Waltey

Prevod

The flax was in bloom. It has such lovely blue flowers, as soft as a moth’s wings and finer still. The sun shone on the flax and the rain clouds watered it, and this was as good for it as being washed and then kissed by their mother is for little children; it makes them so much lovelier. And so it did the flax.

“People say I’m growing splendidly,” said the flax, “and that I’m getting so wonderfully tall. They say I shall make a magnificent piece of linen! Oh, how happy I am! I must be the happiest of all! I have such a good life, and I’m going to amount to something! How cheering the sunshine is, and how delicious and refreshing the rain! I am happier than anyone, the happiest of all!”

“Yes, yes, yes!” said the fence stakes. “You don’t know the world, but we do—we have knots in us!” And then they creaked so mournfully: “Snip snap snurre Basselurre, the song is over!”

“No, it isn’t!” said the flax. “The sun will shine tomorrow, the rain does me so much good, I can hear myself growing, I can feel that I’m in flower! I am the happiest of all!”

But one day some people came and seized the flax by its top and pulled it up by the roots. That hurt; and it was laid in water as though it were to be drowned, and then put over a fire as though it were to be roasted. It was dreadful!

“One cannot always be comfortable!” said the flax. “One must go through something to learn something!” But things grew very bad indeed. The flax was broken and crushed, scutched and hackled—though what did it know of the names for all this? It was put on the spinning wheel, whirr, whirr! It was impossible to gather its thoughts.

“I have been extraordinarily happy!” it thought amid all its suffering. “One must be glad of the good things one has had! Glad, glad, oh!” And it was still saying this when it was put on the loom—and then it became a lovely great piece of linen. All the flax, every single plant, became that one piece!

“Why, this is marvellous! I should never have believed it! Oh, how fortunate I am! Those fence stakes certainly knew what they were talking about with their ‘Snip snap snurre Basselurre!’

The song is not over at all! It is only just beginning! This is marvellous! Yes, I have suffered, but now I have become something in return; I am the happiest of all! I am so strong, and so soft, so white and so long! This is quite different from being merely a plant, even if one does have flowers! Nobody tends you, and you get water only when it rains. Now I am waited on! The maid turns me every morning, and every evening I get a shower from the watering can. Why, the parson’s wife herself has made a speech about me and said I was the finest piece of linen in the parish. I could not be happier!”

Now the linen was brought indoors, and now it came under the scissors. How they snipped, how they cut, how they pricked it with sewing needles—for that was what they did! It was no pleasure. But the linen became twelve pieces of underclothing, the kind one does not mention, but which everyone must have; there were twelve pieces of it.

“Why, now I have really become something! So this was my destiny! What a blessing it is! Now I am of use in the world, and that is what one ought to be; that is the true pleasure. We have become twelve pieces, but we are all still one and the same—we are a dozen! What marvellous happiness!”

And years went by, and at last it could last no longer. “Everything must come to an end sometime!” said each piece. “I should certainly have liked to last a little longer, but one must not ask for the impossible!” And then they were torn into shreds and tatters. They thought it was all over, for they were chopped and pounded and boiled—they themselves hardly knew what was done to them—and then they became beautiful, fine white paper!

“Why, what a surprise! And what a lovely surprise!” said the paper. “Now I am finer than before, and now I am to be written on! What wonderful things may be written! What marvellous happiness!” And on it were written the loveliest stories, and people heard what was written there, and it was so true and good that it made them much wiser and better. A great blessing had been bestowed in words upon those sheets of paper.

“This is more than I ever dreamed of when I was a little blue flower in the field! How could I have imagined that I should come to carry joy and knowledge to people? Even now I cannot understand it! Yet that is truly how it is! Our Lord knows that I myself have done nothing except what I had to do, in my humble circumstances, simply to exist! And yet He carries me onward like this, from one joy and honour to another. Every time I think, ‘The song is over!’ it passes into something far higher and better. Now I shall surely go travelling, be sent all round the world so that everyone can read me! That seems most likely! Once I had blue flowers; now, for every flower, I have the loveliest thoughts! I am the happiest of all!”

But the paper did not go travelling. It went to the printer, and there everything written on it was set in type and printed in a book—indeed, in many hundreds of books—for then infinitely more people could gain benefit and pleasure from it than if the one paper on which the words were written had travelled round the world and worn out halfway.

“Yes, that is certainly the most sensible thing!” thought the written paper. “It never even occurred to me! I shall stay at home and be held in honour like an old grandfather! It is on me that the words were written; they flowed from the pen straight into me. I stay, and the books run about! Now something really can be accomplished! Oh, how glad I am, how happy!”

Then the paper was gathered into a bundle and laid on a shelf. “It does one good to rest after one’s work!” said the paper. “It is quite right to collect oneself and reflect on what lies within. Only now do I truly know what is written in me! And to know oneself—that is real progress. I wonder what will happen next. There will be another step forward; it is always onward!”

One day all the paper was laid on the hearth to be burned, for it must not be sold to the grocer and used to wrap butter and powdered sugar. And all the children in the house stood round; they wanted to see it blaze, they wanted to watch the many red sparks in the ashes that seem to run along and go out, one after another, so swiftly—those are the children leaving school, and the very last spark is the schoolmaster. Often you think he has gone, but then he comes along a little after all the others.

And all the paper lay in a bundle on the fire. Oh, how it burst into flame! “Oh!” it said, and at that very moment it became one great flame, rising higher than the flax had ever been able to lift its little blue flower, and shining as the white linen had never been able to shine. All the written letters turned quite red in an instant, and all the words and thoughts went up in flame.

“Now I am going straight up to the sun!” it said within the flame, and it was as though a thousand voices spoke as one, and the flame shot up the chimney and out at the very top; and finer than the flame, quite invisible to human eyes, tiny beings floated, as many as there had been flowers on the flax. They were lighter even than the flame that carried them, and when it went out and nothing remained of the paper but black ashes, they danced once more over them, and wherever they touched, their footprints could be seen: they were the red sparks. “The children were leaving school, and the schoolmaster was the last.” It was a pleasure to watch, and the children of the house stood singing beside the dead ashes:

“Snip snap snurre Basselurre! The song is over!” But each of the little invisible beings said, “The song is never over! That is the loveliest thing of all! I know it, and that is why I am the happiest of all!”

But the children could neither hear nor understand this, nor were they meant to, for children must not know everything.

Izvirnik

Eventyr af Hans Christian Andersen

Hørren stod i blomster. Den har sådanne dejlige blå blomster så bløde som vingerne på et møl og endnu meget finere. - Solen skinnede på hørren og regnskyerne vandede den, og det var lige så godt for den som det er for småbørn at blive vasket, og så få et kys af moder; de bliver jo deraf meget dejligere. Og det blev også hørren.

"Folk siger jeg står så udmærket godt;" sagde hørren, "og at jeg bliver så dejlig lang, der vil komme et prægtigt stykke lærred af mig! Nej, hvor jeg er lykkelig! Jeg er bestemt den allerlykkeligste af alle! Jeg har det så godt, og jeg skal blive til noget! Hvor det solskin muntrer op og hvor den regn smager og forfrisker! Jeg er mageløs lykkelig, jeg er den allerlykkeligste!"

"Ja, ja, ja!" sagde gærdestavene, "Du kender ikke verden, men det gør vi, der er knuder i os!" og så knagede de så ynkeligt:

"Snip snap snurre

Basselurre,

Visen er ude!"

"Nej, den er ikke!" sagde hørren; "solen skinner i morgen, regnen gør så godt, jeg kan høre hvor jeg vokser, jeg kan føle jeg har blomst! jeg er den allerlykkeligste!"

Men en dag kom der folk og tog hørren i toppen og ruskede den op med rod, det gjorde ondt; og den blev lagt i vand ligesom den skulle druknes, og så kom den over ild, ligesom den skulle steges, det var grueligt!

"Man kan ikke altid have det godt!" sagde hørren, "man må prøve noget, så ved man noget!"

Men det blev rigtignok slemt. Hørren blev knækket og brækket, skættet og heglet, ja hvad vidste den hvad det hed; den kom på rokken, snurre rur! det var ikke muligt at holde tankerne samlede.

"Jeg har været overordentlig lykkelig!" tænkte den i al sin pine! "Man må være glad ved det gode, man har haft! Glad, glad, oh!" - og det sagde den endnu da den kom på væven, - og så blev den til et dejligt stort stykke lærred. Al hørren, hver eneste urt, blev til det ene stykke!

"Ja, men det er jo mageløst! Det havde jeg aldrig troet! Nej, hvor jeg har lykken med mig! Jo gærdestavene de vidste rigtig nok god besked med deres

'Snip snap snurre

Basselurre!'

Visen er slet ikke ude! Nu begynder den just! Det er mageløst! Ja, har jeg lidt noget, så er jeg også nu blevet noget for det; jeg er den lykkeligste af alle! - Jeg er så stærk, og så blød, så hvid og så lang! Det er noget andet end kun at være urter, selv om man har blomst! Man bliver ikke passet, og vand får man kun når det regner. Nu har jeg opvartning! Pigen vender mig hver morgen, og med vandkanden får jeg regnbad hver aften; ja præstekonen selv har holdt tale over mig og sagt, at jeg var det bedste stykke i sognet. Jeg kan ikke blive lykkeligere!"

Nu kom lærredet i hus, nu kom det under saks. Hvor man klippede, hvor man skar, hvor man stak med synåle, for det gjorde man! Det var ingen fornøjelse. Men lærredet blev til tolv stykker lintøj, af det man ikke nævner, men som alle mennesker må have; det var tolv stykker af det.

"Nej, se nu blev jeg først til noget! Så det var min bestemmelse! Ja, men det er jo velsignet! nu gør jeg gavn i verden, og det er det man skal gøre, det er den rette fornøjelse. Vi er blevet tolv stykker, men vi er alle dog ét og det samme, vi er et dusin! Hvor det er en mageløs lykke!"

Og år gik, - og så kunne det ikke holde længere.

"Engang må det jo være forbi!" sagde hvert stykke, "jeg gad jo gerne holdt noget længere, men man må ikke forlange umulige ting!" Og så blev de revet i stumper og laser, de troede at det var rent forbi, for de blev hakket og maset og kogt, ja de vidste ikke selv hvad - og så blev de dejligt fint hvidt papir!

"Nej, det er en overraskelse! Og en dejlig overraskelse!" sagde papiret! "Nu er jeg finere end før, og nu skal der skrives på mig! Hvad kan der ikke blive skrevet! Det er dog en mageløs lykke!" Og der blev skrevet på det, de allerdejligste historier, og folk hørte hvad der stod, og det var så rigtigt og godt, det gjorde menneskene meget klogere og bedre; det var en stor velsignelse, der i ord var givet de papirer.

"Det er mere end jeg drømte om, da jeg var en lille blå blomst på marken! hvor kunne jeg tænke, at jeg skulle komme til at bære glæde og kundskaber ud til menneskene. Jeg kan endnu selv ikke forstå det! Men det er nu engang virkelig så! Vorherre ved, at jeg selv slet ingen ting har gjort, uden hvad jeg efter fattig lejlighed måtte gøre, for at være til! Og så bærer han mig således frem til den ene glæde og hæder efter den anden; hver gang jeg tænker: 'Visen er ude!' så går den just over i noget meget højere og bedre; nu skal jeg vist på rejse, sendes hele verden rundt, for at alle mennesker kan læse mig! Det er det rimeligste! Før havde jeg blå blomster, nu har jeg for hver blomst de dejligste tanker! Jeg er den allerlykkeligste!"

Men papiret kom ikke på rejse, det kom til bogtrykkeren, og der blev alt, hvad der stod skrevet på det, sat i trykken til en bog, ja til mange hundrede bøger, for så kunne uendelig flere folk få gavn og glæde deraf, end om det eneste papir, som det skrevne var på, havde løbet verden rundt, og var blevet slidt op på halvvejen.

"Ja, det er nu det allerfornuftigste!" tænkte det beskrevne papir. "Det faldt mig slet ikke ind! Jeg bliver hjemme og holdes i ære ligesom en gammel bedstefader! Det er mig, der er skrevet på, ordene flød af pennen lige ind i mig. Jeg bliver og bøgerne løber omkring! Nu kan der rigtignok blive bestilt noget! Nej, hvor jeg er glad, hvor jeg er lykkelig!"

Så blev papiret samlet i bundt og lagt på hylde. "Man har godt af at hvile på sin gerning!" sagde papiret. "Det er meget rigtigt at man samler sig og kommer til eftertanke om hvad der bor i en. Nu først ved jeg rigtigt, hvad der står i mig! Og kende sig selv, det er det egentlige fremskridt. Hvad mon der nu vil komme, noget fremad sker der, det går altid fremad!"

En dag blev alt papiret lagt på skorstenen, det skulle brændes, for det måtte ikke sælges til spækhøkeren og komme om smør og puddersukker. Og alle børnene i huset stod rundt om, de ville se det blusse, de ville se i asken de mange røde ildgnister, der ligesom løber af sted og slukkes, den ene efter den anden, så gesvindt - det er børnene der går af skole, og den allersidste gnist er skolemesteren; tit tror man han er gået, men så kommer han lidt efter alle de andre.

Og alt papiret lå i et bundt på ilden. Uh! hvor det slog op i lue. "Uh!" sagde det, og lige i det samme blev det en hel flamme; den gik så højt i vejret, som aldrig hørren havde kunnet løfte sin lille blå blomst, og skinnede som aldrig det hvide linned havde kunnet skinne; alle de skrevne bogstaver blev i et øjeblik ganske røde, og alle ord og tanker gik op i lue.

"Nu går jeg lige op i solen!" sagde det inde i flammen, og det var som tusinde stemmer sagde det i én, og flammen slog gennem skorstenen helt oven ud; – – og finere end flammen, ganske usynlig for menneskenes øjne, svævede små bitte væsner, lige så mange som der havde været blomster på hørren. De var endnu lettere end flamme, der førte dem, og da den slukkedes og der kun var tilbage af papiret den sorte aske, dansede de endnu en gang hen over den og hvor de rørte så man deres fodspor, det var de røde gnister: "Børnene gik af skole og skolemesteren var den sidste;" det var en fornøjelse at se på, og husets børn stod og sang ved den døde aske:

"Snip snap snurre

Basselurre!

Visen er ude!"

Men de små usynlige væsener sagde hver: "Visen er aldrig ude! Det er det dejligste ved det hele! Jeg ved det, og derfor er jeg den allerlykkeligste!"

Men det kunne børnene hverken høre eller forstå, og det skulle de ikke heller, for børn må ikke vide alting.

Nadaljuj z branjem

072 THE TADPOLE WHO WANTED TO BE GROWN-UP Živalske zgodbe Clare Dillingham Pierson · 11 min branja 3 skupnih tagov Prometej in Devkalionov vesoljni potop Apolodorjeva knjižnica · 6 min branja 2 skupnih tagov Gospa Truda Grimmove pravljice · 2 min branja 2 skupnih tagov 148 Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket Myths and Legends of Our Own Land · 3 min branja 2 skupnih tagov

Nalagam bralnik