Ole Lahkonoček

Besedilo

Ole Lahkonoček

In all the world there is no one who knows so many stories as Ole Lukøje! He certainly can tell them! In the evening, when children are sitting ever so nicely at the table or on their little stools, Ole Lukøje comes along. He comes up the stairs so quietly, for he walks in his stocking feet; he opens the door very gently, and pfft! He squirts sweet milk into the children’s eyes, in the finest, finest spray, but always enough to keep them from holding their eyes open, so they never see him. He slips right behind them, blows softly on the backs of their necks, and then their heads grow heavy—oh yes! But it does not hurt, for Ole Lukøje means nothing but kindness to children. He only wants them to be quiet, and they are quietest once they are in bed. They must be still so that he can tell them stories.

When the children are asleep, Ole Lukøje sits down on the bed. He is very well dressed; his coat is made of silk, but it is impossible to say what colour it is, for it gleams green, red, and blue, depending on which way he turns. Under each arm he carries an umbrella: one has pictures on it, and he holds that over the good children, who dream the loveliest stories all night long. But the other umbrella has nothing at all on it, and he holds that over the naughty children, who sleep so dully that when they wake in the morning they have not dreamed the tiniest thing.

Now we shall hear how Ole Lukøje came every evening for a whole week to a little boy called Hjalmar, and what he told him! That makes seven whole stories, for there are seven days in a week.

Monday “Now listen!” said Ole Lukøje that evening, once he had got Hjalmar into bed. “I’m going to make things pretty!” And all the flowers in the flowerpots became great trees, stretching their long branches beneath the ceiling and along the walls, until the whole room looked like the loveliest summerhouse. Every branch was covered with flowers, and each flower was prettier than a rose, smelled so sweet, and, if you cared to eat it, tasted sweeter than jam! The fruit gleamed like gold, and there were buns bursting with raisins. It was wonderful! But just then a dreadful wailing began in the table drawer where Hjalmar kept his schoolbooks.

“What can that be?” said Ole Lukøje, going over to the table and opening the drawer. It was the slate, which was aching and groaning because a wrong number had got into the sum, and the whole thing was ready to fall to pieces. The slate pencil hopped and jumped on its string like a little dog; it wanted to help the sum, but could not! Then there was Hjalmar’s copybook, with a moaning coming from inside it that was quite dreadful to hear! Down each page stood all the capital letters, each with a small letter beside it, a whole row from top to bottom: these were the models. Next to them stood some letters that thought they looked just the same, for Hjalmar had written them. They sprawled about as though they had fallen over the pencilled line they were meant to stand on.

“Look, this is how you ought to hold yourselves!” said the model letters. “See, slanting this way, with a bold, sweeping stroke!” “Oh, we would like to,” said Hjalmar’s letters, “but we can’t. We’re so poorly!”

“Then you shall have a dose of children’s powder!” said Ole Lukøje. “Oh, no!” they cried, and stood up so straight that it was a pleasure to see them! “Well, there will be no storytelling now!” said Ole Lukøje. “I shall have to drill them! One, two! One, two!” And he put the letters through their exercises until they stood as straight and looked as healthy as any model letters could. But when Ole Lukøje had gone and Hjalmar looked at them in the morning, they were just as wretched as before.

Tuesday As soon as Hjalmar was in bed, Ole Lukøje touched all the furniture in the room with his little magic syringe, and at once it began to talk. Every piece talked about itself except the spittoon, which stood silent, annoyed that they could be so vain as to talk only of themselves and think only of themselves, without a thought for it, standing so modestly in the corner and allowing itself to be spat upon.

Above the chest of drawers hung a large painting in a gilded frame. It was a landscape, with tall old trees, flowers in the grass, and a broad stretch of water with a river that ran behind the woods, past many castles, and far out into the wild sea.

Ole Lukøje touched the painting with his magic syringe, and the birds inside began to sing, the branches of the trees stirred, and the clouds went sailing along; you could see their shadows passing over the landscape.

Then Ole Lukøje lifted little Hjalmar up to the frame, and Hjalmar put his legs into the painting, right into the tall grass, and there he stood! The sun shone down on him through the branches. He ran to the water and sat down in a little boat lying there. It was painted red and white, its sails shone like silver, and six swans, each with a golden crown round its neck and a brilliant blue star on its head, drew the boat past the green woods, where the trees told of robbers and witches, and the flowers told of the pretty little elves and what the butterflies had told them.

The loveliest fish, with scales like silver and gold, swam after the boat; now and then they leaped up and fell back into the water with a splash. Birds, red and blue, large and small, flew behind in two long rows; the gnats danced, and the cockchafer went boom, boom. They all wanted to follow Hjalmar, and each had a story to tell!

What a boat ride it was! Sometimes the woods were so thick and dark; sometimes they were like the loveliest garden, full of sunshine and flowers, with great castles of glass and marble. Princesses stood on the balconies, and they were all little girls Hjalmar knew well, girls he had played with before. Each held out her hand with the prettiest sugar pig any cake seller could offer. As he sailed past, Hjalmar took hold of one end of the sugar pig, and the princess held tight, so each got a piece: she got the smaller one, and Hjalmar the very largest! At every castle little princes stood guard, shouldering golden sabres and showering down raisins and tin soldiers. They were real princes!

Now Hjalmar sailed through woods, now through what seemed like great halls, or right through the middle of a town. He also passed through the town where his nurse lived, the one who had carried him when he was a very little boy and had loved him so dearly. She nodded and waved and sang the pretty little verse she had written herself and sent to Hjalmar:

I think of you so many a day, my own sweet Hjalmar dear! I kissed your little mouth, your brow, your cheeks so rosy and clear. I heard the first words that you said, then had to say goodbye.

May God bless you upon this earth, an angel from His realm on high! And all the birds sang along, the flowers danced upon their stems, and the old trees nodded, just as though Ole Lukøje were telling them stories too.

Wednesday Oh, how the rain was pouring down outside! Hjalmar could hear it in his sleep! And when Ole Lukøje opened a window, the water came right up to the windowsill. There was a whole lake out there, but the most splendid ship lay alongside the house.

“Would you like to come sailing, little Hjalmar?” said Ole Lukøje. “Then you can visit foreign lands tonight and be back here again tomorrow!” And all at once Hjalmar stood in his Sunday clothes in the middle of the splendid ship. The weather immediately turned beautiful, and they sailed through the streets, tacked round the church, and now everything was one great, wild sea. They sailed so long that no land was left in sight, and they saw a flock of storks, also coming from home and bound for the warm countries. The storks flew one behind another, and they had already flown so very, very far. One was so tired that his wings could scarcely carry him any longer. He was the very last in the line, and soon he fell a long way behind. At last, with wings outspread, he sank lower and lower. He gave a few more beats of his wings, but it was no use. Now his feet touched the ship’s rigging, now he slid down the sail, and thump! There he stood on the deck.

The cabin boy picked him up and put him in the poultry coop with the hens, ducks, and turkeys. The poor stork stood quite forlorn among them.

“What a fellow!” said all the hens. And the turkey cock puffed himself up as much as he could and asked who he was, while the ducks waddled backwards and nudged one another. “Get a quack on! Get a quack on!”

The stork told them about warm Africa, about the pyramids and the ostrich that ran like a wild horse across the desert. But the ducks did not understand what he was saying, so they nudged one another. “Shall we agree that he’s stupid?”

“Of course he’s stupid!” said the turkey cock, and gobbled away. Then the stork fell quite silent and thought of his Africa. “What lovely thin legs you have!” said the turkey. “How much are they a yard?”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed all the ducks, but the stork pretended not to hear. “You may laugh too!” the turkey told him. “That was a very witty remark! Or was it perhaps beneath his dignity? Dear, dear! He has no breadth of mind! Let us go on amusing ourselves!” And the hens clucked and the ducks quacked, “Quack, quack! Quack, quack!” It was dreadful how much they enjoyed themselves.

But Hjalmar went over to the poultry coop, opened the door, and called to the stork, which hopped out onto the deck beside him. It had rested now, and seemed to nod to Hjalmar in thanks. Then it spread its wings and flew away to the warm countries, while the hens clucked, the ducks quacked, and the turkey cock turned quite scarlet in the face.

“Tomorrow we’ll make soup out of you!” said Hjalmar, and then he woke up and found himself lying in his little bed. What a marvellous journey Ole Lukøje had taken him on that night!

Thursday “Do you know what?” said Ole Lukøje. “Now, don’t be frightened! Here is a little mouse for you to see!” And he held out his hand towards him, with the dainty little creature on it. “She has come to invite you to a wedding. There are two little mice getting married tonight. They live beneath the floor of your mother’s pantry, and it is said to be such a lovely home!”

“But how can I get through the little mousehole in the floor?” asked Hjalmar. “Leave that to me!” said Ole Lukøje. “I shall soon make you small!” He touched Hjalmar with his magic syringe, and at once he grew smaller and smaller, until he was no bigger than a finger. “Now you can borrow the tin soldier’s clothes. I think they will fit, and a uniform looks so smart when you go into company!”

“Yes, indeed!” said Hjalmar, and in a moment he was dressed like the neatest little tin soldier. “Would you be so good as to take a seat in your mother’s thimble?” said the little mouse. “Then I shall have the honour of drawing you!”

“Oh, surely the young lady mustn’t trouble herself!” said Hjalmar, and off they drove to the mice’s wedding. First they went beneath the floor into a long passage, which was only just high enough for them to drive through in a thimble, and the whole passage was lit with glowing rotten wood.

“Doesn’t it smell lovely here?” said the mouse who was pulling him. “The entire passage has been rubbed with bacon rind! Nothing could be lovelier!” Now they entered the bridal hall. On the right stood all the little lady mice, whispering and murmuring as though they were making fun of one another; on the left stood all the gentlemen mice, stroking their whiskers with their paws. But in the middle of the floor stood the bride and groom in a hollowed-out cheese rind, kissing each other most dreadfully in front of everyone, for they were engaged, after all, and were just about to be married.

More and more guests kept arriving. One mouse nearly trod another to death, and the bridal couple had stationed themselves right in the doorway, so that no one could get either in or out. The whole room, like the passage, had been rubbed with bacon rind; that was all the refreshment there was. But for dessert they displayed a pea into which a little mouse of the family had bitten the names of the bride and groom—that is to say, their initials. It was something quite extraordinary.

All the mice said it was a lovely wedding and that the conversation had been so good. Then Hjalmar drove home again. He certainly had been in fine company, but he had also had to squeeze himself right up, make himself small, and put on a tin soldier’s uniform.

Friday “It is incredible how many grown-up people want to get hold of me!” said Ole Lukøje. “Especially those who have done something wicked. ‘Dear little Ole,’ they say to me, ‘we cannot close our eyes, and so we lie awake all night looking at all our wicked deeds, which sit on the edge of the bed like nasty little goblins, squirting hot water over us. If only you would come and drive them away so that we could have a good sleep!’ And then they sigh so deeply. ‘We would gladly pay you, truly we would! Good night, Ole! The money is on the windowsill.’ But I don’t do it for money,” said Ole Lukøje.

“What are we going to do tonight?” asked Hjalmar. “Well, I don’t know whether you would like to go to another wedding tonight. It is a different sort from yesterday’s. Your sister’s big doll, the one that looks like a man and is called Herman, is going to marry the doll Bertha. Besides, it is the doll’s birthday, so there will be lots of presents!”

“Oh, I know all about that,” said Hjalmar. “Whenever the dolls need new clothes, my sister lets them have a birthday or get married! It must have happened a hundred times!”

“Yes, but tonight is the hundred-and-first wedding, and when the hundred and first is over, that is the end of everything! So this one will be quite beyond compare. Just look!” And Hjalmar looked over at the table. There stood the little cardboard house with lights in the windows, and all the tin soldiers were presenting arms outside. The bride and groom sat on the floor, leaning against a table leg, looking very thoughtful, as indeed they had reason to do. But Ole Lukøje, dressed in Grandmother’s black skirt, married them! When the ceremony was over, all the furniture in the room struck up the following beautiful song, which had been written by the pencil and went to the tune of the military tattoo.

May our song come in like a gust of wind to the bridal pair in the room within; stiff as sticks, they sit and grin, both of them made of fine glove-skin! :,: Hurrah, hurrah for stick and skin!

We sing it aloud through wind and din!:,: And now they were given presents, though they had asked not to receive anything edible, for their love was enough to live on.

“Shall we spend the summer in the country, or travel abroad?” asked the groom. So they consulted the swallow, who had travelled widely, and the old yard hen, who had hatched five broods of chicks. The swallow told them of the lovely warm countries where the grapes hung so large and heavy, where the air was so mild, and the mountains had colours quite unknown at home!

“But they haven’t got our kale!” said the hen. “I spent one summer in the country with all my chicks. There was a gravel pit where we could scratch about, and we had the run of a garden full of kale! Oh, how green it was! I can’t imagine anything prettier.”

“But one kale stalk looks just like another,” said the swallow, “and the weather here is often so bad!” “Well, one is used to that!” said the hen. “But it is cold here; it freezes!”

“That does the kale good!” said the hen. “Besides, we can have hot weather too! Didn’t we have a summer four years ago that lasted five weeks? It was so hot you could scarcely breathe! And we haven’t got all the poisonous creatures they have abroad! And we are free of robbers! Anyone who doesn’t think our country the prettiest is a wretch! He really doesn’t deserve to live here!” And then the hen began to cry. “I have travelled too! I rode in a tub for more than fifty miles! There is no pleasure at all in travelling!”

“Yes, the hen is a sensible woman!” said the doll Bertha. “I don’t care for travelling over mountains either, for it is nothing but up and then down! No, we shall move out by the gravel pit and take walks in the cabbage garden!”

And so it was settled. Saturday “Am I to have some stories now?” said little Hjalmar, as soon as Ole Lukøje had put him to sleep. “We have no time for that tonight,” said Ole, opening his prettiest umbrella above him. “Look at these Chinese people!” And the whole umbrella looked like a great Chinese bowl, with blue trees and high-arched bridges where little Chinese figures stood nodding their heads. “We must have the whole world nicely polished up for tomorrow,” said Ole. “It is a holy day, after all; it is Sunday. I must go to the church towers and see whether the little church sprites are polishing the bells so that they will ring out sweetly. I must go into the fields and see whether the winds are blowing the dust off the grass and leaves. And the biggest job of all is that I must take down all the stars and polish them. I put them in my apron, but first each one must be numbered, and the holes they sit in up there must be numbered too, so that they can go back into their proper places. Otherwise they won’t stay fast, and we shall have too many shooting stars, with one tumbling down after another!”

“Now listen, Mr Lukøje!” said an old portrait hanging on the wall where Hjalmar slept. “I am Hjalmar’s great-grandfather. Thank you for telling the boy stories, but you must not confuse his ideas. The stars cannot be taken down and polished! The stars are worlds like our own earth, and that is precisely what is so fine about them!”

“Thank you, old great-grandfather!” said Ole Lukøje. “Thank you! You are the head of the family, of course—the great old head! But I am older than you! I am an ancient heathen; the Romans and Greeks called me the god of dreams! I have visited the grandest houses, and I still do! I know how to get along with great and small alike! Now you can tell the stories!” And Ole Lukøje went away, taking his umbrella with him.

“It seems one is no longer allowed to speak one’s mind!” said the old portrait. And then Hjalmar woke up. Sunday “Good evening!” said Ole Lukøje, and Hjalmar nodded, but then jumped up and turned his great-grandfather’s portrait to the wall so that it could not join in the conversation as it had the night before.

“Now you must tell me stories about ‘the five green peas’ that lived in a pea pod, and about ‘the cock’s leg that courted the hen’s leg,’ and about ‘the darning needle who was so grand that she imagined she was a sewing needle’!”

“One can have too much of a good thing!” said Ole Lukøje. “I would rather show you something, you know! I shall show you my brother. His name is Ole Lukøje too, but he never comes to anyone more than once, and when he comes, he takes them away on his horse and tells them stories. He knows only two: one so marvellously beautiful that no one in the world can imagine it, and another so dreadful and terrible that—well, it is beyond description!” Then Ole Lukøje lifted little Hjalmar up to the window and said, “There you can see my brother, the other Ole Lukøje! They also call him Death! You see, he doesn’t look at all frightful, as he does in picture books, where he is all bones and joints! No, that is silver embroidery on his coat. It is the loveliest hussar’s uniform! A cloak of black velvet streams out behind him over the horse! Look how he gallops!”

And Hjalmar saw how that Ole Lukøje rode along, taking both young and old up onto his horse. Some he seated in front of him and others behind, but always he asked first, “How is your report book?” “Good!” they all said. “Well, let me see for myself!” he said, and they had to show him the book. All those who had “Very Good” and “Excellent” sat in front of him on the horse and heard the beautiful story, but those who had “Fairly Good” and “Poor” had to sit behind and listen to the dreadful story. They trembled and cried and wanted to jump off the horse, but they could not, for they had at once become fastened to it.

“But Death is the loveliest Ole Lukøje!” said Hjalmar. “I’m not afraid of him!” “Nor should you be!” said Ole Lukøje. “Only see that you have a good report book!”

“Yes, that is instructive!” murmured the great-grandfather’s portrait. “It does some good to speak one’s mind!” And now he was pleased. There, that is the story of Ole Lukøje! Tonight he can tell you some more himself!