Waltey

Prevod

"Ding dong! Ding dong!" comes the sound from the Bell Deep in the River Odense. But what river is that? Every child in the town of Odense knows it: it runs along the foot of the gardens, from the sluice to the watermill, beneath the wooden bridges. Yellow water lilies grow in the river, with brown-plumed reeds and black, velvety bulrushes, so tall and so grand; old, split willows, bent and twisted, hang far out over the water on the Munkemose side and by the bleacher's meadow. But just opposite, garden follows garden, each unlike the next: here are lovely flowers and summerhouses, neat and trim as little dollhouse finery; there is nothing but cabbages, or no garden can be seen at all, for great elder bushes spread there and hang far out over the flowing water, which in places is deeper than an oar can reach. Opposite the old convent for noblewomen lies the deepest spot, called the Bell Deep, and there the river spirit lives. He sleeps by day, when the sun shines through the water, but comes out on starry nights and in the moonlight. He is very old; Grandmother says she heard about him from her grandmother. He leads a lonely life, with no one at all to talk to but the great old church bell. Once it hung in the church tower, though now not a trace remains of either the tower or the church, which was called St Alban's.

"Ding dong! Ding dong!" rang the bell when the tower still stood, and one evening, as the sun was setting and the bell was swinging its hardest, it tore loose and flew through the air; the gleaming bronze shone like fire in the red rays.

"Ding dong! Ding dong! Now I'm off to bed!" sang the bell, and flew into the River Odense at its deepest point, which is why the place is now called the Bell Deep. But it found neither sleep nor rest there! Down with the river spirit it rings and resounds, so that sometimes it can be heard up here through the water, and many people say it means that someone is about to die. But that is not why it rings; no, it rings and tells stories to the river spirit, who is no longer alone.

And what does the bell tell? It is so old, so very old, they say; it was there long before Grandmother's grandmother was born, and yet in age it is only a child beside the river spirit. He is an old, quiet, strange creature, with eelskin breeches and a shirt of fish scales decked with yellow water lilies, rushes in his hair and duckweed in his beard, and that is not exactly handsome.

It would take years and days to repeat what the bell tells; it rambles on and on, often telling the same thing over again, sometimes briefly, sometimes at length, just as it pleases. It tells of olden times, the harsh, dark times.

"Up in the tower of St Alban's Church, where the bell hung, came the monk. He was young and handsome, but more pensive than anyone; he looked out through the opening over the River Odense, when its bed was broad and the marsh was a lake. He gazed across it and the green rampart to 'Nonnebakken' over there, where the convent stood, where a light shone from the nun's cell. He had known her well—and he remembered it, and his heart beat fast at the thought—ding dong! Ding dong!"

Yes, that is how the bell tells its tales. "The bishop's foolish servant came into the tower, and as I, the bell, cast in hard, heavy bronze, swung to and fro, I might have crushed his skull. He sat down close beneath me and played with two sticks, just as though they were a stringed instrument, and sang to his playing: 'Now I dare sing aloud what otherwise I dare not whisper, sing of all that is hidden behind lock and door! It is cold and wet there! The rats are eating them alive! No one knows of it, no one hears of it! Not even now, for the bell is ringing so loudly: ding dong! Ding dong!'

"There was a king, they called him Knud; he bowed to bishop and monk alike, but when he pressed the people of Vendsyssel too hard with heavy taxes and harsh words, they took up weapons and poles and drove him before them as though he were a wild beast. He took refuge in the church and locked the gate and door; the furious crowd gathered outside. I heard about it all: magpies and crows, and jackdaws too, were frightened by the shouting and uproar; they flew into the tower and out again, they looked at the throng below, and they peered through the church windows and cried aloud what they saw. King Knud knelt before the altar in prayer; his brothers Erik and Benedikt stood guard with drawn swords, but the king's servant, the treacherous Blake, betrayed his master. Those outside knew where to strike him, and someone hurled a stone through the window, and the king lay dead! There were shrieks and cries from the savage mob and the flock of birds, and I cried out with them, I sang and I rang: ding dong! Ding dong!"

"The church bell hangs high, sees far and wide, receives visits from the birds and understands their language. The wind rushes in to it through openings and sound holes, through every crack, and the wind knows everything; it learns it from the air, which surrounds every living thing, enters human lungs, and knows all that finds a voice, every word and every sigh! The air knows it, the wind tells it, the church bell understands its speech and rings it out to the whole world: ding dong! Ding dong!"

"But it grew too much for me to hear and know; I had not the strength to ring it all out! I grew so weary, I grew so heavy, that the beam broke and I flew out into the shining air, down to where the river is deepest, where the river spirit lives, lonely and alone. And there I tell, year in and year out, what I have heard and what I know: ding dong! Ding dong!"

That is the sound that comes from the Bell Deep in the River Odense; Grandmother has told us so. But our schoolmaster says, "There is no bell that can ring down there, because it cannot! And there is no river spirit down there, because there is no such thing as a river spirit!" And when all the church bells ring so merrily, he says it is not the bells, but really the air that is ringing; it is the air that makes the sound. Grandmother, too, said that the bell had said so. On that they agree, and so it must be true! "Take care, take care, keep close watch over yourself!" they both say.

The air knows everything! It is around us, it is within us, it speaks of our thoughts and our deeds, and it carries its tale farther than the bell down in the depths of the River Odense, where the river spirit lives. It tells it out into the vast depths of heaven, so far, so far, for ever and ever, until the bells of heaven ring: "Ding dong! Ding dong!"

Izvirnik

Eventyr af Hans Christian Andersen

"Ding dang! ding dang!" klinger det fra Klokkedybet i Odense Å. – Hvad er det for en å? – Den kender hvert barn i Odense by, den løber neden om haverne, fra slusen til vandmøllen hen under træbroerne. I åen vokser gule åkander, brunfjerede rør og den sorte, fløjlsagtige dunhammer, så høj og så stor; gamle, revnede piletræer, svajede og drejede, hænger langt ud i vandet på Munkemose side og ved blegmandens eng, men lige overfor er have ved have, den ene anderledes end den anden, snart med dejlige blomster og lysthuse, glatte og pæne, ligesom småt dukkestads, snart står de kun med kål eller der er slet ingen have at se, thi de store hyldebuske breder sig dér og hænger langt ud over det rindende vand, som hist og her er dybere, end man kan nå med åren. Ud for det gamle frøkenkloster er det dybeste sted, det kaldes Klokkedybet, og dér bor åmanden; han sover om dagen, når solen skinner gennem vandet, men kommer frem ved stjerneklare nætter og måneskin. Han er meget gammel; mormor har hørt om ham af sin mormor, siger hun, han lever et ensomt liv, har slet ingen at tale med uden den store, gamle kirkeklokke. Engang hang den i kirketårnet, ja nu er der ingen spor hverken af tårn eller kirke, den, der kaldtes Sankt Albani.

"Ding dang! ding dang!" klang klokken, da tårnet stod, og en aften, da sol gik ned og klokken var i sit stærkeste sving, rev den sig løs og fløj gennem luften; det blanke malm skinnede gloende i de røde stråler.

"Ding dang! ding dang! nu går jeg i seng!" sang klokken og fløj ud i Odense Å, hvor der var dybest, og derfor kaldes nu det sted Klokkedybet; men ikke fik den søvn eller hvile dér! hos åmanden ringer og klinger den, så at det stundom høres herop igennem vandet, og mange folk siger, at det betyder: Nu skal der nogen dø, men det er ikke derfor, nej den ringer og fortæller for åmanden, som nu ikke længere er alene.

Og hvad fortæller klokken? Den er så gammel, så gammel, er der sagt, den var til, længe før mormors mormor blev født, og dog er den i alder et barn kun imod åmanden, der er en gammel, en stille, en underlig én med åleskindsbukser og skælfiskstrøje med gule åkander i, siv om håret og andemad på skægget og det er just ikke kønt.

Hvad klokken fortæller, skal der år og dage til at give igen; den fortæller ud og ind, tit og ofte det samme, snart kort, snart langt, ligesom den lyster; den fortæller om gamle tider, de hårde, de mørke tider.

"Ved Sankt Albani kirke deroppe i tårnet, hvor klokken hang, kom munken, han var både ung og smuk, men tankefuld som ingen anden; han så fra lugen ud over Odense Å, da dens leje var bredt og mosen en sø, han så over den og den grønne vold, "Nonnebakken" derovre, hvor klostret lå, hvor lyset skinnede fra nonnens celle; han havde kendt hende vel – og han huskede derpå, og hans hjerte slog stærkt derved – ding dang! ding dang! –"

Ja, sådan fortæller klokken.

"Der kom i tårnet bispens fjollede svend, og når jeg, klokken, der er støbt af malm, hård og tung, svingede og svang, kunne jeg have knust hans pande; han satte sig tæt under mig og legede med to pinde, ret som om de var et strengespil, og han sang dertil: 'Nu tør jeg synge højt, hvad jeg ellers ikke tør hviske, synge om alt, hvad der gemmes bag lås og lem! der er koldt og vådt! Rotterne æder dem levende op! Ingen ved derom, ingen hører derom! heller ikke nu, thi klokken ringer så højt ding dang! ding dang!'

"Der var en konge, de kaldte ham Knud, han nejede både for bisp og munk, men da han kom vendelboerne alt for nær med svære skatter og hårde ord, tog de våben og stænger, jog ham af sted, som var han et vildt; han tyede ind i kirken, låste port og dør; den voldsomme skare lå udenfor, jeg hørte derom: Både skader og krager, alliken med, blev skræmt ved skrig og skrål; de fløj ind i tårnet og ud igen, de så på mængden dernede, de så også ind ad kirkens vinduer, og skreg højt, hvad de så. Kong Knud lå foran alteret og bad, hans brødre Erik og Benedikt stod som vagt med dragne sværd, men kongens tjener, den falske Blake, forrådte sin herre; de vidste derude, hvor han var at ramme, og én smed en sten gennem ruden, og kongen lå død! – der var skrig og råb af den vilde hob og af fuglenes flok, og jeg råbte med, jeg sang, og jeg klang: ding dang! ding dang!"

"Kirkeklokken hænger højt, ser vidt omkring, får besøg af fuglene og forstår deres sprog, til den suser vinden ind af luger og lydhuller, af hver revne, og vinden ved alt, den har det fra luften, og den omslutter alt, hvad levende er, den trænger ind i menneskets lunger, ved alt, hvad der får lyd, hvert ord og hvert suk –! Luften ved det, vinden fortæller det, kirkeklokken forstår dens mæle og ringer det ud for den hele verden, ding dang! ding dang!"

"Men det blev mig for meget at høre og vide, jeg mægtede ikke at ringe det ud! jeg blev så træt, jeg blev så tung, at bjælken knækkede og jeg fløj ud i den skinnende luft, ned der hvor åen er dybest, hvor åmanden bor, ensom og ene og der fortæller jeg, år ud og år ind, hvad jeg har hørt og hvad jeg ved: ding dang! ding dang!"

Således lyder det fra Klokkedybet i Odense Å, det har mormor fortalt.

Men vor skolemester siger: "Der er ingen klokke, der kan ringe dernede, for den kan ikke! – og der er ingen åmand dernede, for der er ingen åmand!" og når alle kirkeklokker klinger så lysteligt, så siger han, at det ikke er klokkerne, men at det egentligt er luften, der klinger, luften er det, der giver lyd – det sagde også mormor, at klokken havde sagt – deri er de enige og så er det vist! "Vær agtsom, vær agtsom, vogt nøje dig selv!" siger de begge to.

Luften ved alt! den er om os, den er i os, den mæler om vor tanke og vor gerning, og den mæler det længere end klokken nede i dybet i Odense Å, hvor åmanden bor, den mæler det ud i det store himmeldyb, så langt, så langt, evigt og altid, til Himmeriges klokker klinger: "ding dang! ding dang!"

Nadaljuj z branjem

Zgodba o krokarju Tisoč in ena noč · 5 min branja 4 skupnih tagov Inahov rod Apolodorjeva knjižnica · 8 min branja 3 skupnih tagov 047 The Knell at the Wedding Myths and Legends of Our Own Land · 5 min branja 3 skupnih tagov 085 Mogg Megone Myths and Legends of Our Own Land · 3 min branja 3 skupnih tagov

Nalagam bralnik