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Andersenove pravljice · Hans Christian AndersenO besedilu
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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
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There stood a windmill on the hill, proud to look upon, and proud it felt. “I am not proud in the least!” it said. “But I am very enlightened, outside and in. I have the sun and moon for outward use, and inward use as well, and besides those I have candles, a whale-oil lamp, and a tallow dip. I think I may say that I am enlightened. I am a thinking being, and so well made that it is a pleasure. I have a good millstone in my breast, and four wings set high upon my head, just beneath my hat; birds have only two wings, and must carry them on their backs. I am Dutch by birth, as you can tell by my shape—a Flying Dutchman. That is reckoned something supernatural, I know, and yet I am perfectly natural. I have a gallery round my middle and living quarters in my lower part; that is where my thoughts dwell. My strongest thought, the one that governs and commands, is called by the other thoughts ‘the man at the mill.’ He knows what he wants; he stands high above flour and groats, but he has his mate all the same, and she is called Mother. She is my heart; she does not go about things backwards. She too knows what she wants, and she knows what she can do. She is gentle as a puff of air and strong as the wind; she knows how to coax, how to get her way. She is my softer nature, and Father is my sterner one. They are two and yet one; they even call each other ‘my other half.’ Those two have little ones: small thoughts that can grow. What a commotion the little ones make! The other day, when, deep in thought, I had Father and his men examine the millstones and wheels in my breast—I wanted to know what was wrong, for something was wrong inside me, and one ought to examine oneself—the little ones made a dreadful commotion. That does not look well when, like me, one stands high upon a hill; one must remember that one stands in the light of public attention. Reputation is a kind of illumination too. But what I meant to say was that the little ones made a dreadful commotion! The youngest ran straight up into my hat and sang away until it tickled me. Small thoughts can grow; I have noticed that. And thoughts come from outside as well, though not quite of my own kind, for I see none of my kind, as far as I can see, none but myself. But the wingless houses, where no millstones can be heard, have thoughts too, and these come to my thoughts and become engaged to them, as they call it. Strange enough! Yes, there are many strange things. Something has come over me, or into me; something has changed in the mill’s machinery. It is as though Father had exchanged his other half, had acquired an even gentler nature, an even more loving mate, so young and good, and yet the same, only softer and sweeter with time. Whatever was bitter has evaporated; it is all very pleasant. Days go and days come, always onward towards light and joy, and then—yes, it has been said and written—then a day will come when all is over with me, and yet not over at all! I am to be pulled down so that I may rise again, new and better; I am to cease, and yet go on existing! Become quite another, and yet remain the same! That is hard for me to grasp, however enlightened I may be by sun, moon, candles, whale oil, and tallow! My old timbers and brickwork are to rise again from the rubble. I do hope I shall keep my old thoughts: Father at the mill, Mother, big ones and little ones—the family, as I call them all, one and yet so many, the whole company of thoughts, for I cannot do without them! And I must remain myself as well, with millstones in my breast, wings upon my head, and a balcony round my middle; otherwise I shall not recognise myself, nor will the others recognise me and say, ‘Why, there is the mill upon the hill, proud to look upon, and yet not proud in the least!’”
So spoke the mill, and it said a great deal more, but this was the most important part. And the days came and the days went, and the final one was the last. The mill caught fire; the flames rose, swept out, swept in, licked the beams and boards, and devoured them. The mill fell; nothing remained but a heap of ashes. Smoke drifted over the burnt-out site, and the wind carried it away.
All that had been alive in the mill survived; it suffered no harm from the event, but gained by it. The miller’s family—one soul, many thoughts, and yet only one—acquired a beautiful new mill, one they could be well pleased with. It looked just like the old one, and people said, “Why, there is the mill upon the hill, proud to look upon!” But this one was better fitted out, more up to date, for things move forward. The old timbers, worm-eaten and rotten, lay in dust and ashes; that body of a mill did not rise again, as it had believed it would. It had taken the words quite literally, and one must not take everything quite literally!
Izvirnik
Vejrmøllen
Naslednje strani prikazujejo izvirno besedilo za primerjavo.
Eventyr af Hans Christian Andersen
Der stod på bakken en vejrmølle, stolt at se på og stolt følte den sig:
"Aldeles ikke stolt er jeg!" sagde den, "men jeg er meget oplyst, uden og inden. Sol og måne har jeg til udvortes brug og til indvendig med, og så har jeg desuden stearinlys, tranlampe og tælleprås; jeg tør sige, at jeg er oplyst; jeg er et tænkende væsen og så velskabt at det er en fornøjelse. Jeg har en god kværn i brystet, jeg har fire vinger og de sidder mig oppe i hovedet, lige under hatten; fuglene har kun to vinger og må bære dem på ryggen. Jeg er en hollænder af fødsel, det kan ses på min skabelon; en flyvende hollænder; den regnes til det overnaturlige, ved jeg, og dog er jeg meget naturlig. Jeg har galleri om maven og beboelseslejlighed i nederdelen; der huser mine tanker. Min stærkeste tanke, den der styrer og råder, kaldes af de andre tanker: Manden på møllen. Han ved hvad han vil, han står højt over mel og gryn, men har dog sin mage og hun kaldes mutter; hun er hjertelaget; hun løber ikke avet om, også hun ved hvad hun vil, hun ved hvad hun kan, hun er mild som et vindpust, hun er stærk som blæsten; hun forstår at lirke, at få sin vilje. Hun er mit bløde sind, fatter er mit hårde; de er to og dog én, de kalder også hinanden 'min halvpart'. De har rollinger de to: små tanker, som kan vokse. De små gør et styr! Forleden, da jeg i dybsindighed lod 'fatter' og hans svende se kværn og hjul efter i mit bryst, jeg ville vide hvad der var i vejen, thi der var noget i vejen inden i mig, og man skal ransage sig selv, så gjorde de små et forfærdeligt styr, der ikke tager sig ud, når man, som jeg, står højt oppe på bakken; man må huske at man står i belysning: Omdømmet er også belysning. Men hvad jeg ville sige, det var et forfærdeligt styr af de små! Den mindste fór mig lige op i hatten og trallede så det kildrede i mig. De små tanker kan vokse, det har jeg fornummet, og udefra kommer også tanker og ikke ganske af min slægt, for jeg ser ingen af den, så langt jeg ser, ingen uden mig selv; men de vingeløse huse, hvor kværnen ikke høres, de har også tanker, de kommer til mine tanker og forlover sig med dem, som de kalder det. Underligt nok, ja der er meget underligt. Det er kommet over mig eller i mig; noget har forandret sig i mølleværket, det er som om fatter havde skiftet halvpart, fået et endnu mildere sind, en endnu kærligere mage, så ung og from og dog den samme, men blødere, frommere med tiden. Hvad besk var er fordunstet; det er meget fornøjeligt det hele. Dagene går og dagene kommer, altid fremad til klarhed og glæde, og så, ja det er sagt og skrevet, så kommer der en dag, at det er forbi med mig og aldeles ikke forbi! jeg skal rives ned for at rejse mig ny og bedre, jeg skal høre op og dog blive ved at være! blive en ganske anden og dog den samme! det er mig svært at begribe, ihvor oplyst jeg end er, ved sol, måne, stearin, tran og tælle! mit gamle tømmer og murværk skal rejse sig igen af gruset. Jeg vil håbe at jeg beholder de gamle tanker: Fatter på møllen, mutter, store og små, familien, den kalder jeg det hele, en og dog så mange, hele tankekompagniet, for det kan jeg ikke undvære! og mig selv må jeg også blive, med kværn i brystet, vinger på hovedet, altan om maven, ellers kan jeg ikke kende mig selv, og de andre kan heller ikke kende mig og sige, der har vi jo møllen på bakken, stolt at se, dog aldeles ikke stolt!"
Det sagde møllen, den sagde meget mere, men dette var nu det vigtigste.
Og dagene kom og dagene gik, og den yderste var den sidste.
Der gik ild i møllen; flammerne løftede sig, slog ud, slog ind, slikkede bjælker og brædder, åd dem op. Møllen faldt, der var kun en askehob tilbage; røgen fór hen over brandstedet, vinden bar den bort.
Hvad levende der havde været på møllen blev, det kom ikke noget til ved den begivenhed, det vandt ved den. Møllerfamilien, en sjæl, mange tanker og dog kun en, fik sig en ny, dejlig mølle, den kunne være tjent med, den lignede aldeles den gamle, man sagde: Der står jo møllen på bakken, stolt at se! men denne var bedre indrettet, mere tidssvarende, for det går fremad. Det gamle tømmer, der var ormstukket og svampet, lå i støv og aske; den møllekrop rejste sig ikke, som den havde troet; den tog det lige efter ordene, og man skal ikke tage alting lige efter ordene!
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