Holger Danec | Waltey

Prevod

In Denmark there is an old castle called Kronborg, standing right out by the Øresund, where great ships sail past by the hundred every day, English, Russian, and Prussian alike; and they salute the old castle with their guns: “Boom!” and the castle answers with its guns: “Boom!” for that is how cannons say “Good day!”—“Thank you kindly!” In winter no ships sail past; then the ice stretches all the way across to Sweden, like a proper highway, with the Danish flag and the Swedish flag flying above it, and Danes and Swedes saying to one another, “Good day!”—“Thank you kindly!” But not with cannons: no, with a friendly handshake, and each goes to the other for white bread and kringler, for food from another country always tastes best. But the grandest sight of all is old Kronborg, and beneath it, in the deep, dark cellar where no one ever comes, sits Holger Danske. He is clad in iron and steel, and rests his head upon his mighty arms; his long beard hangs over the marble table and has grown fast into it. He sleeps and dreams, but in his dreams he sees everything that happens up here in Denmark. Every Christmas Eve an angel of God comes and tells him that all he has dreamed is true, and that he may go back to sleep, for Denmark is not yet in any real danger! But should danger come, then old Holger Danske will rise, and the table will split as he draws his beard free! Then he will come forth and strike blows that will be heard in every country in the world.

All this about Holger Danske an old grandfather sat telling his little grandson, and the little boy knew that whatever Grandfather said was true. And as the old man sat telling his story, he was carving a large wooden figure. It was to represent Holger Danske and stand at the prow of a ship, for the old grandfather was a woodcarver, one of those men who carve ships’ figureheads to suit the names the vessels are to bear. Here he had carved Holger Danske, standing so straight and proud with his long beard, holding a broad battle-sword in one hand and resting the other upon the Danish coat of arms.

And the old grandfather told him so much about remarkable Danish men and women that at last the little grandson thought he knew just as much as Holger Danske could know, since after all Holger only dreamed about it; and when the little boy went to bed, he thought so hard about it all that he pressed his chin right down into the quilt and imagined he had a long beard that had grown fast into it.

But the old grandfather stayed at his work, carving the last part of it, the Danish coat of arms. And now he had finished, and he looked at the whole figure and thought of everything he had read and heard, and everything he had told the little boy that evening. He nodded and wiped his spectacles, put them on again, and said, “Well, Holger Danske will hardly come in my time! But the boy there in bed may perhaps live to see him, and be there when the hour of need comes.” And the old grandfather nodded, and the more he looked at his Holger Danske, the more clearly he saw what a fine figure he had made. It almost seemed to take on colour, and the armour shone like iron and steel; the hearts in the Danish coat of arms grew redder and redder, and the lions leapt with golden crowns upon their heads.

“It is surely the finest coat of arms anyone in the world possesses!” said the old man. “The lions are strength, and the hearts are gentleness and love!” And he looked at the uppermost lion and thought of King Knud, who bound mighty England to the throne of Denmark; and he looked at the second lion and thought of Valdemar, who united Denmark and subdued the lands of the Wends; he looked at the third lion and thought of Margrethe, who joined Denmark, Sweden, and Norway together. But as he looked at the red hearts, they shone still more brightly than before, turning into flickering flames, and his thoughts followed each of them.

The first flame led him into a narrow, dark prison. There sat a prisoner, a beautiful woman, Christian the Fourth’s daughter, Eleonore Ulfeldt; and the flame settled like a rose upon her breast and blossomed with her heart, the noblest and best of all Danish women.

“Yes, that is a heart in Denmark’s coat of arms!” said the old grandfather. And his thoughts followed the flame, which led him out to sea, where the cannons thundered and the ships lay shrouded in smoke; and the flame fastened itself like the ribbon of an order upon Hvitfeldt’s breast as he blew himself and his ship into the air to save the fleet.

And the third flame led him to the wretched huts of Greenland, where the pastor Hans Egede stood, with love in his words and deeds. The flame was a star upon his breast, a heart for the Danish coat of arms.

And the old grandfather’s thoughts went ahead of the floating flame, for his thoughts knew where it was bound. In a peasant woman’s humble room stood Frederik the Sixth, writing his name in chalk upon a beam; the flame trembled upon his breast, trembled in his heart; in that peasant’s room his heart became a heart in Denmark’s coat of arms. And the old grandfather wiped his eyes, for he had known and lived for King Frederik with the silvery-white hair and the honest blue eyes, and he folded his hands and gazed quietly before him. Then the old grandfather’s daughter-in-law came in and said that it was late, that he must rest now, and that supper was on the table.

“But what a beautiful piece of work you have made there, Grandfather!” she said. “Holger Danske and our whole old coat of arms!—It is almost as though I had seen that face before!”

“No, I don’t suppose you have!” said the old grandfather. “But I have seen it, and I have tried to carve it in wood just as I remember it. It was when the English lay in the Roads, on Denmark’s second of April, when we showed ourselves true Danes of the old stock! On the Danmark, where I served in Steen Bille’s squadron, I had a man beside me; it was as though the cannonballs were afraid of him! He merrily sang old songs, and fired and fought as if he were more than human. I remember his face still; but where he came from or where he went, I do not know, and no one knows. I have often thought it must have been old Holger Danske himself, who had swum down from Kronborg to help us in our hour of danger. That was what I thought, and there stands his likeness!”

And the figure cast its great shadow right up the wall and even some way across the ceiling. It looked as though the real Holger Danske himself were standing behind it, for the shadow moved; though that might also have been because the candle flame was flickering. And the daughter-in-law kissed the old grandfather and led him to the big armchair at the table, and she and her husband, who was of course the old grandfather’s son and the father of the little boy lying in bed, sat eating their supper. The old grandfather spoke of the Danish lions and the Danish hearts, of strength and gentleness, and explained quite plainly that there was another kind of strength besides the strength of the sword. He pointed to the shelf where the old books lay, where all Holberg’s comedies were kept, the plays they had read so often because they were so amusing that you felt you truly knew all those people from bygone days.

“There was a man who knew how to strike a blow, too!” said the old grandfather. “He struck away at people’s follies and rough edges as best he could!” And the old grandfather nodded towards the mirror, where the almanac stood with its picture of the Round Tower, and then he said, “Tyge Brahe, he too was a man who wielded a sword; not to cut through flesh and bone, but to cut a clearer path among all the stars of heaven!—And then there is the man whose father was of my own trade, the old woodcarver’s son, the man we ourselves have seen with his white hair and his mighty shoulders, whose name is spoken in every country in the world! Yes, he could carve in stone; I can only carve in wood! Indeed, Holger Danske can come in many forms, so that Denmark’s strength is heard of in every country in the world! Shall we drink a toast to Bertel, then!”

But the little boy in bed saw old Kronborg and the Øresund quite plainly, and the real Holger Danske sitting deep down below, with his beard grown fast into the marble table, dreaming of everything that happens up here. Holger Danske was also dreaming of the little humble room where the woodcarver sat; he heard everything that was said, and nodded in his dreams and said:

“Yes, remember me, you Danish people! Keep me in your thoughts! I shall come in the hour of need!” And outside Kronborg the bright daylight shone, and the wind carried the notes of a hunting horn across from the neighbouring country. The ships sailed past and saluted: “Boom! Boom!” and from Kronborg came the answer: “Boom! Boom!” But Holger Danske did not wake, however loudly they fired, for it was only “Good day!”—“Thank you kindly!” It will take a different kind of firing to wake him; but wake he surely will, for there is plenty of mettle in Holger Danske!

Izvirnik

Eventyr af Hans Christian Andersen

Der er i Danmark et gammelt slot, som hedder Kronborg, det ligger lige ud i Øresund, hvor de store skibe hver dag sejler forbi i hundredvis, både engelske, russiske og prøjsiske; og de hilser med kanoner for det gamle slot: "bum!" og slottet svarer igen med kanoner: "bum!" for således siger kanonerne "goddag!" - "mange tak!" – Om vinteren sejler der ingen skibe, så ligger alt med is lige over til det svenske land, men det er ordentlig ligesom en hel landevej, der vajer det danske flag og det svenske flag, og danske og svenske folk siger hinanden: "goddag," - "mange tak!" men ikke med kanoner, nej med venligt håndtag, og den ene henter hvedebrød og kringler hos den anden, for fremmed mad smager bedst. Men pragten i det hele er dog det gamle Kronborg og under det er det at Holger Danske sidder i den dybe mørke kælder hvor ingen kommer, han er klædt i jern og stål og støtter sit hoved på de stærke arme; hans lange skæg hænger ud over marmorbordet hvori det er vokset fast, han sover og drømmer, men i drømme ser han alt hvad der sker heroppe i Danmark. Hver juleaften kommer en Guds engel og siger ham at det er rigtigt, som han har drømt, og at han godt kan sove igen, for Danmark er endnu ikke i nogen ordentlig fare! men kommer det i en, ja, så vil den gamle Holger Danske rejse sig så bordet revner, når han trækker skægget til sig! så kommer han frem og slår så det høres i alle verdens lande.

Alt dette om Holger Danske sad en gammel bedstefader og fortalte sin lille sønnesøn og den lille dreng vidste, at hvad bedstefader sagde, det var sandt. Og mens den gamle sad og fortalte, så snittede han på et stort træbillede, det skulle forestille Holger Danske og stilles forud på et skib, for den gamle bedstefader var billedsnitter, og det er sådan en mand, som skærer ud til skibenes galioner, efter som hvert skib skal kaldes, og her havde han udskåret Holger Danske, der stod så rank og stolt med sit lange skæg og holdt i den ene hånd det brede slagsværd, men støttede den anden hånd på det danske våben.

Og den gamle bedstefader fortalte så meget om mærkelige danske mænd og kvinder, at den lille sønnesøn til sidst syntes, at nu vidste han lige så meget, som Holger Danske kunne vide, der jo dog kun drømte derom; og da den lille kom i sin seng, tænkte han så meget derpå, at han ordentlig knugede sin hage til sengedynen og syntes at han havde et langt skæg, der var vokset fast i den.

Men den gamle bedstefader blev siddende ved sit arbejde og snittede på den sidste del deri, det var det danske våben; og nu var han færdig, og han så på det hele og han tænkte på alt, hvad han havde læst og hørt og hvad han i aften havde fortalt den lille dreng; og han nikkede og tørrede sine briller, satte dem på igen og sagde: "Ja i min tid kommer nok ikke Holger Danske! men drengen der i sengen kan måske få ham at se og være med når det rigtigt gælder," og den gamle bedstefader nikkede, og jo mere han så på sin Holger Danske, des tydeligere blev det ham at det var et godt billede han der havde gjort; han syntes ordentlig at det fik kulør, og at harnisket skinnede som jern og stål; hjerterne i det danske våben blev mere og mere røde og løverne sprang med guldkroner på.

"Det er dog det dejligste våben nogen i verden har!" sagde den gamle. "Løverne er styrke og hjerterne er mildhed og kærlighed!" og han så på den øverste løve og tænkte på kong Knud, der bandt det store England til Danmarks kongestol, og han så på den anden løve og tænkte på Valdemar, som samlede Danmark og betvang de vendiske lande; han så på den tredje løve og tænkte på Margrethe som forenede Danmark, Sverige og Norge; men idet han så på de røde hjerter, så skinnede de endnu stærkere end før, de blev til flammer som bevægede sig, og hans tanke fulgte hver af dem.

Den første flamme førte ham ind i et snævert mørkt fængsel; der sad en fange, en dejlig kvinde, Christian den Fjerdes datter: Eleonore Ulfeldt; og flammen satte sig som en rose på hendes bryst og blomstrede sammen med hendes hjerte, hun den ædleste og bedste af alle danske kvinder.

"Ja, det er et hjerte i Danmarks våben!" sagde den gamle bedstefader.

Og hans tanker fulgte flammen, som førte ham ud på havet, hvor kanonerne buldrede, hvor skibene lå indhyllet i røg; og flammen hæftede sig som et ordensbånd på Hvitfeldts bryst idet han til flådens frelse sprængte sig og sit skib i luften.

Og den tredje flamme førte ham til Grønlands usle hytter hvor præsten Hans Egede stod med kærlighed i ord og gerning, flammen var en stjerne på hans bryst, et hjerte til det danske våben.

Og den gamle bedstefaders tanker gik foran den svævende flamme, thi hans tanke vidste hvor flammen ville hen. I bondekonens fattige stue stod Frederik den Sjette og skrev sit navn med kridt på bjælken; flammen bævede på hans bryst, bævede i hans hjerte; i bondens stue blev hans hjerte et hjerte i Danmarks våben. Og den gamle bedstefader tørrede sine øjne, for han havde kendt og levet for Kong Frederik med de sølvhvide hår og de ærlige blå øjne, og han foldede sine hænder og så stille frem for sig. Da kom den gamle bedstefaders sønnekone og sagde at det var sildigt, nu skulle han hvile, og at aftenbordet var dækket.

"Men dejligt er det dog hvad du der har gjort, bedstefader!" sagde hun. "Holger Danske og hele vort gamle våben! – Det er ligesom om jeg havde set det ansigt før!"

"Nej det har du nok ikke!" sagde den gamle bedstefader, "men jeg har set det, og jeg har stræbt at snitte det i træ, således som jeg husker det. Den gang var det, da englænderne lå på Reden, den danske anden april, da vi viste vi var gamle danske! På "Danmark" hvor jeg stod i Steen Billes eskadre, havde jeg en mand ved min side; det var, som kuglerne var bange for ham! lystig sang han gamle viser og skød og stred, som var han mere end et menneske. Jeg husker hans ansigt endnu; men hvorfra han kom, hvorhen han gik, ved ikke jeg, ved ingen. Jeg har tit tænkt, det var nok gamle Holger Danske selv, der var svømmet ned fra Kronborg og hjalp os i farens stund; det var nu min tanke og dér står hans billede!"

Og det kastede sin store skygge helt op ad væggen, selv noget hen ad loftet, det så ud, som var det den virkelige Holger Danske selv, som stod der bag ved, for skyggen rørte sig, men det kunne da også være fordi flammen i lyset ikke brændte stadigt. Og sønnekonen kyssede den gamle bedstefader og førte ham hen i den store lænestol foran bordet, og hun og hendes mand, som jo var den gamle bedstefaders søn og fader til den lille dreng der lå i sengen, sad og spiste deres aftensmad, og den gamle bedstefader talte om de danske løver og de danske hjerter, om styrken og mildheden, og ganske tydeligt forklarede han at der var endnu en styrke foruden den der lå i sværdet og han pegede på hylden hvor der lå gamle bøger, hvor alle Holbergs komedier lå, de som så tit var læst, for de var så morsomme, man syntes ordentlig at kende alle de personer deri fra gamle dage.

"Se, han har også vidst at hugge!" sagde den gamle bedstefader; "han har hugget det gale og kantede af folk så langt han kunne!" og gamle bedstefader nikkede hen til spejlet, hvor almanakken stod med det "Rundetårn" og så sagde han: "Tyge Brahe, han var også en, som brugte sværdet; ikke til at hugge i kød og ben, men hugge en tydeligere vej op imellem alle himlens stjerner! – Og så han, hvis fader var af min stand, den gamle billedsnitters søn, han vi selv har set med det hvide hår og de stærke skuldre, han som nævnes af alle verdens lande! ja han kunne hugge, jeg kan kun snitte! Jo, Holger Danske kan komme på mange måder, så at der i alle verdens lande høres om Danmarks styrke! Skal vi så drikke Bertels skål!"

Men den lille dreng i sengen så tydeligt det gamle Kronborg med Øresund, den virkelige Holger Danske som sad dybt dernede med skægget vokset fast i marmorbordet og drømte om alt hvad der sker her oppe; Holger Danske drømte også om den lille fattige stue, hvor billedsnitteren sad, han hørte alt hvad der blev talt og nikkede i drømme og sagde:

"Ja, husk kun på mig I danske folk! behold mig i tanke! jeg kommer i nødens time!"

Og uden for Kronborg skinnede den klare dag og vinden bar jægerhornets toner over fra nabolandet, skibene sejlede forbi og hilste: "bum! bum!" og fra Kronborg svarede det: "bum! bum!" men Holger Danske vågnede ikke hvor stærkt de skød, for det var jo bare: "Goddag!" – "Mange tak!" Der skal skydes anderledes før han vil vågne; men han vågner nok, for der er krummer i Holger Danske!

Prevod

Izvirnik

Morda ti bo všeč tudi