Holger Danec

Besedilo

Holger Danec

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!