Nekaj

Besedilo

Nekaj

"I mean to be something!" said the eldest of five brothers. "I mean to be of use in the world. Let my station be ever so humble, as long as the work I do is good, then that is something. I shall make bricks; no one can do without them! Then at least I shall have done something!"

"But something far too small!" said the second brother. "What you do is as good as nothing; it is labourer's work, and a machine could do it. No, better to become a bricklayer; that is something, and that is what I shall be. That is a trade! It gets you into a guild, makes you a citizen, gives you a banner of your own and a guildhall. Why, if things go well, I can employ journeymen, be called master, and my wife will be the master's wife. That is something!"

"It is nothing at all!" said the third. "It puts you outside the ranks of society, and there are many ranks in a town far above a master craftsman's! You may be a worthy man, but as a master you are still only what people call 'common'! No, I know of something better. I shall be an architect, enter the world of art and thought, rise among the higher ranks in the realm of the spirit. Of course I must begin at the bottom; yes, I may as well say it plainly: I must begin as a carpenter's apprentice, wear a cap, though I am used to wearing a top hat, run errands for the common journeymen, fetching beer and brandy, while they address me as though I were their equal. That is galling! But I shall imagine it is all a masquerade, where masks give everyone their freedom! Tomorrow—that is, when I am a journeyman—I shall go my own way; the others will be no concern of mine! I shall go to the Academy, learn to draw, be called an architect! That is something! That is a great deal! I may become Right Honourable and High-born, with a little extra both before and after my name, and I shall build and build, just like the others before me! That is always something you can rely on! The whole thing amounts to something!"

"But that something does not appeal to me!" said the fourth. "I will not follow in anyone's wake, I will not be a copy; I mean to be a genius, more gifted than all of you put together! I shall create a new style, conceive a building suited to the country's climate and materials, its national character, the progress of our age—and then add another storey for my own genius!"

"But suppose the climate and materials are no good!" said the fifth. "That would be awkward, for they have their influence! National character, too, can easily be stretched so far that it becomes affectation, and the progress of the age may set you running wild, as young people so often do. I can see well enough that none of you will really become anything, however much you may think so yourselves! But do as you please. I shall not be like you; I shall stand apart and pass judgment on what you accomplish! There is always something wrong with everything; I shall pick it out and discuss it. That is something!"

And so he did, and people said of the fifth brother, "There is certainly something in him! He has a fine mind! But he does nothing!" Yet that made him something.

Now, this is only a little story, and yet it will have no end as long as the world stands! But did nothing more come of the five brothers? That would be nothing of a story! Listen further; it is quite a fairy tale!

The eldest brother, who made bricks, found that from every brick, once it was finished, a little coin rolled out. It was only copper, but many little copper coins, piled one upon another, become a bright silver dollar; and wherever you knock with that—at the baker's, the butcher's, the tailor's, indeed at any of their doors—the door flies open and you get what you need. You see, that was what the bricks yielded. Some, to be sure, broke into fragments or split in half, but they were put to use as well.

Up on the sea wall, Mother Margrethe, a poor old woman, longed to build herself a little cottage. She was given all the broken bricks, and a couple of whole ones besides, for the eldest brother had a kind heart, though all he ever managed to do was make bricks. The poor woman built her cottage herself. It was narrow, its one window was crooked, the door was far too low, and the thatch could have been laid better; but it gave her shelter from wind and weather, and from it she could see far out across the sea, which broke in all its might against the sea wall. The salt spray swept over the whole cottage, which was still standing when the man who had made its bricks was dead and gone.

The second brother certainly knew a better way to build, for he had been trained in the craft. When he had completed his journeyman's piece, he strapped on his knapsack and sang the craftsman's song:

"While I am young, the world I'll roam, and build abroad a home; my trade shall be my purse of gold, my youthful heart my fortune! And when my native land I see, my sweetheart has my promise.

Hurrah! A craftsman full of enterprise soon finds a table of his own!" And so he did. Back in town, when he returned and became a master, he built house after house, a whole street; and when it stood complete, looking handsome and bringing the town distinction, the houses built him a little house of his own. But how could houses build? Well, ask them, and they will not answer; but people will answer and say, "Of course that street built his house for him!" It was small and had a clay floor, but when he danced across it with his bride, the floor grew bright and polished, and from every brick in the wall a flower sprang out, which was quite as good as an expensive wall covering. It was a lovely house and a blissfully happy couple. The guild banner waved outside, and journeymen and apprentices shouted, "Hurrah!" Yes, that was something! And then he died; that was something too!

Next came the architect, the third brother, who had first been a carpenter's apprentice, worn a cap, and run errands, but had risen through the Academy to become an architect, "Right Honourable and High-born"! Why, if the houses in the street had built a house for his brother the master bricklayer, the street itself was now named after him, and the finest house in it became his. That was something, and he was something—with a long title both before and after his name. His children were called children of distinction, and when he died his widow was a lady of rank—that is something! And his name remained on the street corner and on people's lips, as the name of the street—yes, that is something!

Then came the genius, the fourth brother, who meant to invent something new, something out of the ordinary, with another storey on top; but that broke off beneath him, and he fell and broke his neck. Still, he had a splendid funeral, with guild banners and music, flowery tributes in the newspaper and flowers strewn over the cobblestones in the street; and three funeral orations were delivered over him, each much longer than the last. That would have pleased him, for he dearly loved to be talked about. A monument was set upon his grave, only one storey high, but that is always something!

Now he was dead, like the other three brothers; but the last, the one who passed judgment, outlived them all, and that was only right, for then he had the last word, and having the last word was of great importance to him. He was the one with the fine mind, after all! So people said. At last his hour struck too; he died and came to the gate of Heaven. People always arrive there two by two! There he stood beside another soul who also wished to enter, and this was none other than old Mother Margrethe from the cottage on the sea wall.

"I suppose it is for the sake of contrast that this wretched soul and I should arrive here at the same time!" said the critic. "Well, and who are you, little mother? Do you want to come in here too?" he asked.

And the old woman curtsied as best she could, for she thought it was Saint Peter himself speaking. "I am a poor creature, with no family at all! Old Margrethe from the cottage on the sea wall!"

"Well, what have you done and accomplished down there?" "Indeed, I have accomplished nothing at all in this world! Nothing that could open the gate for me here! It will be a true act of grace if I am allowed inside the door!"

"How did you leave that world?" he asked, merely to have something to talk about, for he was bored with standing there waiting. "Well, how I left it, I do not know! I had been ill and feeble these last few years, and I suppose I could not bear crawling out of bed and going into the frost and cold outside. It is a hard winter, you know, but now I am past all that. For a couple of days it had been perfectly still, but bitterly cold, as Your Reverence surely knows, and the sea had frozen as far out from shore as the eye could see. All the people from the town went out onto the ice; there was what they call skating, and dancing too, I believe, with music playing and food and drink out there. I could hear it all the way inside, where I lay in my poor room. Then, towards evening, the moon was up, though it had not yet gathered its strength, and from my bed I could look through the window right out across the shore. There, just where the sky met the sea, a strange white cloud appeared. I lay watching it, watching the black spot in its middle grow larger and larger; and then I knew what it meant. I am old and have seen a good deal, though that sign is not often seen. I knew it, and I was filled with dread! Twice before in my lifetime I had seen that thing appear, and I knew there would be a terrible storm and a great sea surge, which would sweep over those poor people out there, drinking and leaping and making merry. Young and old, the whole town was out there; who would warn them, if no one there saw and understood what I now understood? I was so frightened that I felt more alive than I had in many a long day! I got out of bed and over to the window; I had no strength to go farther. Still, I managed to open the window. I could see the people running and leaping out on the ice, see the pretty flags, hear the boys shouting hurrah and the girls and young men singing. They were all so merry, but higher and higher rose the white cloud with the black pouch inside it! I shouted as loudly as I could, but no one heard me; I was too far away. Soon the storm would break, the ice would shatter, and everyone out there would fall through, with no hope of rescue. They could not hear me, and I had no strength to reach them. If only I could bring them ashore! Then Our Lord gave me the thought of setting fire to my bed. Better to let the cottage burn down than have so many people die so pitifully. I managed to light the candle, and saw the red flame—yes, I reached the door and got outside, but there I lay; I could do no more. The flames came streaming out behind me and out of the window, up over the roof. They saw them from out there, and they all ran as fast as they could to help poor little me, whom they thought was burning inside. There was not one who did not come running. I heard them coming, but I also heard a sudden rushing through the air; I heard a thunder like heavy cannon fire. The sea surge lifted the ice, and it broke to pieces. But they had reached the sea wall, where the sparks were flying over me. I had brought them all to safety; but I suppose I could not bear the cold and the fright, and so I have come up here to the gate of Heaven. They say it will open even for a poor creature like me! And now, of course, I have no cottage down there on the sea wall, but that gives me no right to enter here."

Then the gate of Heaven opened, and the angel led the old woman inside. She dropped a straw outside, one of the straws that had lain in the bed she had set alight to save so many people, and it had turned to pure gold, but a gold that grew and twined into the loveliest ornaments.

"See, that is what the poor woman brought!" said the angel. "Now what do you bring? Yes, I know very well that you have accomplished nothing, not even made a brick. If only you could go back and bring at least that much! It would probably be no good if you made it, but if it were made with goodwill, that would always be something. Yet you cannot go back, and I can do nothing for you!"

Then the poor soul, the woman from the cottage on the sea wall, pleaded for him. "His brother made and gave me all the bricks and broken pieces with which I built my wretched cottage. They meant a very great deal to a poor creature like me! Could not all those bits and pieces count as one brick for him? It would be an act of grace! He needs it now, and surely this is the home of grace!"

"Your brother, the one you called the lowest," said the angel, "the one whose honest work you held in the greatest contempt, gives you his mite from Heaven. You shall not be turned away; you shall be allowed to stand out here and reflect, and see how you may make amends for your life down below. But you shall not enter until, through good deeds, you have accomplished—something!"

"I could have put that better!" thought the critic, but he did not say it aloud, and perhaps that was something already.