O besedilu
Angel
- Vir
- Andersenove pravljice
- Avtor
- Hans Christian Andersen
- Jezik branja
- English
- Jezik izvirnika
- Dansk
- Čas branja
- 5 min branja
- Obseg
- 4 strani
- Naslov izvirnika
- Englen
O izvirniku
Andersenove pravljice
Literarne pravljice z nežnostjo, bolečino in ostrim občutkom za čudežno. Bralni jezik je English, izvirnik pa prihaja iz vira Andersenove pravljice v jeziku Dansk.
Besedilo
Angel
“Whenever a good child dies, an angel of God comes down to Earth, takes the dead child in his arms, spreads his great white wings, and flies over all the places the child has loved, gathering a whole handful of flowers, which they carry up to God to bloom there even more beautifully than on Earth. The good Lord presses all the flowers to his heart, but the flower he loves best he kisses, and then it is given a voice and can join in the song of heavenly bliss!”
All this an angel of God was telling as he carried a dead child away to Heaven, and the child listened as though in a dream. They flew over the places at home where the little one had played, and passed through gardens full of lovely flowers.
“Which shall we take with us to plant in Heaven?” asked the angel. There stood a slender, lovely rose tree, but a cruel hand had broken its stem, so that all its branches, laden with large, half-open buds, hung withered all around it.
“The poor tree!” said the child. “Take it, so that it may bloom up there with God!” And the angel took it, and kissed the child for saying so, and the little one half opened its eyes. They gathered some of the splendid, showy flowers, but also took the lowly marigold and the wild pansy.
“Now we have flowers!” said the child, and the angel nodded, but still they did not fly up to God. It was night, and all was quiet. They stayed in the great city, hovering along one of its narrowest streets, where whole heaps of straw, ashes, and rubbish lay strewn about. It had been moving day! There were broken plates, bits of plaster, rags, and the crowns of old hats—everything that was no longer fit to be seen.
And amid all this disorder the angel pointed down to the shards of a flowerpot, and to a clump of earth that had fallen out of it, held together by the roots of a large, withered wildflower, which was of no use anymore and had therefore been thrown into the street.
“We shall take that one with us!” said the angel. “I will tell you about it as we fly!” And so they flew, and the angel told his story: “Down there in that narrow street, in the low cellar, lived a poor, sick boy. From his earliest childhood he had always been bedridden. When he was at his very strongest, he could go up and down the little room a couple of times on crutches, and that was all. On a few summer days, the sun shone into the cellar entrance for half an hour or so, and when the little boy sat there, letting the warm sunshine fall on him, and saw the red blood glowing through his delicate fingers as he held them before his face, people would say, ‘Well, he has been out today!’ He knew the woods in their lovely spring green only because the neighbour’s son brought him the first beech branch of the season. He would hold it above his head and dream that he was beneath the beeches, where the sun shone and the birds sang. One spring day the neighbour’s boy also brought him some wildflowers, and among them, by chance, was one with its roots still attached. So it was planted in a flowerpot and set in the window close to his bed. And the flower had been planted by a lucky hand: it grew, put out new shoots, and bore its flowers every year. It became the sick boy’s loveliest garden, his little treasure on this earth. He watered and tended it, and made sure it caught every sunbeam, down to the very last that slipped across the low window. And the flower itself grew into his dreams, for it was for him that it bloomed, spread its fragrance, and delighted the eye. He turned towards it as he lay dying, when our Lord called him home. For a year now he has been with God; for a year the flower has stood forgotten in the window and withered, and so, when the household moved, it was thrown out into the sweepings in the street. And that is the flower, the poor, withered flower, we have brought with us in our bouquet, for it has given more joy than the most magnificent flower in a queen’s garden!”
“But how do you know all this?” asked the child whom the angel was carrying up towards Heaven. “I know!” said the angel. “I was that very sick little boy who walked on crutches! I know my own flower well!”
And the child opened its eyes fully and looked into the angel’s beautiful, happy face, and at that very moment they were in God’s Heaven, where there was joy and bliss. And God pressed the dead child to his heart, and it was given wings like the other angel’s and flew hand in hand with him. And God pressed all the flowers to his heart, but the poor, withered wildflower he kissed, and it was given a voice and sang with all the angels who hovered about God, some very near, others beyond them in great circles, farther and farther away into infinity, yet all equally happy. And they all sang, small and great, the good, blessed child and the poor wildflower that had lain withered, cast away among the sweepings and moving-day rubbish in the narrow, dark street.
Izvirnik
Englen
Naslednje strani prikazujejo izvirno besedilo za primerjavo.
Eventyr af Hans Christian Andersen
"Hver gang et godt barn dør, kommer der en Guds engel ned til Jorden, tager det døde barn på sine arme, breder de store hvide vinger ud, flyver hen over alle de steder, barnet har holdt af, og plukker en hel håndfuld blomster, som de bringer op til Gud for der at blomstre endnu smukkere end på Jorden. Den gode Gud trykker alle blomsterne til sit hjerte, men den blomst, som er ham kærest, giver han et kys, og da får den stemme og kan synge med i den store lyksalighed!"
Se, alt dette fortalte en Guds engel, idet den bar et dødt barn bort til Himmelen, og barnet hørte ligesom i drømme; og de fór hen over de steder i hjemmet, hvor den lille havde leget, og de kom gennem haver med dejlige blomster.
"Hvilke skal vi nu tage med og plante i Himmelen?" spurgte englen.
Og der stod et slankt, velsignet rosentræ, men en ond hånd havde knækket stammen, så at alle grenene, fulde af store, halvudsprungne knopper, hang visne ned rundt om.
"Det stakkels træ!" sagde barnet, "tag det, at det kan komme til at blomstre deroppe hos Gud!"
Og englen tog det, men kyssede barnet derfor, og den lille åbnede halvt sine øjne. De plukkede af de rige pragtblomster, men tog også den foragtede morgenfrue og den vilde stedmoderblomst.
"Nu har vi blomster!" sagde barnet, og englen nikkede, men de fløj endnu ikke op mod Gud. Det var nat, det var ganske stille, de blev i den store by, de svævede om i en af de snævreste gader, hvor der lå hele bunker halm, aske og skrimmelskrammel, det havde været flyttedag! der lå stykker af tallerkner, gipsstumper, klude og gamle hattepulde, alt hvad der ikke så godt ud.
Og englen pegede i al den forstyrrelse ned på nogle skår af en urtepotte, og på en klump jord, der var faldet ud af denne og holdtes sammen ved rødderne af en stor, vissen markblomst, der slet ikke duede og derfor var kastet ud på gaden.
"Den tager vi med!" sagde englen, "jeg skal fortælle dig, medens vi flyver!"
Og så fløj de, og englen fortalte:
"Dernede i den snævre gade, i den lave kælder, boede en fattig, syg dreng; fra ganske lille af havde han altid været sengeliggende; når han var allermest rask, kunne han på krykker gå den lille stue et par gange op og ned, det var det hele. Nogle dage om sommeren faldt solstrålerne en halv times tid ind i kælderforstuen, og når da den lille dreng sad der og lod den varme sol skinne på sig, og så det røde blod gennem sine fine fingre, som han holdt op for ansigtet, så hed det: "Ja i dag har han været ude!" - Han kendte skoven i dens dejlige forårsgrønne kun derved, at naboens søn bragte ham den første bøgegren, og den holdt han over sit hoved, og drømte sig da at være under bøgene, hvor solen skinnede, og fuglene sang. En forårsdag bragte naboens dreng ham også markblomster, og mellem disse var, tilfældigvis, en med rod ved, og derfor blev den plantet i en urtepotte og stillet hen i vinduet tæt ved sengen. Og blomsten var plantet med en lykkelig hånd, den voksede, skød nye skud og bar hvert år sine blomster; den blev den syge drengs dejligste urtegård, hans lille skat på denne jord; han vandede og passede den, og sørgede for, at den fik hver solstråle, lige til den sidste, der gled ned over det lave vindue; og blomsten selv voksede ind i hans drømme, thi for ham blomstrede den, udspredte sin duft og glædede øjet; mod den vendte han sig i døden, da Vorherre kaldte ham. – Et år har han nu været hos Gud, et år har blomsten stået forglemt i vinduet og er visnet, og derfor ved flytningen kastet ud i fejeskarnet på gaden. Og det er den blomst, den fattige, visne blomst vi har taget med i buketten, thi den blomst har glædet mere, end den rigeste blomst i en dronnings have!"
"Men hvorfra ved du alt dette!" spurgte barnet, som englen bar op mod Himmelen.
"Jeg ved det!" sagde englen. "Jeg var jo selv den syge, lille dreng, der gik på krykker! min blomst kender jeg nok!"
Og barnet åbnede ganske sine øjne og så ind i englens dejlige, glade ansigt, og i samme øjeblik var de i Guds himmel, hvor der var glæde og lyksalighed. Og Gud trykkede det døde barn til sit hjerte, og da fik det vinger, som den anden engel og fløj hånd i hånd med ham; og Gud trykkede alle blomsterne til sit hjerte, men den fattige, visne markblomst kyssede han og den fik stemme og sang med alle englene, der svævede om Gud, nogle ganske nær, andre uden om disse, i store kredse, altid længere bort, i det uendelige, men alle lige lykkelige. Og alle sang de, små og store, det gode, velsignede barn, og den fattige markblomst, der havde ligget vissen, henkastet i fejeskarnet, mellem flyttedagsskramleriet, i den snævre, mørke gade.
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