Andersenove pravljice · English

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Vir: Andersenove pravljice
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Izvirnik: Dansk

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In the middle of a garden grew a rose tree covered with roses, and in one of them, the loveliest of all, there lived an elf. He was so very tiny that no human eye could see him; behind every petal of the rose he had a bedchamber. He was as beautifully formed and lovely as any child could be, and had wings reaching from his shoulders right down to his feet. Oh, what a fragrance filled his rooms, and how bright and beautiful the walls were! For they were the delicate, pale pink petals of the rose.

All day long he enjoyed himself in the warm sunshine, flying from flower to flower, dancing on the wings of a fluttering butterfly, and counting how many steps it took him to travel all the highways and paths on a single linden leaf. What we call the veins of the leaf he took for highways and paths; and indeed, to him they were roads without end! Before he had finished, the sun went down; but then, he had started so late.

It grew so cold, the dew fell, and the wind blew; now it was surely best to go home. He hurried as fast as he could, but the rose had closed, and he could not get in—not a single rose stood open. The poor little elf was terribly frightened; he had never been out at night before, but had always slept so sweetly behind the warm rose petals. Oh, this would surely be the death of him!

At the other end of the garden, he knew, there was an arbor covered with lovely honeysuckle, whose flowers looked like great painted horns. He would climb down into one of these and sleep until morning.

He flew over there. Hush! There were two people inside: a handsome young man and the loveliest maiden. They sat beside one another, wishing that they might never, ever be parted; they loved one another dearly, far more than even the best of children can love their mother and father.

“Yet we must part!” said the young man. “Your brother bears us no goodwill, and so he is sending me on an errand far away, across mountains and seas! Farewell, my sweet bride, for that is what you are to me!”

Then they kissed, and the young girl wept and gave him a rose. But before she handed it to him, she pressed a kiss upon it, so fervent and tender that the flower opened. The little elf flew into it and rested his head against its delicate, fragrant walls. Yet he could plainly hear them saying, “Farewell, farewell!” and he felt the rose being placed against the young man’s breast. Oh, how the heart beat within! The little elf could not fall asleep at all, it beat so hard.

The rose did not lie still against his breast for long. The young man took it out, and as he walked alone through the dark forest, he kissed the flower—oh, so often and so ardently that the little elf was almost crushed to death. Through the petal he could feel how the young man’s lips burned, and the rose itself had opened as though beneath the strongest midday sun.

Then another man appeared, dark and angry: he was the beautiful girl’s wicked brother. He drew out a great, sharp knife, and while the young man was kissing the rose, the wicked man stabbed him to death, cut off his head, and buried it with his body in the soft earth beneath the linden tree.

“Now he is gone and forgotten,” thought the wicked brother. “He will never come back again. He was to make a long journey, across mountains and seas; a man can easily lose his life on such a journey, and so he has. He will not return, and my sister will never dare ask me about him.”

Then he scraped dead leaves over the disturbed earth with his foot and went home through the dark night. But he was not alone, as he thought: the little elf went with him, sitting inside a withered, curled-up linden leaf that had fallen into the wicked man’s hair as he dug the grave. His hat was now on top of it, and it was so dark beneath it; the elf trembled with fear and anger at the dreadful deed. In the early morning the wicked man reached home. He took off his hat and went into his sister’s bedchamber. There lay the beautiful girl in the bloom of youth, dreaming of the man she loved so dearly, whom she now imagined to be crossing mountains and passing through forests. The wicked brother bent over her and laughed hideously, as only a devil can laugh. Then the withered leaf fell from his hair onto the bedspread, but he did not notice it, and went out to get a little sleep himself in the early morning. The elf slipped out of the withered leaf, crept into the sleeping girl’s ear, and told her, as though in a dream, of the terrible murder. He described the place where her brother had killed her lover and laid his body, told her of the flowering linden tree close by, and said, “So that you will not think what I have told you is only a dream, you will find a withered leaf upon your bed!” And when she woke, she found it.

Oh, how she wept her bitter tears! Yet she dared tell no one of her sorrow. The window stood open all day, and the little elf could easily have flown out into the garden to the roses and all the other flowers, but he could not bear to leave the grieving girl. In the window stood a little monthly rose tree, and he settled in one of its flowers and watched the poor girl. Her brother came into the room many times, so merry and so wicked, but she dared not say a word about the great sorrow in her heart.

As soon as night fell, she stole out of the house and went into the forest to the place where the linden tree stood. She pulled the leaves away from the ground, dug into the earth, and at once found the murdered man. Oh, how she wept, and prayed to the Lord that she too might soon die. Gladly would she have carried the body home with her, but she could not. So she took the pale head with its closed eyes, kissed the cold mouth, and shook the earth from his lovely hair. “This I will keep!” she said. And when she had covered the dead body with earth and leaves, she took the head home with her, along with a little branch from the jasmine bush flowering in the forest where he had been killed.

As soon as she was in her room, she fetched the largest flowerpot she could find. In it she laid the dead man’s head, covered it with earth, and planted the jasmine branch in the pot.

“Farewell! Farewell!” whispered the little elf. He could no longer bear to see all that sorrow, and so he flew out into the garden to his rose. But it had finished blooming; only a few pale petals clung to the green rose hip.

“Alas, how soon all that is beautiful and good comes to an end!” sighed the elf. At last he found another rose, which became his home; behind its delicate, fragrant petals he could build and dwell.

Every morning he flew to the poor girl’s window, and there she always stood beside the flowerpot, weeping. Her bitter tears fell upon the jasmine branch, and with every day that she grew paler and paler, the branch grew fresher and greener. One shoot sprang up after another, little white flower buds appeared, and she kissed them. But her wicked brother scolded her and asked whether she had lost her wits. He neither liked nor understood her constant weeping over that flowerpot. He did not know what eyes were closed there, or what red lips had turned to earth. She bent her head against the flowerpot, and the little rose elf found her slumbering there. He crept into her ear and told her of the evening in the arbor, of the fragrance of the rose, and of the elves’ love. She dreamed so sweetly, and as she dreamed, her life ebbed away. She died a quiet death; she was in Heaven with the man she loved.

And the jasmine flowers opened their great white bells, giving out a wonderfully sweet fragrance: it was the only way they could weep for the dead girl. But the wicked brother looked at the beautiful flowering bush, took it for his own as an inheritance, and placed it in his bedchamber close to his bed, for it was lovely to look at, and its fragrance was so sweet and delightful. The little rose elf went with it, flying from flower to flower. In each one lived a little spirit, and he told it of the murdered young man, whose head was now earth beneath the earth, and of the wicked brother and the poor sister.

“We know!” said each spirit in the flowers. “We know! Have we not grown from the murdered man’s eyes and lips? We know! We know!” And they nodded their heads so strangely.

The rose elf could not understand how they could remain so calm, and he flew out to the bees gathering honey and told them the story of the wicked brother. The bees told their queen, who commanded them all to kill the murderer the next morning.

But the night before, which was the first night after the sister’s death, as the brother slept in his bed beside the fragrant jasmine, every flower opened, and the flower spirits emerged, invisible but armed with poisonous spears. First they settled beside his ear and whispered evil dreams to him; then they flew across his lips and pierced his tongue with their poisonous spears. “Now we have avenged the dead!” they said, and returned to the jasmine’s white bells.

When morning came and the bedchamber window was suddenly flung open, the rose elf flew in with the queen bee and the whole swarm to kill him.

But he was already dead. People stood around the bed, saying, “The scent of the jasmine has killed him!” Then the rose elf understood the flowers’ revenge and told the queen bee, and she and her whole swarm buzzed around the flowerpot. The bees could not be driven away. Then a man picked up the flowerpot, and one of the bees stung his hand, so that he dropped the pot and it broke.

Then they saw the white skull, and knew that the dead man in the bed was a murderer. And the queen bee buzzed in the air and sang of the flowers’ revenge and of the rose elf, and of how behind the smallest leaf there lives someone who can tell of evil and avenge it!

Izvirnik

Eventyr af Hans Christian Andersen

Midt i en have voksede der et rosentræ, der var ganske fuldt af roser, og i en af disse, den smukkeste af dem alle, boede en alf; han var så lille bitte, at intet menneskeligt øje kunne se ham; bag hvert blad i rosen havde han et sovekammer; han var så velskabt og dejlig som noget barn kunne være og havde vinger fra skuldrene lige ned til fødderne. Oh, hvor der var en duft i hans værelser, og hvor væggene var klare og smukke! de var jo de blegrøde fine rosenblade.

Hele dagen fornøjede han sig i det varme solskin, fløj fra blomst til blomst, dansede på vingerne af den flyvende sommerfugl og målte hvor mange skridt han måtte gå, for at løbe hen over alle de landeveje og stier, der var på et eneste lindeblad. Det var hvad vi kalder årerne i bladet, som han anså for landeveje og stier; ja det var da evige veje for ham! før han blev færdig, gik solen ned; han havde også begyndt så sildigt.

Det blev så koldt, duggen faldt og vinden blæste; nu var det nok bedst at komme hjem; han skyndte sig alt hvad han kunne, men rosen havde lukket sig, han kunne ikke komme ind - ikke en eneste rose stod åben; den stakkels lille alf blev så forskrækket, han havde aldrig været ude om natten før, altid sovet så sødt bag de lune rosenblade, oh, det ville vist blive hans død!

I den anden ende af haven, vidste han, var en løvhytte, med dejlige kaprifolier, blomsterne så ud som store bemalede horn: I et af disse ville han stige ned og sove til i morgen.

Han fløj derhen. Tys! der var to mennesker derinde; en ung smuk mand og den dejligste jomfru; de sad ved siden af hinanden og ønskede, at de aldrig i evighed måtte skilles ad; de holdt så meget af hinanden, langt mere, end det bedste barn kan holde af sin moder og fader.

"Dog må vi skilles!" sagde den unge mand; "Din broder er os ikke god, derfor sender han mig i et ærinde så langt bort over bjerge og søer! Farvel min søde brud, for det er du mig dog!"

Og så kyssede de hinanden, og den unge pige græd og gav ham en rose; men før hun rakte ham den, trykkede hun et kys på den, så fast og inderligt, så blomsten åbnede sig: Da fløj den lille alf ind i den, og hældede sit hoved op til de fine duftende vægge; men han kunne godt høre, at der blev sagt farvel, farvel! og han følte, at rosen fik plads på den unge mands bryst - oh, hvor dog hjertet bankede derinde! den lille alf kunne slet ikke falde i søvn, sådan bankede det.

Længe lå rosen ikke stille på brystet, manden tog den frem og mens han gik ene gennem den mørke skov, kyssede han blomsten, oh, så tit og stærkt, at den lille alf var nær ved at blive trykket ihjel; han kunne føle gennem bladet, hvor mandens læber brændte, og rosen selv havde åbnet sig som ved den stærkeste middagssol.

Da kom der en anden mand, mørk og vred, han var den smukke piges onde broder; en kniv så skarp og stor tog han frem, og mens den anden kyssede rosen, stak den onde mand ham ihjel, skar hans hoved af og begravede det med kroppen i den bløde jord under lindetræet.

"Nu er han glemt og borte," tænkte den onde broder; "han kommer aldrig mere tilbage. En lang rejse skulle han gøre, over bjerge og søer, da kan man let miste livet, og det har han. Han kommer ikke mere, og mig tør min søster aldrig spørge om ham."

Så ragede han med foden visne blade hen over den opgravede jord og gik hjem igen i den mørke nat; men han gik ikke alene, som han troede: Den lille alf fulgte med, den sad i et vissent, sammenrullet lindeblad, der var faldet den onde mand i håret da han gravede graven. Hatten var nu sat ovenpå, der var så mørkt derinde, og alfen rystede af skræk og vrede over den fæle gerning. -

I morgenstunden kom den onde mand hjem; han tog sin hat af og gik ind i søsterens sovekammer; der lå den smukke blomstrende pige og drømte om ham, hun holdt så meget af og som hun nu troede gik over bjerge og gennem skove; og den onde broder bøjede sig over hende og lo fælt, som en djævel kan le; da faldt det visne blad af hans hår ned på sengetæppet, men han mærkede det ikke og gik ud, for selv at sove lidt i morgenstunden. Men alfen smuttede ud af det visne blad, gik ind i øret på den sovende pige og fortalte hende, som i en drøm, det skrækkelige mord, beskrev hende stedet, hvor broderen havde dræbt ham og lagt hans lig, fortalte om det blomstrende lindetræ tæt ved og sagde: "For at du ikke skal tro, det bare er en drøm, jeg har fortalt dig, så vil du finde på din seng et vissent blad!" og det fandt hun, da hun vågnede.

Oh, hvor græd hun ikke de salte tårer! og til ingen turde hun sige sin sorg. Vinduet stod hele dagen åbent, den lille alf kunne let komme ud i haven til roserne og alle de andre blomster, men han nænnede ikke at forlade den bedrøvede. I vinduet stod et træ med månedsroser, i en af blomsterne der satte han sig og så på den stakkels pige. Hendes broder kom mange gange ind i kamret, og han var så lystig og ond, men hun turde ikke sige et ord om sin store hjertesorg.

Så snart det blev nat, listede hun sig ud af huset, gik i skoven til det sted, hvor lindetræet stod, rev bladene bort fra jorden, gravede ned i den og fandt straks ham der var slået ihjel, oh, hvor hun græd, og bad Vorherre, at hun også snart måtte dø. -

Gerne ville hun føre liget med sig hjem men det kunne hun ikke; så tog hun det blege hoved med de lukkede øjne, kyssede den kolde mund og rystede jorden af hans dejlige hår. "Det vil jeg eje!" sagde hun, og da hun havde lagt jord og blade på det døde legeme, tog hun hovedet med sig hjem og en lille gren af det jasmintræ, der blomstrede i skoven, hvor han var dræbt.

Så snart hun var i sin stue, hentede hun den største blomsterpotte, der var at finde, i den lagde hun den dødes hoved, kom jord derpå og plantede så jasmingrenen i potten.

"Farvel! farvel!" hviskede den lille alf, han kunne ikke længere holde ud at se al den sorg, og fløj derfor ud i haven til sin rose; men den var afblomstret, der hang kun nogle blege blade ved den grønne hyben.

"Ak hvor det dog snart er forbi med alt det skønne og gode!" sukkede alfen. Til sidst fandt han en rose igen, den blev hans hus, bag dens fine duftende blade kunne han bygge og bo.

Hver morgenstund fløj han til den stakkels piges vindue, og der stod hun altid ved blomsterpotten og græd; de salte tårer faldt på jasmingrenen, og for hver dag som hun blev blegere og blegere stod grenen mere frisk og grøn, det ene skud voksede frem efter det andet, der kom små hvide knopper til blomster og hun kyssede dem, men den onde broder skændte og spurgte, om hun var blevet fjantet? han kunne ikke lide og ikke begribe hvorfor hun altid græd over den blomsterpotte. Han vidste jo ikke, hvilke øjne der var lukket og hvilke røde læber der var blevet jord; og hun bøjede sit hoved op til blomsterkrukken og den lille alf fra rosen fandt hende sådan blundende; da steg han ind i hendes øre, fortalte om aftnen i løvhytten, om rosens duft, og alfernes kærlighed; hun drømte så sødt, og mens hun drømte, svandt livet bort: Hun var død en stille død, hun var i Himmelen hos ham, hun havde kær.

Og jasminblomsterne åbnede deres store hvide klokker, de duftede så forunderligt sødt: Anderledes kunne de ikke græde over den døde.

Men den onde broder så på det smukke blomstrende træ, tog det til sig, som et arvegods, og satte det ind i sit sovekammer, tæt ved sengen, for det var dejligt at se på og duften var så sød og liflig. Den lille rosenalf fulgte med, fløj fra blomst til blomst, i hver boede jo en lille sjæl, og denne fortalte han om den dræbte unge mand, hvis hoved nu var jord under jorden, fortalte om den onde broder og den stakkels søster.

"Vi ved det!" sagde hver sjæl i blomsterne, "vi ved det! er vi ikke vokset frem af den dræbtes øjne og læber! vi ved det! vi ved det!" og så nikkede de så underligt med hovedet.

Rosenalfen kunne ikke forstå sig på, hvorledes de kunne være så rolige, og han fløj ud til bierne, som samlede honning, fortalte dem historien om den onde broder, og bierne sagde det til deres dronning, der bød, at de alle næste morgen skulle dræbe morderen.

Men natten forud, det var den første nat efter søsterens død, da broderen sov i sin seng tæt ved det duftende jasmintræ, åbnede hvert blomsterbæger sig, og usynlige, men med giftige spyd, steg blomstersjælene ud og de satte sig først ved hans øre og fortalte ham onde drømme, fløj derpå over hans læber og stak hans tunge med de giftige spyd. "Nu har vi hævnet den døde!" sagde de og søgte igen tilbage i jasminens hvide klokker.

Da det blev morgen, og vinduet til sovekamret med ét blev revet op, fór rosenalfen med bidronningen og den hele sværm bier ind, for at dræbe ham.

Men han var allerede død; der stod folk rundt omkring sengen og de sagde: "Jasminduften har dræbt ham!"

Da forstod rosenalfen blomsternes hævn, og han fortalte det til biernes dronning, og hun surrede med hele sin sværm om blomsterkrukken; bierne var ikke til at forjage; da tog en mand blomsterkrukken bort og en af bierne stak hans hånd, så han lod krukken falde og gå itu.

Da så de det hvide dødningehoved, og de vidste, at den døde i sengen var en morder.

Og bidronningen surrede i luften og sang om blomsternes hævn og om rosenalfen, og at bag det mindste blad bor en, som kan fortælle og hævne det onde!

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