Waltey

Prevod

Grandmother is so old, she has so many wrinkles and such white hair, but her eyes shine like two stars—indeed, they are much lovelier, so gentle, so blessed to look into. And she knows the most wonderful stories, and she has a dress with great, great flowers on it, made of a thick silk that rustles. Grandmother knows so much, for she was alive long before Father and Mother—that is quite certain! Grandmother has a hymnbook with thick silver clasps, and she often reads in it; in the middle lies a rose, quite flat and dry. It is not as beautiful as the roses she keeps in the glass, and yet she gives it her kindest smile; yes, tears come into her eyes. Why does Grandmother look like that at the withered rose in the old book? Do you know? Whenever Grandmother’s tears fall on the flower, its colour grows fresh again, the rose swells, and the whole room fills with fragrance. The walls fade away as though they were only mist, and all around is the lovely green forest, where sunlight shines between the leaves, and Grandmother—why, she is quite young, a lovely girl with golden curls and round, rosy cheeks, beautiful and sweet, fresher than any rose. Yet her eyes, those gentle, blessed eyes—yes, they are still Grandmother’s. Beside her sits a man, so young, strong, and handsome; he offers her the rose, and she smiles—but surely Grandmother does not smile like that!—yes, the smile comes. He is gone; many thoughts and many figures pass by; the handsome man is gone, the rose lies in the hymnbook, and Grandmother—yes, there she sits again, an old woman, gazing at the withered rose that lies in the book.

Now Grandmother is dead. She was sitting in her armchair, telling a long, long, lovely story. “And now it is over,” she said, “and I am so tired. Let me sleep a little now.” Then she leaned back, breathing softly; she was asleep. But all grew quieter and quieter, and her face was so full of peace and happiness, it was as though sunshine were passing over it, and then they said she was dead.

She was laid in the black coffin, wrapped in white linen. She was so beautiful, and though her eyes were closed, all her wrinkles were gone, and a smile rested on her lips. Her hair was so silvery white, so venerable; there was nothing at all frightening about looking at the dead woman, for she was dear, kindhearted Grandmother. And the hymnbook was laid beneath her head, as she herself had asked, and the rose lay in the old book; and then they buried Grandmother.

On her grave, close beneath the church wall, they planted a rosebush, and it was covered with flowers, and the nightingale sang above it, and from inside the church the organ played the loveliest hymns from the book beneath the dead woman’s head. And the moon shone straight down upon the grave; but the dead woman was not there. Any child could go there at night without fear and pick a rose beside the churchyard wall. The dead know more than all of us who are living; they know the dread we would feel at anything so strange as their coming to us. The dead are better than any of us, and so they do not come. There is earth above the coffin, there is earth within it. The hymnbook and its pages are dust; the rose, with all its memories, has crumbled to dust. But above, new roses bloom; above, the nightingale sings, and the organ plays. We think of old Grandmother with her gentle, ever-young eyes. Eyes can never die! One day ours will see her, young and beautiful, as she was when she first kissed the fresh red rose that is now dust in the grave.

Izvirnik

Eventyr af Hans Christian Andersen

Bedstemoder er så gammel, hun har så mange rynker og et ganske hvidt hår, men hendes øjne de skinner ligesom to stjerner, ja de er meget smukkere, de er så milde, så velsignede at se ind i. Og så kan hun de dejligste historier, og hun har en kjole med store, store blomster, det er sådant noget tykt silketøj, det rasler. Bedstemoder ved så meget, for hun har levet længe førend fader og moder, det er ganske vist! Bedstemoder har en salmebog med tykke spænder af sølv, og i den læser hun tit; midt i den ligger en rose, den er ganske flad og tør, den er ikke så smuk som roserne, hun har i glasset, og dog smiler hun allervenligst til den, ja der kommer tårer i hendes øjne. Hvorfor mon bedstemoder således ser på den visne rose i den gamle bog? Ved du det? Hver gang bedstemoders tårer falder på blomsten, da bliver farven friskere, da svulmer rosen og hele stuen fyldes med duft, væggene synker, som var de kun tåger, og rundt om er det den grønne, den dejlige skov, hvor solen skinner ind mellem bladene, og bedstemoder – ja, hun er ganske ung, hun er en dejlig pige med gule lokker, med røde, runde kinder, smuk og yndig, ingen rose er mere frisk, dog øjnene, de milde, velsignede øjne, jo det er endnu bedstemoders. Ved hendes side sidder en mand, så ung, kraftig og smuk; han rækker hende rosen og hun smiler, – således smiler dog ikke bedstemoder! – jo, smilet kommer. Han er borte; der går mange tanker og mange skikkelser forbi; den smukke mand er borte, rosen ligger i salmebogen, og bedstemoder – ja, hun sidder der igen, som en gammel kone og ser på den visne rose, der ligger i bogen.

Nu er bedstemoder død. – Hun sad i lænestolen og fortalte en lang, lang dejlig historie: "Og nu er den ude," sagde hun, "og jeg ganske træt, lad mig nu sove lidt." Og så lagde hun sig tilbage og hun trak vejret, hun sov; men det blev mere og mere stille, og hendes ansigt var så fuldt af fred og lykke, det var ligesom der gik solskin over det, og så sagde de, hun var død.

Hun blev lagt i den sorte kiste, hun lå svøbt i det hvide linned, hun var så smuk, og dog var øjnene lukkede, men alle rynkerne var borte, hun lå med smil om munden; hendes hår var så sølvhvidt, så ærværdigt, man blev slet ikke bange ved at se på den døde, det var jo den søde, ejegode bedstemoder. Og salmebogen blev lagt under hendes hoved, det havde hun selv forlangt, og rosen lå i den gamle bog; og så begravede de bedstemoder.

På graven, tæt under kirkemuren, plantede de et rosentræ, og det stod fuldt med blomster, og nattergalen sang over det, og inde fra kirken spillede orglet de smukkeste salmer, der stod i bogen under den dødes hoved. Og månen skinnede lige ned på graven; men den døde var der ikke; ethvert barn kunne ved nattetid roligt gå hen og plukke en rose der ved kirkegårdsmuren. En død ved mere, end alle vi levende ved, den døde kender den angst vi vil føle for noget så sælsomt, som det, at de kom til os; de døde er bedre end vi alle, og så kommer de ikke. Der er jord over kisten, der er jord inden i den. Salmebogen med dens blade er støv, rosen med alle sine erindringer er falden i støv; men ovenfor blomstrer nye roser, ovenfor synger nattergalen, og orglet spiller; man tænker på den gamle bedstemoder med de milde, evig unge øjne. Øjne kan aldrig dø! vore skal engang se hende, ung og smuk, som da hun første gang kyssede den friske, røde rose, der nu er støv i graven.

Nadaljuj z branjem

Hilas in Heraklej ostaneta na kopnem Argonavtika · 22 min branja 3 skupnih tagov Botra smrt Grimmove pravljice · 6 min branja 3 skupnih tagov Nema knjiga Andersenove pravljice · 4 min branja 3 skupnih tagov Vrtnica s Homerjevega groba Andersenove pravljice · 3 min branja 3 skupnih tagov

Nalagam bralnik