne; amerikanske Hytter, engelske Cottager, franske Pavilloner, Kiosker, Kirker og Theatre laae forunderligt strøede omkring, og mellem alt Dette, det friske grønne Græssvær, det klare, rindende Vand, blomstrende Buske, sjeldne Træer, Glashuse, hvor man maatte troe sig i de tropiske Skove; hele Rosenhaver, som hentede fra Damascus, prangede under Tag; hvilke Farver, hvilken Duft!
Artificial caves with stalactites have been placed around great pools of water--both fresh and salt--where almost all the fishes of the world can be observed. Drypsteenshuler, konstigt gjorte, omsluttende ferske og salte Vande, frembød Skuet af Fiskenes Rige; man stod nede paa Havsens Bund mellem Fiske og Polyper.
It is as if the spectator found himself on the bottom of the sea, among polyps and fishes. All of this can be seen on the Field of Mars. And upon this table decked for a feast, a swarm of ants--of human beings--perpetualIy moves, some walking and some drawn in little carts, for human legs soon get tired. Alt dette, sagde de, bærer og frembyder nu Marsmarken, og hen over dette store rigtdækkede Festbord bevæger sig som travle Myresværme den hele Menneskevrimmel, tilfods eller trukket i smaa Vogne, alle Been udholde ikke en saa trættende Vandring.
From morning to late in the evening, steamships filled with passengers sail up and down the Seine; every day brings more and more carriages, more coaches; and they are full. People come on horseback and on foot, and all of this stream of humanity has only one goal, the Paris Exposition. The entrance is decorated with the flags of France, and from each of the buildings in this gigantic bazaar flies the flag of the exhibitor; the flags of all nations can be seen. From the Hall of Technique, the machines clang, grind, and drone. From the towers, bells ring, and in the churches organs play. The sounds blend with the strange, monotonous songs coming from the oriental cafes. This is the Kingdom of Babel, where all the languages of Babel are spoken: a wonder of the world! Herud, fra den tidlige Morgen til den sildige Aften, komme de. Dampskib ved Dampskib, overfyldt af Mennesker, glider ned ad Seinen, Vognmængden er ideligt i Tiltagende, Folkeskaren tilfods og tilhest er i Tiltagende, Sporvogne og Omnibusser ere proppede, stoppede og garnerede med Mennesker, alle disse Strømninger bevæge sig mod eet Maal: "Pariser-Udstillingen!" Alle Indgangene prange med Frankrigs Flag, rundt om Landenes Basar-Bygning vifte alle Nationers Faner; det suser og summer fra Maskinernes Hal, Klokkespil klinge i Melodi ned fra Taarnene, Orgelet spiller derinde i Kirkerne; hæse, snøvlende Sange blande sig deri fra Østerlændernes Cafeer. Det er som et babelsk Rige, et babelsk Tungemaal, et Verdens Under."
This is what was told about the Field of Mars, and the news spread far and wide. Who has not heard of it? It is the new wonder of the city of cities. Tilvisse saaledes var det, saaledes lød Efterretninger derom, hvo hørte det ikke? Dryaden vidste Alt, hvad her er sagt om "det nye Under" i Byernes By.
"Fly, little bird, and come back and tell me of it," the wood nymph prayed. "Flyv, I Fugle! flyv hen at see, kom igjen og fortæl!" var Dryadens Bøn.
Her desire swelled and became her lifelong dream, her only purpose in living. The full moon rose in the still silent night. Suddenly a spark flew from the luminous disk. The dryad saw it, it fell toward the earth like a falling star. The branches of the tree shook as if a storm were raging. In front of it stood a gigantic, radiant shape. It spoke softly and yet as penetratingly as the trumpet that will sound on Judgment Day. Længselen svulmede til Ønske, blev Livstanke - og da: i den stille, tause Nat, Fuldmaanen skinnede, da fløi ud fra dens Skive, saae Dryaden, en Gnist, der faldt, lyste som et Stjerneskud, og foran Træet, hvis Grene bævede som ved et Stormkast, stod en mægtig, lysende Skikkelse; den talte i Toner saa bløde og stærke som Dommedags-Basunen, der kysser til Liv og kalder til Dom.
"You shall enter the magic city. Your roots shall be buried in its soil and you shall sense the whirlwind and the air and the sun of Paris. But your life will be shortened by it. The many years you might have lived out here in nature will shrink to but a fraction. Poor dryad, it will be your ruin. For your longing will not be satisfied. Instead it will grow, until your tree will seem to you a prison. Then if you leave, abandoning your tree, your life will be but half that of the mayfly: one single night. The leaves of your tree will fade and wither and never become green again." "Du skal komme derind i Fortryllelsens Stad, Du skal der fæste Rod, fornemme de susende Strømninger, Luften og Solskinnet der. Men din Levetid vil da forkortes, den Række af Aaringer, som ventede Dig her ude i det Frie, tæres sammen derinde til en ringe Sum af Aar. Stakkels Dryade, det bliver din Fordærv! din Længsel vil voxe, din Higen, dit Forlangende blive stærkere! Træet selv vil være Dig et Fængsel, Du vil forlade dit Hylster, forlade din Natur, flyve ud og blande Dig mellem Menneskene, og da ere dine Aar svundne ind til Døgnfluens halve Levetid, en eneste Nat kun; dit Liv pustes ud, Træets Blade visne og veire hen, komme aldrig igjen."
So spoke the specter and the light disappeared. But the longing of the dryad only increased. The tree rustled its leaves in wild, feverish expectancy. Saa klang det, saa sang det, og Lysningen svandt, men ikke Dryadens Længsel og Lyst; hun bævede i Forventning, i vild Fornemmelses Feber.
"I will come to Paris, to the town of towns," the dryad said jubilantly. "Life is beginning, it grows like the clouds; and no one knows where they are sailing." "Jeg kommer derhen til Byernes By!" jublede hun, "Livet begynder, svulmer som Skyen, Ingen veed hvor den farer hen."
One morning, when the moon paled and the clouds in the horizon grew red, the moment came, the promise was fulfilled. I Daggry, da Maanen blev bleg og Skyerne røde, slog Opfyldelsens Time, Løftets Ord bleve løste.
Workmen with spades and shovels began digging around the tree and deep down underneath it. With iron bars it was forced out of the earth. Mats woven of rushes were tied around its roots and the soil that clung to them. Then it was lifted up into a horse-drawn wagon and tied securely to its sides. Its journey to Paris, to the capital of France, had begun. Der kom Folk med Spade og Stænger; de gravede rundt om Træets Rod, dybt ned, ind under det; der kjørte frem en Vogn, trukket af Heste, Træet med Rødder og den Jordklump, de holdt om, blev løftet, omsvøbt med Sivmaatter, en heel varm Fodpose, og saa blev det sat paa Vognen, bundet fast, det skulde paa Reise, til Paris, groe og blive der i Frankrigs Storheds Stad, Byernes By.
As the wagon lurched forward the branches of the chestnut tree shook with the passionate pleasure of expectancy. Kastanietræets Grene og Blade bævede i Bevægelsens første Øieblik, Dryaden bævede i Forventningens Vellyst.
"Let's go...let's go," the dryad's Pulse seemed to throb. "Gone . . . gone . . were the words whispered by the wind. The dryad forgot to say good-by to the place where she had grown up: to the swaying grass, to the innocent daisies that lived beneath her shade and adored her as though she had been a princess playing at being a shepherdess. "Afsted! afsted!" klang i hvert Pulsslag. "Afsted! afsted!" klang det i bævende, hensvævende Ord. Dryaden glemte at sige Levvel til sin Hjemstavns Egn, til de svaiende Græsstraa og de uskyldige Gaaseurter, der havde seet op til hende som til en stor Dame i Vorherres Urtegaard, en ung Prindsesse, der legede Hyrdinde herude i det Frie.
The chestnut tree in the wagon waved its branches. Was it saying "Let's go" or "Farewell"? The dryad didn't notice. She was dreaming of all the new things she would see, that she already knew so well. No child's heart, in innocent joy, was ever more expectant, and no sensuous mind more passionate in its longing, than the dryad's were, as she started on her journey to Paris. Kastanietræet var paa Vognen, det nikkede med sine Grene, "lev vel" eller "afsted", Dryaden vidste det ikke, hun tænkte paa, hun drømte om det vidunderlige Nye, og dog saa Kjendte, der skulde rulle op. Intet Barnehjerte i uskyldig Glæde, intet Sandselighedens Blod har mere tankeopfyldt end som hun begyndt Reisen til Paris.
That is why "Farewell" had become "Let's go." "Lev vel!" blev "afsted! afsted!"
The wagon wheels turned; the distant became the near and then disappeared. The landscape changed like the clouds in the sky: new vineyards, forests, villages, houses, and gardens came forward and were gone again, left behind. The locomotives passed, telling in the puffs of smoke from their stacks of the wonder that was Paris. The chestnut tree traveled and the wood nymph journeyed inside it. Vognhjulene dreiede, det Fjerne blev nær, lagt bagved; Egnen vexlede som Skyerne vexle; nye Viinmarker, Skove, Landsbyer, Villaer og Haver skøde op, kom frem, rullede ud. Kastanietræet bevægede sig fremad, Dryaden fremad med det. Locomotiv ved Locomotiv bruste tæt forbi hinanden, krydsede hinanden; Locomotiverne sendte Skyer, der formede Skikkelser, som fortalte om Paris, de kom fra, derhen hvor Dryaden skulde.
She thought that everyone along the way knew where she was going. She thought that the trees along the road reached out their limbs and begged: "Take me with you! Take me with you!" Maybe they did, for in each of them lived a dryad. Alt rundt om vidste og maatte jo forstaae, hvorhen hendes Vei gik; hun syntes, at hvert Træ, hun kom forbi, strakte sine Grene ud mod hende og bad: "Tag mig med! tag mig med!" I hvert Træ var jo ogsaa en længselsfyldt Dryade.
The scene changed constantly. To the wood nymph, it seemed as though the houses sprouted up out of the ground. There were more and more of them, closer and closer together. On their roofs there were chimneys that looked like flowerpots set in a row. On the gables and the walls of the houses big letters--some of them several feet high--were painted; some places there were also figures. Hvilken Vexel! hvilken Flugt! Det var som Husene skøde op af Jorden, flere og flere, tættere og tættere. Skorstenene løftede sig som Blomsterpotter, stillede paa hinanden og Side om Side hen ad Tagene; store Indskrifter med alenlange Bogstaver, malede Skikkelser op ad Væggene fra Grundstykket til Gesimsen skinnede frem.
"Where does Paris begin? When will I be there?" the dryad asked herself. The traffic increased, there seemed to be people everywhere: driving in carriages, walking, riding on horseback. More and more shops appeared. Music could be heard, song and the din of people talking, broken by loud shouts and curses from the carriage drivers. "Hvor begynder Paris, og naar er jeg derinde?" spurgte Dryaden sig selv. Menneskevrimlen voxede, Tummel og Travlhed tog til, Vogn fulgte Vogn, Gaaende Ridende, og rundt om Boutik ved Boutik, Musik, Sang, Skrig, Tale.
Finally the dryad, inside her tree, was in the very center of Paris. Dryaden i sit Træ var midt inde i Paris.
The heavy wagon stopped at a little square. Trees were growing there, but it was surrounded by houses that were several stories high; every window was a door that opened onto a balcony, on which people stood and looked down upon the fresh, young tree that had been brought from the country into the city, where it was destined to replace the dead tree now lying on the ground. As they walked across the square, people stopped to look at it, and they smiled happily at the spring-green tree. The older trees were still only in bud; they greeted the young tree by shaking their limbs: "Welcome! Welcome!" The fountain that shot its stream of water high into the air, only to let it fall and splash into its broad basin, let the wind carry a little of the water to the new tree as a toast of welcome. Den store, tunge Vogn holdt stille paa en lille Plads beplantet med Træer, omgivet af høie Huse, hvor hvert Vindue havde sin Balcon; Folk saae deroppe fra ned paa det unge, friske Kastanietræ, som kom tilkjørende og nu skulde plantes her istedetfor det udgaaede, oprykkede Træ, der laae hen over Jorden. Folk stode stille paa Pladsen og saae med Smiil og Fornøielse paa det Foraarsgrønne; de ældre Træer, endnu kun i Knop, hilsede med susende Grene "velkommen! velkommen!-" og Springvandet, der kastede sine Straaler iveiret og lod dem pladske i den brede Kumme, lod Vinden bære Draaber over paa det nys komne Træ, som vilde det byde det en Velkomstdrik.
The dryad felt her tree being lifted off the wagon and carefully planted. Its roots were again covered with soil, and fresh turf was placed on the scars in the lawn that the removal of the dead tree had caused. Fresh bushes and flowers were planted near the young tree. It was almost a little garden in the middle of the square. The dead tree, which had been strangled by the foul, polluted air of the city, was loaded on the wagon and driven away. People were looking on. Young and old were sitting on benches together and admiring the new tree's green leaves. The person who is telling the tale stood on one of the balconies and looked down into the square. I saw the messenger of spring that had come from the country where the air is sweet and fresh, and I said, as the old priest would have, "Poor dryad. . . . Poor little wood nymph!" Dryaden fornam, at dens Træ løftedes fra Vognen og at det blev stillet paa dets Fremtids Plads. Træets Rødder skjultes i Jorden, frisk Grønsvær blev lagt ovenover; blomstrende Buske og Urtepotter med Blomster bleve som Træet plantede; her blev en heel Haveplet, midt paa Pladsen. Det udgaaede, oprykkede Træ, dræbt herinde af Gaslult, Madluft og hele den planteqvælende Byluft, blev lagt paa Vognen og kjørt bort. Folkestimlen saae derpaa, Børn og Gamle sad paa Bænken i det Grønne og saae op imellem Træets Blade. Og vi, som fortælle derom, stod paa Altanen, saae ned i det unge Foraar ude fra den friske Landluft, og sagde som den gamle Præst vilde have sagt: "Stakkels Dryade!"
"Oh, this is bliss! This is truly happiness!" said the dryad. "Yet I cannot quite understand . . . cannot quite explain . . . why everything is as I imagined it, but not as I expected it would be." ."Lyksalig er jeg, lyksalig!" sagde Dryaden, "og dog, jeg kan ikke ret gribe det, ikke udsige, hvad jeg fornemmer; Alt er som jeg tænkte det! og dog ikke som jeg tænkte det!"
The houses were so tall and so very near. There was only one wall on which the sun really shone, and that was covered with signs and posters. There was always a great crowd of people there. The traffic was terrible: carriages and overcrowded coaches drove by the square all day. No one made way for anyone else, and everyone rushed as if only his business were of importance. "I wish those tall houses would move a little, change shape like drifting clouds, and allow me to see Notre Dame or the pillars of Vendome, and that great wonder that has attracted so many foreigners here, and that I am sure all those people who are rushing by are going to look at." Husene stode saa høie, saa nær paa; Solen skinnede kun ret paa een Væg, og den var beklistret med Opslag og Placater, hvor Folk stode stille og gjorde Trængsel. Vogne joge forbi, lette og tunge; Omnibusser, disse overfyldte, kjørende Huse, toge Fart, Ridende joge afsted, Karrer og Lystvogne forlangte samme Ret. Vilde dog, tænkte Dryaden, ikke ogsaa snart de høitgroede Huse, der stode saa nær, flytte sig afsted, forandre Skikkelse som Himlens Skyer kunne, glide tilside, at hun kunde see ind i Paris, ud over den. Notre-Dame maatte vise sig, Vendome-Søilen og Underværket, det, som havde kaldt og kaldte de mange Fremmede herhid.
But the buildings never moved. Husene rørte sig ikke af Stedet.
A little before nightfall, the lamps were lighted. From the shop windows rays of gaslight shone upon the branches of the chestnut tree, almost as brightly as the sun. The stars came out, and they were the same ones that she knew in the country. The dryad recognized them and thought that a breath of fresh air came from them: a mild sweet breeze. She felt a new strength, as if she could see the world around her with the tips of her leaves and experience it with her tiny, fine roots. She felt a part of the living, human world, which she believed was kind. All about her were motion and sound, light and color. Det var Dag endnu da Lygterne tændtes, Gasstraalerne lyste ud fra Boutikerne, lyste op imellem Træets Grene; det var som et Sommersolskin. Stjernerne oven over kom frem, de samme, Dryaden havde seet i sin Hjemstavn; hun troede at fornemme en Luftning derfra, saa reen og mild. Hun følte sig løftet, styrket, fornam en Seekraft heelt ud igjennem hvert af Træets Blade, Fornemmelse i Røddernes yderste Spidse. Hun følte sig i den levende Menneske-Verden, seet paa af milde Øine; rundt om var Tummel og Toner, Farver og Lys.
From the streets that led into the square, music could be heard--horns and barrel organs--and the instruments seemed to call: "Dance. . Dance . . . Enjoy! Enjoy!" Fra Sidegaden klang blæsende Instrumenter og Lirekassers dandsevækkende Melodier. Ja, til Dands, til Dands! til Glæde og Livsnyden lød det.
It was a music so gay that human beings, horses, carts, houses, and trees had to dance; that is, if they could. The dryad felt an intoxicating happiness fill her heart. Det var en Musik, saa Mennesker, Heste, Vogne, Træer og Huse maatte dandse derved om de kunde dandse. Der løftede sig en Beruselses Glæde i Dryadens Bryst.
"How glorious! How lovely it is!" she shouted in joy. "I am in Paris!" "Hvor livsaligt og deiligt!" jublede hun. "Jeg er i Paris!"
The next day and night and the day that followed were alike: the same traffic, the same people went by. Life on the square was ever changing and yet always the same. Den Dag som kom, den Nat som fulgte, og atter det næste Døgn frembød samme Skue, samme Færdsel, samme Liv, vexlende og dog altid det Samme.
"Now I know every tree, every flower around me, every house, every balcony, every store in this little dead corner that hides from me the great city. Where is the Arch of Triumph? Where are the boulevards? Where is that great wonder that has brought people from all over the world to the city? I see none of it. I am imprisoned here among the tall houses. I know them by heart; I have looked through their windows and read all the posters on their walls. They are candy and I have had enough of it. Where is all that I heard about and which I longed for? What have I gained, won, or found by coming here? My longing, my desires, are as overpowering now as they were before. There is a life, I can sense it; and that I must grasp. I must be alive among the living, be part of the human world, and fly like the birds. I would give up the years of boredom--the everyday life that wears you away slowly, till you disappear like a fog on the meadow--for one night of being alive. I want to shine like a cloud in the sunlight, see everything as the clouds do, float in every direction, and then disappear, who knows where." "Nu kjender jeg hvert Træ, hver Blomst herinde paa Pladsen! jeg kjender hvert Huus, Balcon og Boutik her hvor jeg er stillet i den lille indknebne Krog, der skjuler for mig den mægtige store Stad. Hvor er Triumphbuerne, Boulevarderne og Verdens-Underværket? Intet af alt Dette seer jeg? stænget som i et Buur staaer jeg mellem de høie Huse, som jeg nu kan udenad med deres Indskrifter, Placater, Skilte, alt det Oversmørelses Mundgodt som ikke smager mig meer. Hvor er dog alt Det, jeg hørte om, veed om, længtes efter og hvorfor jeg vilde hertil? Hvad har jeg grebet, vundet, fundet! jeg længes som før, jeg fornemmer et Liv, jeg maa gribe og leve i! jeg maa i de Levendes Række! tumle mig der, flyve som Fuglene, see og fornemme, blive heelt Menneske, gribe et halvt Livsdøgn for Aaringers Leven i Hverdags Træthed og Kjedsommelighed, hvor jeg sygner, synker, falder som Engens Taage og forsvinder. Skinne vil jeg som Skyen, skinne i Livsens Sol, see ud over det Hele som Skyen, fare hen som den, Ingen veed hvorhen!"
That was the sigh of the dryad and, it was transformed into a prayer: Det var Dryadens Suk, det løftede sig i Bøn:
"Take my life, my years, and give me instead half of a mayfly's life. Free me from my jail, give me a human shape and human happiness, if only for one night. Then punish me if you wish, for my courage, my spirit, the passionate longing that has filled my life, by destroying me. Let the young tree that was my body--my jail--die, wither and be cut down, used as firewood so that the wind can spread the ashes." "Tag mine Leveaar, giv mig Halvparten af Døgnfluens Liv! løs mig af mit Fængsel, giv mig Menneskeliv, Menneskelykke en kort Stund, kun denne eneste Nat om det saa maa være, og straf mig saa kun for mit dristige Livsmod, min Livsens Længsel! slet mig ud, lad mit Hylster, det friske unge Træ da visne, fældes, blive Aske, veire hen i Vinden!"
A tremor went through the tree. Every leaf quivered and the tree felt as though fire had passed through it. Then a great gust of wind hit it; its boughs bent and the figure of a woman emerged: the dryad herself. She floated down upon the grass and sat underneath the gas-lit leaves of the tree. She was as young and beautiful as Marie, of whom it had been said: "The great town will be her undoing." Det susede i Træets Grene, der kom en kildrende Fornemmelse, en Skjælven i hvert Blad, som rislede en Ild igjennem det eller ud derfra, der gik et Stormkast gjennem Træets Krone, og midt i denne løftede sig en Qvindeskikkelse, Dryaden selv. I samme Nu sad hun under de gasbestraalede, bladfulde Grene, ung og deilig, som stakkels Mari, til hvem der blev sagt: "den store Stad bliver din Fordærv!"
The dryad was leaning against the trunk of the tree, the door of her house; but she had locked it and thrown the key away. She was so young and so beautiful. The stars saw her and winked. The gas lamps saw her and seemed to wave and shine more brightly. Her body was slender and firm. She was both a child and a maiden. Her dress was as fine as silk, and as green as the tender leaves of the tree. In her nut-brown hair was a chestnut flower that had just begun to bloom. She looked like the Goddess of Spring. Dryaden sad ved Træets Fod, ved sin Huusdør, den hun havde lukket og bortkastet Nøglen til. Saa ung, saa deilig! Stjernerne saae hende, Stjernerne blinkede, Gaslamperne saae hende, straalede, vinkede! hvor var hun slank og dog saa fast, et Barn og dog fuldvoxen Jomfru. Hendes Klædning var silkefiin, grøn som de udfoldede friske Blade i Træets Krone; i hendes nødbrune Haar hang en halvudsprungen Kastanieblomst; Foraarets Gudinde lignede hun.
Only for a moment did she rest beneath the tree, then she was up and gone. Like a gazelle, she ran around the corner, away from the square. She darted as the light of the sun skips across a mirror--here, there. And what could be seen of her, when one got a moment's glimpse, was lovely. Wherever she tarried, her clothes changed to suit the place she was visiting and the light cast upon her. Kun eet kort Minut sad hun ubevægelig stille, saa sprang hun op, og med en Flugt som Gazellens foer hun fra Stedet, var om Hjørnet; hun løb, hun sprang, som Blinket fra et Speil, der bæres i Solskinnet, Blinket der ved hver Bevægelse kastes snart her, snart der; og havde man seet nøie til og kunnet see hvad der var at see, hvor vidunderligt; paa hvert Sted hvor hun dvælede et Øieblik, forvandledes hendes Klædning, hendes Skikkelse, efter det Steds Egenhed, det Huus, hvis Lampe belyste hende.
She came to one of the grand boulevards. The gas lamps of the cafe and stores formed a sea of light. Here stood a row of trees, young and slender. Each of them hid its wood nymph from the artificial light. The seemingly never ending broad sidewalks were like one grand festival hall. Here tables were decked with all kinds of refreshments: coffee, chartreuse, champagne. Here were exhibitions of paintings, sculpture, flowers, and colorful fabrics. Hun naaede Boulevarden; her strømmede et Lyshav fra Gasflammer i Lanterner, Boutiker og Cafeer. Her stode i Række Træer, unge og slanke, hver gjemte sin Dryade for Straalerne af det konstige Sollys. Det hele uendeligt lange Fortog var som en eneste stor Selskabssal; her stode dækkede Borde med alle Slags Forfriskninger, Champagne, Chartreuse, ned til Kaffe og Øl. Her var Udstilling af Blomster, af Billeder, Statuer, Bøger og brogede Stoffer.
From the crowd in front of the tall buildings the dryad looked at the terrifying stream of traffic: a river of carriages, coaches, horsedrawn buses, droshkies, horseback riders, and marching regiments of soldiers. Indeed, one had to be brave to cross to the opposite shore. A bengal light was lit and from somewhere a rocket rose high into the air and disappeared. Fra Stimlen under de høie Huse saae hun ud over den skrækindjagende Strøm midt udenfor Træernes Række; der bølgede en Flod af rullende Vogne, Cabrioletter, Karreeter, Omnibusser, Droschker, ridende Herrer og opmarscherende Regimenter. Det gjaldt Liv og Lemmer at krydse over til den modsatte Bred. Nu lyste Blaalys, nu var Gaslyset det Raadende, pludselig steg en Raket, hvorfra, hvorhen?
Truly, the boulevard was the great highway of this city called Paris. Tilvisse, det var Verdensbyens store Landevei!
From somewhere the soft music of Italy could be heard, from somewhere else the music of Spain with the rhythmic beat of castanets. But loudest of all was the current ephemeral music-box melody: the cancan, which neither Orpheus nor the beautiful Helen had ever heard. If a wheelbarrow could have danced that melody would have made it do so. The dryad did dance; she floated and flew, and changed her color as a hummingbird does in the sun. Every house and the world within it reflected itself in her dress. Her klang italienske bløde Melodier, der spanske Sange, ledsagede af Castagnetternes Slag, men stærkest, overbrusende det Hele, lød Minutets Spilledaase-Melodier, den kildrende Cancan-Musik, som Orpheus ikke kjendte og som aldrig var hørt af den skjønne Helene, selv Hjulbøren maatte dandse paa sit ene Hjul, om den mægtede at dandse. Dryaden dandsede, svævede, fløi, vexlende i Farver som Colibrien i Sollys, hvert Huus og dets Verden derinde gav Reflexen.
As a lotus flower, freed from its roots, drifts with the current, so the dryad drifted through the city, and everywhere she stopped she changed shape, and therefore no one could follow her, or recognize and observe her. Som den straalende Lotusblomst, reven løs fra sin Rod, føres af Strømmen og paa dens Hvirvler, drev hun afsted, og hvor hun standsede, var hun atter en ny Skikkelse, derfor mægtede Ingen at følge, gjenkjende og beskue hende.
To the wood nymph, the world moved by like cloud pictures. Faces blended with faces. Not one of them did she recognize, none had she ever seen before. Two bright eyes came into her mind. She thought of Marie, the poor child dressed in rags, with red flowers braided in her black hair. She lived in the great city and was happy and rich. The dryad remembered her in her carriage as she had driven past the oak tree beneath which the priest had sat. "Poor Marie," he had said. Som Skybilleder fløi Alt hende forbi, Ansigt ved Ansigt, men ikke et eneste kjendte hun, ikke saae hun en Skikkelse fra sin Hjemstavn. Der lyste i hendes Tanke to straalende Øine: hun tænkte paa Mari, stakkels Mari! det pjaltede, glade Barn med den røde Blomst i det sorte Haar. Hun var jo i Verdens-Byen, rig, straalende, som da hun kjørte forbi Præstens Huus, Dryadens Træ og den gamle Eeg.
Somewhere in this chaos, in this noise, she could be found. Maybe right at this moment she was stepping out of her elegant carriage. The dryad had come to a place where, indeed, one elegant carriage after another drew up. Servants in gold-embroidered livery opened the doors. The passengers were all women: richly dressed-ladies. They walked through an open gate and up tall broad stairs that led to a building with white marble columns. Was that the "wonder of the world"? Surely Marie would be in there. Her var hun tilvisse i den døvende Larm, maaskee nys steget ud af den tøvende pragtfulde Karm; prægtige Vogne holdt her med galonerede Kudske og silkestrømpede Tjenere. Herskabet, som steg ud, vare alle Qvinder, rigtklædte Damer. De gik gjennem de aabne Gitterporte op ad den høie, brede Trappe, der førte til en Bygning med marmorhvide Søiler. Var dette maaskee "Verdens-Underværket". Der var vist Mari!
"Santa Maria," sang the choir. Clouds of incense hung in the still air under the great gilded arches where dusk reigned eternally. "Sancta Maria!" sang de derinde, Røgelseduft bølgede frem under de høie, malede og forgyldte Buer, hvor Halvmørke hvilede.
The dryad had entered the Church of Mary Magdalene. Det var Magdalenekirken.
Clothed in costly black dresses sewn according to the latest fashion, refined, wealthy ladies strode across the marble floor of the church. Their prayer books had coats of arms depicted in silver or gold on their velvet bindings. On their perfumed handkerchiefs, fringed with Brussels lace, the same emblems of vanity were embroidered. Some of the ladies were kneeling in silent prayer in front of the altars, others were in the confession boxes. Sortklædte, i de kosteligste Stoffer, syede efter sidste og høieste Mode, skred her hen over det blanke Gulv den fornemme qvindelige Verden. Vaabenet stod i Sølvspænderne paa den i Fløiel indbundne Bønnebog og paa det stærkt parfumerede fine Lommetørklæde med de kostbare Brusseler Kniplinger. Nogle af Qvinderne knælede i stille Bøn foran Altrene, Andre søgte Skriftestolene.
The dryad felt a strange agitation, a fear that she had entered a place where she was not allowed to be. This was the home of silence, the grand palace of secrets. Here no one talked, but all whispered; almost soundlessly they confided what could not be said aloud. Dryaden følte en Uro, en Angest, som var hun traadt ind et Sted, hun ikke turde betræde. Her var Taushedens Hjem, Hemmelighedernes Storhal; Alt blev hvisket og lydløst betroet.
The dryad saw herself disguised in black silk, wearing a veil. She looked like any of the noblewomen around her: were they, too, children of longing? Dryaden saae sig selv formummet i Silke og Slør, lignende i Skikkelse de andre Rigdoms- og Høibyrds-Qvinder; mon hver af dem var et Længselens Barn som hun?
Someone sighed, so deeply, so painfully. Did it come from a dark confession box or from the breast of the poor wood nymph? Here she breathed not fresh air but incense. This was not the place where her yearning could find rest. Der lød et Suk, saa smerteligt dybt; kom det fra Skriftestolens Krog eller fra Dryadens Bryst? Hun drog Sløret tættere om sig. Hun aandede Kirkerøgelse og ikke den friske Luft. Her var ikke Stedet for hendes Længsel.
Away! Away! In constant flight, for the mayfly cannot rest; to that poor insect, flight is life. Afsted! afsted, i Flugt uden Hvile! Døgnfluen har ikke Hvile, dens Flyven er Liv.
Once again the dryad was out on the boulevard, underneath the gas candelabra. Near her was a beautiful fountain. Someone in the crowd said, "Not all the water in the fountain can wash this place clean of the innocent blood that once was shed here." Hun var igjen derude under straalende Gascandelabrer ved pragtfulde Vandspring. "Alle Vandstrømmene mægte dog ikke af afskylle det uskyldige Blod, som her er udgydt."
  De Ord bleve sagt.
They were foreigners--visitors. They spoke loudly, for they meant to be heard; they were not like the people in the palace of secrets that the dryad had just come from. Her stod fremmede Folk, de talte høit og levende, som Ingen vovede det i Hemmelighedernes store Høisal, hvorfra Dryaden kom.
A large slab of stone was lifted and turned like a door. The dryad looked into a dark passage leading down into the earth. She did not know what it was or where it led to. The strangers descended into the dark, away from the starlit night and the bright gaslight, away from life itself. En stor Steenplade blev dreiet, løftet; hun forstod det ikke; hun saae den aabne Nedgang til Jorddybet; der stege de ned fra den stjerneklare Luft, fra de solstraalende Gasflammer, fra alt det levende Liv.
"I'm afraid to go down," one of them said. It was a woman. "Please stay up here with me. What's the point of seeing that?" "Jeg har Angest for det!" sagde en af Qvinderne, her stod; "jeg tør ikke stige ned! bryder mig heller ikke om at see den Herlighed der! bliv hos mig!"
"You want to go home without having seen this? Why, people call it the wonder of our time, and it was created by one man's genius," replied her husband. "Og reise hjem," sagde Manden, "tage fra Paris uden at have seet det Mærkeligste, det egenlige Nutids Underværk, blevet til ved en eneste Mands Kløgt og Villie!"
"I don't care, I am not going down," said the woman. "Jeg gaaer ikke derned," var Svaret.
"The wonder of our time!" The words were repeated and the dryad understood them. This must be the wonder that she had wanted to see, the goal of her longing. This was the entrance; but that this "wonder" would lie deep underneath the city of Paris, she had never thought possible. Still, that was what they said, and when she saw the strangers descend she followed them. "Nutids Underværk," blev der sagt. Dryaden hørte det, forstod det; Maalet for hendes største Længsel var naaet, og her var Indgangen, ned i Dybet, under Paris; det havde hun ikke tænkt sig, men nu hørte hun det, saae de Fremmede stige ned, og hun fulgte med.
The iron stairs that led down like a spiral were broad and comfortable. A lamp lighted the shaft; deep down she could see another lamp. Trappen var af støbt Jern, skrueformet, bred og beqvem. Een Lampe lyste dernede og dybere atter een.
They were in a labyrinth of vaulted corridors and halls. All the streets of Paris were here reproduced, like a reflection in a dirty mirror. The names of the streets could be read on large signs and every house had a number down here too. These were the roots of the houses. Along the canals of mire ran narrow macadamized sidewalks. Above the canals were pipes of fresh water, and under the vaulted ceiling a mass of telegraph wires and gas pipes could be seen. A few widely separated lamps lighted the scene. Every once in a while one could hear the rumble from above, as a heavy cart drove across one of the stone entrances. De stode i en Labyrinth af uendelig lange krydsende Haller og Buegange: alle Parises Gader og Stræder vare her at see, som i et mat Speilbilled, Navnene vare at læse, hvert Huus ovenover havde her sit Nummer, sin Rod, der skød ned under de folketomme, macadamiserede Fortoge, som klemmede sig om en bred Canal med et fremad væltende Dynd. Høiere førtes hen ad Buer det friske, rindende Vand, og øverst hang, som et Net, Gasrør, Telegraphtraade. Lamper lyste i Afstand, som Gjenskins Billeder fra Verdensbyen derovenover. Af og til hørtes en buldrende Rumlen deroppe, det var tunge Vogne, som kjørte over Nedgangs-Broerne.
Where was the dryad? Hvor var Dryaden?
You have heard of the catacombs of Rome. Well, they are nothing compared to this new subterranean world of our times, the wonder of the world, the sewage system of Paris. It was here the dryad had come, instead of to the Field of Mars where the World's Fair was located. Du har hørt om Katakomberne; de ere kun forsvindende Strøg i denne nye underjordiske Verden, Nutids-Underet: Kloakerne under Paris. Her stod Dryaden og ikke ude i Verdens-Udstillingen paa Marsmarken.
Around her, her fellow spectators spoke enthusiastically about what they were looking at. Udraab af Forundring, Beundring og Erkjendelse hørte hun.
"From this place grows the health of the city. Good sewers will add years of life to the citizens who live above them. Our age is the age of progress, and progress is a blessing." "Hernede fra," blev der sagt, "groer nu Sundhed og Leveaar op til Tusinder og Tusinder deroppe! vor Tid er Fremskridtets Tid med al dens Velsignelse."
That was the opinion of a human being spoken in human language. But it was not the opinion of the citizens of the sewers themselves, those who had been born and bred there. The dryad could hear them whimper and whine behind the walls. Det var Menneskers Mening, Menneskers Tale, men ikke de Skabningers, som byggede, boede og vare fødte her, Rotterne; de pebe fra Revnen i et Stykke gammelt Muur, saa lydeligt, tydeligt og forstaaeligt for Dryaden.
An old male rat, who had had half of its tail bitten off, squeaked, heart-rendingly, his feeling in the matter--which was the only correct one, as his whole family agreed. En stor gammel Han-Rotte, med afbidt Hale, peb gjennemtrængelig sin Fornemmelse, Beklemmelse og eneste rigtige Mening, og Familien gav den Medhold i hvert et Ord.
"It makes me sick to my stomach, all this meow, this human meow: 'Isn't it beautiful here, with gas and porcelain!' That is the voice of abysmal ignorance speaking. Who eats gas and porcelain? I don't! The sewers have gotten so light and clean that it makes you feel ashamed; and the worst of it is that you do not even know why you feel ashamed. I wish I lived in the age of the tallow candle. It is not so long ago. That was the romantic period, as the human beings call it." "Mig qvalmer det Miau, det Menneske-Miau, den Uvidenhedens Tale! Jo nu er her deiligt, med Gas og Petroleum! jeg æder ikke det Slags. Her er blevet saa fiint og saa lyst, at man sidder og skammer sig over sig selv og veed ikke hvorfor man skammer sig. Gid at vi levede i Tællelysenes Tid! den ligger da ikke saa langt tilbage! Det var en romantisk Tid, som man kalder det."
"I didn't hear everything you said, and I don't quite understand you. Won't you explain it to me again?" asked the dryad. "Hvad er det Du fortæller!" spurgte Dryaden. "Jeg saae Dig ikke før. Hvad taler Du om?"
"He was talking about the old times," squeaked the other rats in a chorus. "The wonderful old times of our great-grandfathers and greatgrandmothers. It was very elevating for a rat to be allowed to live down here then. It was the greatest rats' nest in all of Paris. Old Mother Plague lived down here. She killed human beings but never rats. Robbers and smugglers could breathe freely here; this was the refuge of the most interesting personalities. Today you can only meet such people in the melodramas at the theaters. The times of romance are over even in our rats' nest. Fresh air and petroleum have killed it." "De deilige gamle Dage!" sagde Rotten, "Oldefader- og Oldemoder-Rottes yndelige Tid! i den var det en Storsag at komme herned. Det var en Rotterede anderledes end hele Paris! Pestmoder boede hernede; hun dræbte Mennesker, men aldrig Rotter. Røvere og Smuglere trak frit deres Veir hernede. Her var Tilflugtssted for de interessanteste Personligheder, som nu kun sees paa Melodram-Theatrene oven over. Romantikens Tid er forbi ogsaa i vor Rotterede; vi har faaet frisk Luft hernede og Petroleum."
This was the manner in which the rats squeaked against the modem times and in favor of the old: of the time of Mother Plague. Saaledes peb Rotten! peb ad den nye Tid, til Ære for den gamle med Pestmoder.
In the largest of the tunnels, the sidewalks were so broad that a little cart could be driven there. The company stepped on board and the two little horses drew them briskly along underneath the great Boulevard Sebastopol; just above them milled the crowds of Paris. Der holdt en Vogn, et Slags aaben Omnibus, med smaa raske Heste for; Selskabet satte sig op, foer afsted ad Boulevard Sebastopol, den under Jorden, lige oven over strakte sig en kjendte menneskefyldte oppe i Paris.
The cart disappeared in the darkness. The dryad was not among the passengers. She had returned up through the entrance shaft to the world of light above. She felt sure that the wonder she was seeking could not be found in the silent, vaulted passages below the earth. No, the wonder of the world that she sought in this short life of hers, of only one night, must shine even brighter than all the gas flames of the city; yes, even brighter than the moon, which was just rising. Vognen forsvandt i Halvmørket, Dryaden forsvandt, løftet op i Gasflammernes Lysning i det friske Frie; der, og ikke nede i de krydsende Hvælvinger og deres dæmpede Luft, kunde Underet findes, Verdens-Underet, det, hun søgte i sin korte Levenat; det maatte straale stærkere end alle Gasflammerne heroppe, stærkere end Maanen, som nu gled frem.
There it must be! The wood nymph saw an entrance brightly lighted by a hundred lamps, and she thought that they were beckoning to her. Ja, tilvisse! og hun saae det hist henne, det straalede foran hende, det blinkede, vinkede, som Venusstjernen paa Himlen.
Through the radiant portal she entered. The garden was filled with light and music. Gaslights illuminated little lakes in which artificial lotus flowers floated. In the center of these tin flowers--which had been cut out, shaped, and painted most charmingly--a jet of water rose. Weeping willow trees lined the shores; their long, fresh, green branches hung like a veil down into the water. A fire was burning and its red light shone upon the small, silent bowers within the garden. Music tickled the ear, charmed and captivated the listener, making his blood rush more quickly. Hun saae en Straaleport aaben ind til en lille Have, fyldt med Lys og Dandsemelodier. Gasblus skinnede der som Rabat om smaa stille Søer og Damme, hvor Vandplanter, konstigtgjorte, klippede af Blikplader, bøiede og malede, prangede i al den Lysning og kastede alenhøit Vandstraalen ud af deres Bæger. Skjønne Grædepile, virkelige Foraarets Grædepile sænkede deres friske Grene som et grønt giennemsigtigt og dog skjulende Slør. Her mellem Buskene brændte et Baal, dets røde Skin lyste hen over smaa halvdunkle, tause Løvhytter, gjennembrusede af Toner, en Musik, kildrende i Øret, daarende, lokkende, jagende Blodet gjennem Menneskenes Lemmer.
There were young girls everywhere. They were beautiful and dressed as though they were at a ball. On their lips were innocent smiles; they were lighthearted, ready to laugh: "young Maries" with roses in their hair, but without carriages or grooms. How wildly they danced; they were dancing the tarantella. They were ecstatic. They twisted and twirled as if the music bit them. They laughed and seemed so happy to be alive that they could have embraced the whole world. Unge Qvinder saae hun, smukke, festklædte, med Troskyldighedens Smiil, Ungdommens lette, leende Sind, en "Mari", med Rose i Haaret, men uden Vogn og Jockey. Hvor bølgede de om, hvor svang de sig i vilde Dandse! hvad var op, hvad var ned? Som bidt af Tarantelen sprang de, loe de, smilede de, lyksaligt glade til at omfavne hele Verden.
The wood nymph felt herself being carried away by the music and the dance. On her little feet were fine silk boots made for dancing. They were chestnut brown, the same color as the ribbons that hung from her hair down over her bare shoulders. Her green silk dress moved in waves as she danced, and did not hide her pretty legs or her little feet that made magic circles in the air to enchant any young man who saw them. Dryaden følte sig reven med i Dandsen. Om hendes lille, fine Fod sluttede sig Silkestøvlen, kastaniebruun som Baandet, der fra hendes Haar flagrede ned over den ubedækkede Skulder. Den silkegrønne Kjole bølgede i store Folder, men skjulte ikke det smukt formede Been med den nydelige Fod, der syntes at ville skrive Trylle-Cirkel i Luften foran den dandsende Ungersvends Hoved.
Where was she? Was she in the magic garden of Armida? What was the name of this place? Var hun i Armidas Tryllehave? Hvad kaldtes Stedet?
It could be read outside above the gate in colored gaslight; it was called: Navnet lyste udenfor i Gasflammer:
MABILE "Mabile".
The clapping to the rhythm of the music, the splashing sound of the water from the fountains, and the loud thump when champagne bottles were uncorked, blended together. A rocket rose, the dance grew as wild as a bacchanal, while high above in the sky the moon sailed a little crookedly. The air was fresh and the sky was cloudless. It was as if one could see right up into heaven from Mabile. Toner og Haandklap, Raketter og rislende Vande knaldede med Champagnen herinde, Dandsen var bacchantisk vild, og over det Hele seilede Maanen, lidt skjev i Ansigtet vel. Himlen var uden Skyer, klar og reen, man troede at see ind i Himlen fra Mabile.
The dryad felt herself being devoured by her own lust for life, as though she were in an opium dream. En fortærende kildrende Livslyst gjennembævede Dryaden, det var som en Opiums-Ruus.
Her eyes spoke and her lips spoke, but her words could not be heard above the music of the violins and the flutes. Her partner whispered something in her ear, as their bodies swayed to the rhythm of the cancan. She did not understand his words--we do not understand them. Her partner stretched out his arms, intending to embrace her, but he encircled only the gaslit air. Hendes Øine talte, Læberne talte, men Ordene hørtes ikke for Klangen af Fløiter og Violiner. Hendes Dandser hviskede hende Ord i Øret, de bølgede i Tact af Cancanen; hun forstod dem ikke, vi forstaae dem ikke. Han strakte sine Arme ud mod hende, om hende, og omslyngede kun den gjennemsigtige, gasfyldte Luft.
A current of air had carried the dryad upward as the wind carries the petal of a rose. From up there she saw a flame, a blinking light from a tall tower. It was the beacon from the Field of Mars, the vision that was the goal of her dreams. She was borne by the spring wind to the great red lighthouse. She encircled it and then descended to the ground. Some workmen who had watched her thought they had seen a butterfly that was gliding to earth to die, because it had come too soon. Dryaden blev baaren af Luftstrømmen, som Vinden bærer et Rosenblad. I Høiden foran sig saae hun en Flamme, et blinkende Blus, høit paa et Taarn. Fyret skinnede fra hendes Længslers Maal, skinnede fra det røde Fyrtaarn paa Marsmarkens "Fata Morgana", derhen blev hun baaren af Foraars-Vinden. Taarnet omkredsede hun; Arbeiderne troede, det var en Sommerfugl de saae dale ned, for at døe i sin altfor tidlige Ankomst.
The moon shone, and gaslights and lanterns illuminated the great exhibition halls and the pavilions representing all the countries of the world. The light shone on the paths and the grass and the high cliffs that had been built so a waterfall could cascade down over them. Master Bloodless, the machine, pumped it back up so it could repeat its journey. Inside the mountain were caves, where there were great aquariums in which all the fishes of the world could be seen. One felt as if one were visiting the very depths of the ocean in a great glass diving bell. The water pressed against the thick glass walls. A great slimy, cunning octopus with its long tentacles descended slowly to the bottom; Maanen lyste, Gasblus og Lanterner lyste i de store Haller og i de omstrøede "Alverdens Bygninger", lyste hen over de Grønsværs Høider og de ved Menneskekløgt lavede Klippestykker, hvor Vandfald styrtede ved "Mester Blodløs'" Kraft. Havdybets Huler og Ferskvandets Dybder, Fiskenes Rige aabnede sig her, man var paa Bunden i det dybe Kjær, man var nede i Havet, i Glas-Dykkerklokke. Vandet trykkede mod de tykke Glasvægge uden om og oven over. Polyperne, favnelange, smidige, aalebugtende, bævende, levende Tarme, Arme, grebe fat, løftede sig, groede fast til Havbunden.
a big lazy flounder lay comfortably in the sand; a crab crawled like a giant spider, while the shrimps swam swiftly by--they are the butterflies or moths of the ocean. En stor Flynder laae betænksom nærved, bredte sig forresten magelig, behagelig; Krabben kravlede som en uhyre Edderkop hen over den, mens Reierne svang sig med en Flugt, en Hast, som vare de Havets Møl og Sommerfugle.
In the fresh-water basins water lilies grew, amid reeds; and the goldfishes stood in rows like little cows tethered in a field. All had turned their heads in the same direction and their mouths were open; that was because of the current. Big fat carp glared with their stupid eyes through the glass wall. They knew where they were, they had journeyed for days in barrels filled with fresh water to get there. The railway trip had made them landsick and they had been as uncomfortable as some human beings are on board a boat. They had come to see the Paris World's Fair, too, and they saw it from their own particular fresh-water box. The fishes saw the mass of human beings who passed during the day and evening in front of the glass walls, and they thought that all the men and women of the world had been gathered here and put on exhibition so that they could look at them, examine them, and discuss them. I det ferske Vand voxte Aakander, Siv og Brudelys. Guldfiskene havde stillet sig i Geled som røde Køer paa Marken, alle med Hovederne i samme Retning for at faae Strømmen ind i Gabet. Tykke, fede Suder gloede med dumme Øine mod Glasvæggene; de vidste, at de vare paa Pariser-Udstillingen; de vidste, at de i Tønder, fyldte med Vand, havde gjort den temmelig besværlige Reise herhen, vare paa Jernbanen blevne landsyge, som Menneskene blive søsyge paa Havet. De vare komne for at see Udstillingen, og saae den fra deres egen Ferskvandseller Saltvands-Loge, saae Menneskevrimlen, der bevægede sig forbi fra Morgen til Aften. Alle Verdens Lande havde sendt og udstillet deres Mennesker, for at de gamle Suder og Brasener, de vevre Aborrer og mosgroede Karper skulle see disse Skabninger og give deres Menings-Betænkning over det Slags.
"They have scales just as we do, but they can change theirs. They do it two or three times a day," said a little muddy roach. "And they can make noises with their mouths--talk, they call it. We don't change our scales; it is indecent. And when we want to express ourselves we do it with the corner of our mouths and our eyes. We are far more advanced than man." "Det er et Skældyr!" sagde en muddret lille Skalle. "De skifte Skæl to, tre Gange om Dagen, og give Mundlyd, Tale kaldes det. Vi skifte ikke, og gjøre os forstaaelige paa en lettere Maade: Bevægelse i Mundvigerne og Gloen med Øinene! Vi have Meget forud for Menneskene!"
"They have learned to swim," said another little fresh-water fish. "My home is a very large lake and I have often seen human beings swim in it. But first they take off their scales and then they swim. I think the frogs have taught them: they kick with their hind legs and row with their front ones. They can't do it for very long though. They want to be like us, but they won't achieve it, poor things!" "Svømme have de dog lært," sagde en lille Ferskvandsfisk; "jeg er fra den store Indsø; der gaae i den hede Tid Menneskene i Vandet, men først lægge de Skællene, saa svømme de. Frøerne have lært dem det, Bagbeens Stød og Forbeens Roening, de holde det ikke længe ud. De ville ligne os, men det naaes ikke! Stakkels Menneske!"
The fishes stared. They thought the teeming multitude of human beings that they had seen during the daytime were still there. They were sure they still saw the very figures that had first made an impression on their senses. Og Fiskene gloede; de troede, at hele Menneskevrimlen, de havde seet i det stærke Dagslys, bevægede sig her endnu; ja, de vare forvissede om at see endnu de samme Skikkelser, af hvem de saa at sige først vare slaaede paa Opfattelses-Nerverne.
A little perch with tiger-striped skin and a beautifully rounded back told everyone that the "human mud" was still there, she could see it. En lille Aborre, med smukt tigret Skind og misundelsesværdig Rundryg, forsikkrede, at "Menneskemudderet" var der endnu, han saae det.
"I can see them, too, very distinctly," said a tench, with yellow skin as if she were suffering from jaundice. "I see very clearly a lovely-shaped human being: a legged lady. I think she is female. She has our eyes, made for staring, and a big mouth that slants down in the prettiest manner. She is well fed and that shows both in front and in back; but she has seaweed around her neck and loose scales on her body. She ought to get rid of all that and do as we do. If she would let herself be as the Creator made her, then she would make quite a decent tench." "Jeg seer det ogsaa, seer det saa tydeligt!" sagde en guulsotgylden Suder, "jeg seer tydeligt den smukke velskabte Menneskeskikkelse, 'høibenet Frue', eller hvad det nu var, de kaldte hende, hun havde vor Mundvig og Gloe-Øine, to Balloner bagpaa og nedslaaet Paraply fortil, stort Andemads-Paahæng, Dingel og Dangel. Hun skulde lægge det Hele af, gaae som vi, efter Skabelsens Givelse, og hun vilde see ud som en hæderlig Suder, saavidt Menneskene kunne det."
"What happened to the one in the chair? The one they pushed?" "Hvor blev han af, han i Snøren, Han-Mennesket, de trak?"
"The one who had paper and ink and wrote everything down? The others called him a writer!" "Han kjørte i Stolevogn, sad med Papir, Blæk og Pen, skrev Alting op, skrev Alting ned. Hvad betød han? de kaldte ham Skribent!"
"He is still out there," answered an old algae-covered carp. She was an old maid whom the world had treated cruelly. She had swallowed a hook when young and still carried it in her throat, which made her hoarse, poor thing. "Han kjører der endnu!" sagde en mosgroet jomfruelig Karudse med Verdens Prøvelse i Qværken, saa at hun var hæs deraf; hun havde engang slugt en Fiskekrog og svømmede endnu taalmodig om med den i Halsen.
"A writer," she said, "is a kind of octopus among human beings." "Skribent," sagde hun, "det er fiskeligt, forstaaeligt talt, et Slags Blæksprutte mellem Menneskene."
This was the way the fishes talked in their artificially made lakes. The exhibitions were closed for the night, but still the sound of hammer and saws could be heard inside the caves, for the work wasn't altogether finished. In the daytime there were visitors, so the night had to be used for work. Some of the workmen sang, and their song became part of the dryad's "Midsummer Night's Dream," which would soon be over. Saa talte Fiskene paa deres Maade. Men midt i den konstreiste, vandbærende Grotte løde Hammerslag og Sang af Arbeidsfolkene, de maatte tage Natten med for at Alt snart kunde være fuldført. De sang i Dryadens Sommernats-Drøm, selv stod hun herinde for igjen at flyve og forsvinde.
"There are the goldfishes!" The dryad nodded to them. "I know you, the swallow told me about you, and now I have seen you. How beautiful you are, all shiny. I could kiss every one of you! I recognize the rest of you, too. There is the tench, and the perch and the fat old algae-covered carp. I know you, but you do not know me." "Det er Guldfiskene!" sagde hun og nikkede til dem. "Saa fik jeg Eder dog at see! ja, jeg kjender Eder! Jeg har kjendt Eder længe! Svalen har fortalt mig om Eder i vor Hjemstavns Egn. Hvor ere I smukke, skinnende, yndige! jeg kunde kysse Eder Hver og Een! jeg kjender ogsaa de Andre! det er vist den fede Karudse, denne der den lækkre Brasen og her de gamle mosgroede Karper! Jeg kjender Eder! I kjende ikke mig."
The fish stared. They did not understand a word she said. Fiskene gloede, forstode ikke et eneste Ord, de saae ud i det dæmrende Lys.
She was gone. She had left the cave to go out into the fresh air, into the great gardens, where plants from all the countries of the world blossomed: the lands where black bread is eaten, the ones where the codfish is dried, where eau de cologne is made, where camphor is produced--all different and strange to one another. Dryaden var der ikke mere, hun stod i det Frie, hvor Verdens-"Underblomsten" gav sin Duft fra de forskjellige Lande, fra Rugbrøds-Landet, Klipfisk-Kysten, Ruslæderets Rige, Eau de Colognens Flodbred og Rosenoliens Østerland.
When we drive home in the early morning, after having attended a ball, all the melodies we have heard still echo in our ears, and we can hum every one of them. They say, too, that in the pupils of a dead man's eyes are photographed the last things he has seen, and the picture fades slowly. For the dryad, the hours of the night still seemed to contain the noise and bustle of the day before, and because she could still sense it all, she thought: "Tomorrow it will all be repeated, and again the river of life will roar and rush through this river bed." Naar efter en Balnat vi halv vaagne kjøre hjem, klinger endnu tydeligt gjennem vort Øre Melodierne, vi hørte, vi kunne synge dem hver og een. Og som i den Dræbtes Øie det sidste Blik af hvad Øiet saae, endnu photographisk bliver der en Tid, saaledes var endnu her i Natten Dagslivets Tummel og Skin, det var ikke hensuset, ikke slukket; Dryaden fornam det, og vidste: saaledes bruser det fort, den Dag i Morgen.
The dryad stood among the roses and thought she recognized them. They were the roses from the castle park and the priest's garden of the village she came from. There was a pomegranate flower like the one that Marie had worn in her black hair. Dryaden stod mellem de duftende Roser, troede at kjende dem fra sin Hjemstavns Egn. Roser fra Slotsparken og fra Præstens Have. Ogsaa den røde Granatblomst saae hun her; en saadan havde Mari baaret i sit kulsorte Haar.
Memories from home, from the country, invaded her mind, filled her thoughts. But still her eyes craved to see more, and a restless fever racked her body. She hurried on through the great halls filled with wonders. Minder fra Barndoms-Hjemmet ude paa Landet blinkede ind i hendes Tanker; Skuet rundt om drak hun ind med Øinenes Begjer, medens Feber-Uro fyldte hende, førte hende gjennem de vidunderlige Sale.
She felt more and more tired. She wanted to rest, to lie down on the thick colorful carpets from India, or sit under the weeping willow tree near the clear pool of water. Hun følte sig træt og denne Træthed tog til. Hun havde en Trang efter at udhvile sig paa de bløde, udbredte, østerlandske Hynder og Tæpper herinde, eller helde sig med Grædepilen ned mod det klare Vand og dukke sig deri.
But the mayfly cannot rest; in minutes her life would be over. Men Døgnfluen har ikke Hvile. Døgnet var om Minuter tilende.
Her body shook, her mind trembled. She fell in the grass by the running water. Hendes Tanker skjælvede, hendes Lemmer skjælvede, hun segnede ned i Græsset ved det rislende Vand.
"You who spring from the depth of the earth and have everlasting life," she whispered, "let me drink from you. Refresh me, eternal one." "Du springer fra Jorden med varigt Liv!" sagde hun, "lædsk min Tunge, giv mig Vederqvægelse!"
"I do not spring from our eternal mother," answered the water. "My water rushes because a machine wills it." "Jeg er ikke det levende Væld!" svarede Vandet. "Jeg springer ved Maskine."
"Let me borrow freshness from you, green grass and flowering plants, please!" pleaded the dryad. "Giv mig af din Friskhed, du grønne Græs," bad Dryaden. "Giv mig en af de duftende Blomster!"
"If we are torn from the soil where we grow, then we die," answered the grass and the flowers. "Vi døe naar vi rives løs!" svarede Straa og Blomster.