Senca

Besedilo

Senca

In the hot countries the sun can certainly burn! People turn quite mahogany-brown; indeed, in the very hottest countries they are burnt into Negroes. But it was only to the hot countries that a learned man had come from the cold ones. He thought he could run about there just as he did at home, but he was soon cured of that notion. He and all sensible people had to stay indoors; shutters and doors remained closed the whole day long, and it looked as though the entire house were asleep, or nobody were at home. The narrow street with the tall houses where he lived was built in such a way that the sunshine lay in it from morning till night. It really was unbearable! The learned man from the cold countries was a young man, a clever man, and he felt as though he were sitting in a red-hot oven. It wore him down; he grew quite thin, and even his shadow shrank, becoming much smaller than it had been at home: the sun wore that down too. They only came to life in the evening, when the sun had set.

It was quite a pleasure to watch. As soon as the light was brought into the room, the shadow stretched right up the wall and even across the ceiling; it made itself so long, for it had to stretch to recover its strength. The learned man went out onto the balcony to stretch himself there, and as the stars came out in the lovely clear air, he felt as though he were coming to life again. People appeared on every balcony in the street—and in the hot countries every window has a balcony—for one must have air, even if one is accustomed to being mahogany! Everything grew lively, above and below. Shoemakers and tailors, everyone moved out into the street; tables and chairs were brought out, and lights burned—yes, more than a thousand lights were burning. One person talked and another sang; people strolled, carriages drove by, and the donkeys went along: jingle-jingle-jingle! They wear bells, you see. A funeral passed with the singing of hymns, the street boys let off squibs, and the church bells rang. Oh, it was lively down in the street! Only one house was quite silent, the one directly opposite the foreign scholar’s lodgings. Yet someone must have lived there, for there were flowers on the balcony, growing beautifully in the blazing heat, and they could not do that unless they were watered, and someone must surely water them. There had to be people there. Towards evening the door across the way was opened halfway, too, but it was dark inside, at least in the front room; music sounded from deeper within. The foreign scholar thought it quite beyond compare, though perhaps he only imagined this, for he found everything beyond compare out there in the hot countries, if only there had been no sun. His landlord said he did not know who had rented the house opposite: one never saw anyone. As for the music, he thought it dreadfully tedious. “It is just as though someone were sitting there practising a piece he cannot master—always the same piece. ‘I shall manage it yet!’ he probably says, but he never does, however long he plays.”

One night the stranger woke. He slept with the balcony door open, and the curtain in front of it stirred in the wind. He thought a marvellous radiance was coming from the balcony opposite. All the flowers shone like flames, in the loveliest colours, and among them stood a slender, beautiful maiden; she too seemed to shine. It positively dazzled his eyes, though he had opened them very wide and had only just woken. In one leap he was out of bed, and very quietly he slipped behind the curtain. But the maiden was gone, the radiance was gone; the flowers did not shine at all, but stood there looking as fine as ever. The door was ajar, and deep within, the music sounded so soft and lovely that one could quite lose oneself in sweet thoughts. It was like enchantment. Who lived there? Where was the proper entrance? The whole ground floor was shop after shop, and surely people could not always be going through them.

One evening the stranger was sitting out on his balcony, with a light burning in the room behind him, so naturally his shadow fell on the wall of the house opposite. There it sat, just across the way, among the flowers on the balcony; and whenever the stranger moved, the shadow moved too, for that is what shadows do. “I believe my shadow is the only living thing to be seen over there!” said the learned man. “Look how prettily it sits among the flowers. The door is ajar; now the shadow ought to be obliging enough to go inside, look about, and come back to tell me what it has seen! Yes, you ought to make yourself useful!” he said in jest. “Do step inside! Well? Are you going?” And he nodded to the shadow, and the shadow nodded back. “Yes, off you go, but do not stay away!” The stranger rose, and his shadow on the opposite balcony rose too; the stranger turned, and the shadow turned too. Indeed, if anyone had been watching closely, they could plainly have seen the shadow slip through the half-open balcony door across the way, at the very moment the stranger went into his own room and let the long curtain fall behind him.

The next morning the learned man went out to drink coffee and read the newspapers. “What is this?” he said when he stepped into the sunshine. “Why, I have no shadow! So it really did go away last night, and has not come back. What a nuisance!”

And it annoyed him, not so much because his shadow was gone, but because he knew there was already a story about a man without a shadow. Everyone at home in the cold countries knew it, and if the learned man went back and told his own, they would say he was copying, and he had no need of that. So he decided not to speak of it at all, which was a sensible decision.

That evening he went out onto his balcony again. He had very carefully placed the light behind him, for he knew that a shadow always wants its master to screen it from the light; but he could not lure it back. He made himself small, he made himself tall, but there was no shadow, and none came! He said, “Hm! Hm!” but that did no good.

It was vexing, but everything grows so quickly in the hot countries, and after eight days he noticed, to his great delight, that a new shadow was growing out from his legs whenever he went into the sunshine. The root must have remained. After three weeks he had quite a tolerable shadow, and when he set off home to the northern countries, it grew more and more along the way, until at last it was so long and so large that half of it would have been enough.

So the learned man came home, and he wrote books about what was true in the world, and what was good and what was beautiful. Days passed, and years passed; many years passed.

Then one evening, as he sat in his room, there was a very soft knock at the door. “Come in!” he said, but no one came. So he opened the door, and there before him stood such an extraordinarily thin person that he felt quite uneasy. The person was, however, exceedingly well dressed; he must be a distinguished gentleman.

“Whom have I the honour of addressing?” asked the scholar. “Ah, I thought as much!” said the fine gentleman. “You do not recognise me! I have acquired so much substance; I have actually put on flesh and clothes. You never expected to see me in such prosperity, I dare say. Do you not recognise your old shadow? No, you probably thought I would never return. I have done exceedingly well since I was last with you; I have become very wealthy in every respect! If I wish to buy myself out of your service, I can!” And he rattled a whole bunch of costly seals hanging from his watch, and slipped his hand inside the thick gold chain he wore around his neck. How all his fingers glittered with diamond rings! And everything was genuine.

“No, I cannot get over it!” said the learned man. “What can all this mean?” “Well, it is nothing ordinary!” said the shadow. “But then you yourself are hardly an ordinary person, and I, as you know, have followed in your footsteps since childhood. As soon as you thought me mature enough to go out into the world alone, I went my own way. I am in the most brilliant circumstances, but a sort of longing came over me to see you once more before you die—for die you must! I also wished to see these countries again, for one is always fond of one’s native land! I know you have acquired another shadow. Do I owe anything to it, or to you? You need only be so good as to tell me.”

“But is it really you?” said the learned man. “How very remarkable! I should never have believed that one’s old shadow could return as a human being!”

“Tell me what I have to pay!” said the shadow. “I would rather not be in anyone’s debt!” “How can you speak like that?” said the learned man. “What debt is there to talk of? You are as free as anyone! I am exceedingly glad of your good fortune. Sit down, old friend, and just tell me a little about how it all happened, and what you saw in the house opposite, out there in the hot countries!” “Yes, I shall tell you,” said the shadow, sitting down, “but you must promise never to tell anyone here in town, wherever you may meet me, that I was once your shadow! I intend to become engaged; I can support more than one family!” “Set your mind at rest!” said the learned man. “I shall tell no one who you really are. Here is my hand! I promise—a man is as good as his word!”

“A word is as good as its shadow!” said the shadow, for that was how it had to speak. It really was remarkable how human it was. It was dressed entirely in black, in the very finest black cloth, with patent-leather boots and a hat that could be folded flat until it was nothing but crown and brim—not to mention all the things we already know about: the seals, the gold chain, and the diamond rings. Yes, the shadow was extraordinarily well dressed, and that was precisely what made it altogether human.

“Now I shall tell you!” said the shadow, and it planted its patent-leather boots as firmly as it could on the sleeve of the learned man’s new shadow, which lay at his feet like a poodle. This was either out of arrogance, or perhaps to make it stay put; and the shadow lying there kept very still and quiet, to listen properly. It was eager to learn how one could break free in that fashion and work one’s way up to becoming one’s own master.

“Do you know who lived in the house opposite?” said the shadow. “It was the loveliest of all—it was Poetry! I was there for three weeks, and that has as much effect as living for three thousand years and reading everything that has ever been composed or written. That is what I say, and it is true. I have seen everything, and I know everything!”

“Poetry!” cried the learned man. “Yes, yes—she often lives as a hermit in the great cities! Poetry! Yes, I saw her for one brief moment, but my eyes were still full of sleep! She stood on the balcony and shone as the northern lights shine! Tell me, tell me! You were on the balcony, you went through the door, and then—!”

“Then I was in the antechamber!” said the shadow. “It was the antechamber you were always sitting and looking across at. There was no light at all there, only a sort of twilight, but door after door stood open through a long succession of rooms and halls, and they were brightly lit. The light would have killed me outright if I had gone all the way in to the maiden; but I was prudent, I took my time, as one ought!”

“And what did you see then?” asked the learned man. “I saw everything, and I shall tell you about it, but—it is not pride on my part, not at all—but as a free being, with the knowledge I possess, not to mention my good position and my excellent circumstances, I should prefer you to address me more formally!”

“I beg your pardon!” said the learned man. “It is an old habit, hard to break! You are quite right, and I shall remember. But now tell me everything you saw!”

“Everything!” said the shadow. “For I have seen everything, and I know everything!” “What were the innermost halls like?” asked the learned man. “Were they like the fresh green forest? Were they like a holy church? Were the halls like the starry sky when one stands upon the high mountains?”

“Everything was there!” said the shadow. “Of course, I did not go quite all the way in; I stayed in the front room, in the twilight. But I stood in an excellent position there. I saw everything, and I know everything! I have been at the court of Poetry, in the antechamber.”

“But what did you see? Did all the gods of antiquity pass through the great halls? Did the ancient heroes fight there? Did sweet children play and tell their dreams?” “I tell you, I was there, and you understand that I saw everything there was to see! Had you gone over there, you would not have become human, but I did! And at the same time I came to understand my innermost nature, my inborn qualities, the kinship I had with Poetry. Yes, when I was with you I never thought about it, but as you know, whenever the sun rose or set, I grew so strangely tall. In the moonlight I was almost more distinct than you yourself. I did not understand my nature then; in the antechamber it dawned on me! I became human! I came out fully grown, but you were no longer in the hot countries. As a human being I was ashamed to go about as I was; I needed boots, clothes, all that human varnish by which a human being is recognised. I made my way—yes, I shall tell you, for you will not put it in a book—I made my way to the cake-woman’s skirts, and hid beneath them. The woman had no idea how much she was concealing. Only in the evening did I venture out. I ran about the streets in the moonlight; I stretched myself up the wall—it gives such a delightful tickle down one’s back! I ran up and I ran down; I peered through the highest windows, into drawing rooms and across rooftops. I looked where no one else could look, and I saw what no one else saw, what no one ought to see! It is a vile world at heart! I would not be human if it were not generally accepted that being human is something worth being! I saw the most unimaginable things among wives, husbands, parents, and those sweet, incomparable children. I saw,” said the shadow, “what no one must know, but what everyone was so eager to know: their neighbours’ wickedness. Had I written a newspaper, it would have been read! But I wrote straight to the people themselves, and there was consternation in every town I came to. They were so afraid of me! And they became so exceedingly fond of me. The professors made me a professor, the tailors gave me new clothes—I am well supplied—the master of the mint struck coins for me, and the women said I was so handsome! And so I became the man I am! Now I must say farewell. Here is my card; I live on the sunny side of the street, and I am always at home in rainy weather!” And the shadow left.

“How very strange!” said the learned man. A year and a day passed, and the shadow came again. “How are things going?” it asked. “Alas!” said the learned man. “I write about the true and the good and the beautiful, but no one cares to hear of such things. I am quite in despair, for I take it so much to heart!”

“Well, I do not!” said the shadow. “I am growing fat, and that is what one should aim for! You simply do not understand the world. It is making you ill. You must travel! I am taking a journey this summer; will you come? I should like a travelling companion. Will you travel with me as my shadow? It would give me great pleasure to have you along. I shall pay your expenses!”

“That is going rather far!” said the learned man. “It all depends on how you look at it!” said the shadow. “Travelling would do you a great deal of good! If you will be my shadow, you shall have everything free on the journey!”

“That is too much!” said the learned man. “But that is the way of the world!” said the shadow. “And that is how it will remain!” And the shadow left. The learned man was not at all well; sorrow and trouble dogged him, and what he said about the true and the good and the beautiful was, to most people, like roses offered to a cow! At last he was quite ill.

“You really look just like a shadow!” people told him, and the learned man shuddered, for it set him thinking. “You must go to a spa!” said the shadow, who came to visit him. “There is nothing else for it! I shall take you along for old acquaintance’s sake. I shall pay the expenses, and you can write the account of our travels and keep me amused along the way! I am going to a spa because my beard does not grow as it should—that is an illness too, and one must have a beard! Now be sensible and accept the offer; we shall travel as companions, after all!”

And so they travelled. The shadow was now the master, and the master was now the shadow. They drove together, rode and walked together, side by side, in front or behind, according to the position of the sun. The shadow always knew how to keep the master’s place, and the learned man did not give it much thought. He had a very good heart and was exceedingly gentle and kind; and one day he said to the shadow, “Now that we have become travelling companions as we have, and since we also grew up together from childhood, should we not dispense with formalities when we address each other? It would be more intimate, after all!”

“There is something in what you say!” said the shadow, who was now the real master. “That is very frankly and kindly spoken, and I shall be equally kind and frank. As a learned man, you surely know how strange human nature is. Some people cannot bear to touch grey paper: it makes them ill. Others shudder in every limb if a nail is scraped against a windowpane. I have just such a feeling when I hear you address me familiarly; I feel as though I were being pressed back into my former position with you. You see, it is a matter of feeling, not pride. I cannot allow you to address me familiarly, but I shall gladly address you so, and then we shall be halfway there!”

And so the shadow addressed its former master familiarly. “It is really too bad,” he thought, “that I must address him formally while he speaks familiarly to me.” But now he had to put up with it.

Then they came to a spa where there were many visitors, and among them a beautiful princess, whose illness was that she could see far too well, which was a very disturbing thing.

She noticed at once that the newcomer was quite different from everyone else. “They say he is here to make his beard grow, but I can see the real reason: he casts no shadow.”

Her curiosity was aroused, and on her walk she immediately struck up a conversation with the stranger. Being a princess, she had no need for much ceremony, so she said, “Your illness is that you cannot cast a shadow.”

“Your Royal Highness must be considerably better!” said the shadow. “I know your complaint is that you see far too well, but that has passed. You are cured! I happen to have a most unusual shadow. Do you not see the person who always walks with me? Other people have an ordinary shadow, but I do not care for the ordinary. People often dress their servants in finer cloth than they wear themselves, and so I have had my shadow dressed up as a human being! Yes, you see, I have even given him a shadow of his own. It is very expensive, but I like to have something all to myself!” “What?” thought the princess. “Can I really have recovered? This spa is the finest in existence! Water has quite marvellous powers these days. But I shall not leave, for now it is becoming amusing here. I like the stranger exceedingly well. If only his beard does not grow, for then he will leave!”

That evening, in the great ballroom, the princess danced with the shadow. She was light, but he was lighter still; she had never had such a partner. She told him which country she came from, and he knew the country; he had been there, though she had not been at home then. He had peered through windows upstairs and down, and had seen one thing and another, so he could answer the princess and drop hints that quite astonished her. He must be the wisest man in the whole world! She gained such respect for his knowledge, and when they danced again she fell in love, which the shadow could plainly tell, for she almost looked straight through him. They danced once more, and she was on the point of telling him, but she was prudent: she thought of her country and kingdom, and of the many people she would have to rule. “He is a wise man,” she said to herself. “That is good! And he dances beautifully, which is good too. But has he sound learning? That is just as important! He must be examined.” And so she began, little by little, to ask him some of the most difficult questions, questions she could not have answered herself; and the shadow pulled a very peculiar face.

“You cannot answer that!” said the princess. “That belongs to my childhood lessons,” said the shadow. “I even believe my shadow over there by the door could answer it!”

“Your shadow!” said the princess. “That would be most remarkable!” “Yes, I do not say for certain that he can!” said the shadow. “But I should think so. He has followed me for so many years now and listened to what I say—I should think so! But Your Royal Highness will permit me to point out that he takes such pride in passing for a human being that, if he is to be in the proper mood—and he must be, to answer well—he must be treated exactly like a human being.”

“I rather like that!” said the princess. So she went over to the learned man by the door and spoke to him of the sun and moon, and of human beings, both outwardly and inwardly, and he answered with great wisdom and understanding.

“What a man he must be, to have so wise a shadow!” she thought. “It would be a true blessing for my people and kingdom if I chose him as my husband. I shall do it!”

And soon the princess and the shadow had settled everything between them, but no one was to know until she returned to her own kingdom. “No one, not even my shadow!” said the shadow, and he had his own particular reasons for saying so! Then they arrived in the country where the princess ruled whenever she was at home.

“Listen, my good friend!” said the shadow to the learned man. “Now I have become as happy and powerful as anyone can be, I mean to do something special for you as well! You shall always live with me in the palace, ride with me in my royal carriage, and have a hundred thousand rigsdalers a year. But you must allow everyone to call you a shadow; you must never say that you have ever been human, and once a year, when I sit on the balcony in the sunshine to show myself to the people, you must lie at my feet, as a shadow should! I may as well tell you, I am marrying the princess. The wedding is to be held tonight.”

“No, that is altogether too much!” said the learned man. “I will not agree to it, I will not do it! It would be deceiving the whole country, and the princess too! I shall tell everything: that I am the human being and you are the shadow—you are merely dressed up!”

“No one will believe that!” said the shadow. “Be sensible, or I shall call the guards!” “I shall go straight to the princess!” said the learned man. “But I shall go first!” said the shadow. “And you shall go to prison!” And to prison he had to go, for the sentries obeyed the man they knew the princess was going to marry.

“You are trembling!” said the princess when the shadow came into her room. “Has something happened? You must not fall ill tonight, when we are to be married.”

“I have experienced the most dreadful thing imaginable!” said the shadow. “Just think—well, a poor shadow’s brain cannot bear very much!—just think, my shadow has gone mad! He believes he is the human being, and that I—just imagine it!—that I am his shadow!”

“How dreadful!” said the princess. “He is locked up, though?” “He is! I am afraid he will never recover.” “Poor shadow!” said the princess. “He is very unhappy. It would be a true kindness to release him from the little life he has, and when I really think it over, I believe it will be necessary to have him quietly put away!”

“It is certainly hard!” said the shadow. “For he was a faithful servant!” And he gave something like a sigh. “You have a noble character!” said the princess.

That evening the whole town was illuminated, and the cannons fired: boom! The soldiers presented arms. What a wedding it was! The princess and the shadow went out onto the balcony to show themselves and receive another round of cheers!

The learned man heard nothing of it all, for they had put him to death.