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Jensen, Johannes Vilhelm: Fall of the king (detail) (Kongens fald (detaljer) Angol nyelven)

Jensen, Johannes Vilhelm portréja

Kongens fald (detaljer) (Dán)

1. Mikkel

Vejen bøjede til venstre over en Bro og Ind gennem Serritslev By; Grøfterne laa med mørkt Græs og gule Smaablomster, ude over Markerne hvilede hist og her en hvid Blak, en Blom-stertaage, i Skumringen. Solen var gaaet under, og Luften stod kølig klar, skyløs men uden Stjærner.

Der kom et Hølæs kørende fra Landet ind i Serritslev By, langsomt og gyngende paa den vanskelige Vej. Som det listede afsted i Tusmørket ind gennem den snævre Landsbygade, lignede det et stort tottet, lavbenet Dyr, der trisser af fordybet i Betragtninger og snuser til Jorden.

Læsset holdt udenfor Serritslev Kro; de svedige Heste vendte Hovedet tilbage og smagte paa Bidslet, de kunde nok lide at staa. Kusken lindede sig ned paa Hamlen, skrævede til Jorden og gjorde Tømmen fast. Saa vendte han sig mod Bislaget og raabte ind og snød Næsen.

Er der nogen til færds — kanske?

Hvad — der gik Lys i Ruderne, havde de tændt Lys derinde? I det samme kom en Pige frem i Døren. Kusken ønskede sig en Dram. Mens han ventede paa den, blev det levende oppe i Læsset, et Par lange Ben skød sig forsigtigt ned og følte efter Hamlen, selve Personen laa paa Maven og gryntede besværet. Ned kom han da og stod og rystede sig — et langt knoglet Menneske med Hætte over Hovedet.

Singodt, sagde han. Karlen slog den røde Dram i sig og hostede behørigt. Om han ellers holdt videre. Kusken? De kunde jo altid gaa indenfor og tage en Snaps mere paa Følgeskabet.

Men da de kom ind i Lyset, blev Kusken straks staaende ved Døren ramt af Ærefrygt; ogsaa den anden tabte Sikkerheden. Midt i Stuen ved Bordet sad fire fornemme Krigsfolk af den sachsiske Garde, der fornylig var kommen til Byen. De straalede af Klæder, deres røde, spækkede Ærmer, deres Fjer og Skæg fangede Øjet som en Glædesild. Lænet op mod Bordet og Bænkene stod Sværd og Spyd, gedigne Vaaben. Enhver kunde se, at Læderstropperne havde et Fald, der var kommet ved øvet Brug. Alle fire vendte Hovedet men saa straks paa hverandre indbyrdes igen og talte videre.

Pigen bragte to Krus Øl hen til Døren og satte et Lys paa det lille Bord der. Hun var knap gaaet væk igen, før en af Knægtene henne i Stuen rakte sig i Sædet og brast i Latter.

Se nu til ham der, ham med Hætten — det gør godt, hvor det kommer! Han talte tysk.

De andre vendte sig godmodigt, men de kunde heller ikke lade være at le. Den lange drak just, han stod op med bøjede Knæ, og idet en stor, spids Næse tonede ud af Hætten over Kruset, tog hele Figuren sig unægtelig morsom ud. Da han havde drukket, satte han sig roligt ned. Lyset faldt paa hans Øjne, han plirede hen til Bordet, halvt fornærmet, halvt varmt spottende som en Mand, der har Filosofi.

Da rejste den ene af Knægtene sig, gik et Par Skridt frem i Stuen og tog høfligt tilorde paa sin tysk:

Vor Lystighed var ikke ondt ment — gør De os ikke den Ære at drikke et Glas Vin?

Danke, sagde den lange og gik til Bordet med flere Skrabud. Før han skrævede over Bænken og satte sig, gjorde han en Bøjning mod hver især og nævnede sit Navn, Mikkel Thøgersen, studiosus. Saa henfaldt han til at purre i Haaret og slibe Haand-fladerne op ad sine ru Kinder. Han hørte flre Navne blive sagt, hvoraf det ene lød dansk, og saa et Glas blodrød Vin brænde foran sig. Og Skaal, Skaal!

Ihr Herren! Mikkel Thøgersen drak med Anstand og rettede sin stageagtige Krop, idet Vinen løb i ham. Han skød Blikket hastigt over Bordet og fikserede den ene af Herrerne, den yngste, der sad med Hovedet støttet i Haanden. Det var en hvid, tæt Haand uden synlige Aarer eller Knoer, Fingrene gravede i det lysebrune Haar. Ansigtet var langt — og Udtrykket deri fik pludselig Mikkel til at huske en Linedanser, han havde set en Gang ved et Marked, en ung

Badutspringer, der sad ensom i en Krog uden at tage sig noget for — syg velsagtens. Mikkel huskede det unge, lidende Ansigt nu—netop saadanne Øjne havde han der. Men Mikkel syntes desuden, han skulde kende ham. Hvem var det, hvor var det? Han saa' ud som en Adelsmand.

Paany stod Glasset fyldt foran Mikkel Thøgersen. Han gjorde Besked med største Høviskhed, adspredt af at huske sig om og omtaaget ved Synet af Mennesket paa den anden Side Bordet. Der var en Mystik om det brune Hoved, og se der vendte han Brystet til. Armene sad i en paafaldende Afstand fra hinanden, det var en ualmindelig rank Skabning, han havde. Hvorfor havde han Sorg, Trækkene var mere egnede til Lystighed.

Snakken gik, de fire Soldater begegnede Mikkel forekommende. Og Mikkel følte sig fuld af Tillid overfor disse Tyskere, der jo ikke kunde vide, at man kaldte ham for „Storken” inde i Byen. Mikkel sprokkede tysk meget gelassent, men han blev atter og atter adspredt, kunde alligevel ikke lade være at tænke paa sit Øgenavn ... paa den anden Side vidste Tyskerne her heller ikke, at han i en snævrere Kres var bekendt som Ophavsmand til latinske Oder og Distika ... hvorfor sagde den unge derovre ingenting? —

Otte Iversen! Der faldt Navnet. Saa var det ham alligevel. Og Mikkel huskede i samme Nu en graa, brøstfældig Port, en Mur og et Spir —hjemme i Jylland — han følte sig selv staa klejn og elendig der udenfor. Han havde været der nogle Gange. Det var længe siden. Kun en eneste Gang havde han set ham ... det var altsaa den Junker Otte, han havde skimtet inde i Gaar-den som en spinkel Dreng og tænkt paa siden. Han stod derinde i en Flok Hunde og med en forpjusket Falk paa Tonmiel-fingeren. Og nu sad han her, højvoksen, smal som en Pige.

Knægtene smaalo. Mikkel Thøgersen tog sig sammen og drak igen.

Kusken viste sig i Døren. Nu kører jeg, sagde han, og dermed satte han en Pose og en lille Halmkurv fuld af Æg ned paa Gulvet lige indenfor Døren, hvorpaa han lukkede igen for sig. Det var Mikkels Sager, Udbyttet af hans Tur paa Landet — der stod hans Forsmædelse ganske nøgen nede ved Døren; han vendte forvirret Ryggen dertil.

Men de tyske Soldater lo og fik en Idé — Æg var jo aldrig af vejen. Mikkel flyede da Æggene fra sig baade glad og fornedret, og de blev drukket allesammen, som de var. Otte Iversen vilde ingen have og sagde fremdeles ikke noget.

Nu sad Mikkel Thøgersen paa Bænken, hed og flov og venlig, den lækre Vin befriede hans Tynge, og dog følte han sig ubodeligt mismodig. Hans Sjæl fløj de sorgløse Herrer imøde, og samtidig beholdt han en Frygt for at være dem prisgiven — og hele hans Humør begyndte at svømme og vugge i Rytme. Han skottede stjaalent til Junker Otte, forelsket i ham, mistroisk, logrende ... kendte han ham mon ikke? — nej, gid han alligevel ikke kendte ham.

Den ene af de tyske Knægte havde et Skaar i Overlæben slet dækket af Skægget, han kunde ikke tale rent, Mikkel Thøgersen hørte hans utætte Snak og morede sig vemodigt — han blev varm af alt, hvad han saa og hørte. Og medens Vinen og Velværet løste hans Sind, forhærdede han sig underneden, han følte en raa Kulde stige i sig, men han holdt den i Bunde og bamlede sig.

De tre Tyskere sværmede henne ved Skænken. Mikkel Thøgersen og Otte Iversen blev ene tilbage ved Bordet. Ingen af dem sagde noget, og Mikkel søgte at gaa i sig selv. Han saa ned i Mørket mellem Bordet og Bænken og fornam en bitterlig Ensomhed. Men han vilde slaa sig tiltaals, han sukkede og trak sine Rafter af Ben ind under sig, han tørrede Sveden af Panden og kom i Orden. Otte Iversen sad og drejede sit Bæger rundt, han saa fremdeles ud som han var syg.

Da Knægtene kom igen med nyopdagede Drikkesorter, skikkede Mikkel Thøgersen sig mere samlet, han drak forstandigt og uden Uro. Nu svirede de allesammen tæt og tænkte ikke paa andet. Otte Iversen tømte Bægret saa tit det blev fyldt og undergik ikke fjærneste Forandring derved. Clas, ham med Skaaret i Læben, stemte op med en Sang, det lød ikke saa lidt besynderligt.

Mikkel Thøgersen tog et af de vældige Tohaandssværd og vejede det prøvende i Haanden — de viste ham Tagene. Hver Gang den hvasse Od vendte imod ham, trak det ondt som en iskold Vind ned gennem hans Rygrad — det undrede ham, han var nu ellers ikke bange for Kniven.

Og Clas sang:

Ei werd’ ich dann erschossen,

Erschossen auf breiter Heid’,

Man trägt mich auf langen Spieszen,

Ein Grab ist mir bereit;

So schlagt man mir den Pumerlein Pam,

Der ist mir neunmal liber

Denn aller Pfaffen Gebrumm.

De halve af Ordene sivede ham ud i Skægget. Og man opvartede med Krigshistorier, om Fægtninger her og der — huit, huit — om Sejre og Dødsfarer og ...

Heinrich, husker du den blonde Lenore? raaber saa Clas ellevild. Jo, Heinrich mindedes Lenore. Historien haglede øjeblikkeligt fra hans iMund, Clas og Samuel vendte op og ned paa sig selv af Latter.

Men Mikkel Thøgersen tav og krympede sig under dette Vejr af Aabenmundethed, han skelede over til Otte Iversen — og han alene blev et Smil va’r paa det unge, hovmodige Ansigt, og et umærkeligt Træk ved Læberne, som havde Junker Otte sporet en modbydelig Lugt.

Mikkel havde Møje med at faa sit Vejr, han strøg sig atter og atter over Ansigtet.

Men Heinrich fortalte væk. Otte Iversen drejede sig fra Bordet og slog det ene Ben over det andet. Da Historien endelig var ovre, blev der ganske stille, som om man havde mærket Forstemtheden. Maaske følte Otte Iversen, at Pavsen skyldtes ham — han vendte sig mod Bordet som for at staa ved sin Mening og søgte stift Fortællerens Blik.

Heinrich saa ganske betuttet ud. Men nu skar Samuel igennem med en anden Historie. Han var ikke ung, det var ikke om Kærlighed, han fortalte men om en vis sindssyg Slagtning, han havde været med til en Gang, hvor de traadte Tarmene ud af Folk med Støvlehælene og kvalte dem i deres eget Møg. Denne Beretning gjorde Luften i Stuen ligesom mere raa og frisk at aande. Clas kom med ivrige Kenderspørgsmaal, Mikkel Thøgersen morede sig pludselig over hans løjerlige Talefejl, han hævede Næsen og brast i Grin — gru, gru! Da saa Otte Iversen trevent op og trak halvt nødtvungen paa Munden, og endelig rakte han ogsaa Halsen mod Loftet og lo. Hans Latter lød som en Skralde. Saa, Punktum, der holdt han op og sad indesluttet som før.

Lidt efter tog de afsted for at slippe ind i Byen, inden Portene blev lukket. Da de kom udenfor, følte Mikkel Thøgersen igen Afstanden mellem sig og Soldaterne, han holdt sig tilbage og tog Afsked, saa snart de var naaet indenfor Nørreport. Landsknægtene gik videre ind i Byen, Mikkel stod og saa lidt efter dem. inden han tog til venstre for at komme hjem.



FeltöltőP. T.
Az idézet forrásahttp://archive.org

Fall of the king (detail) (Angol)

1. Mikkel

The road bore to the left over a bridge, then in through the village of Serritslev. The roadsides were covered with dark grass and yellow wild flowers, and the fields were touched here and there with white, a mist of flowers in the dusk The sun had set and the air was cool and clear, cloudless but without stars.

A load of hay came rolling in from the countryside to the village of Serritslev, slow and swaying on the poor road. Creeping along in the twilight, through the narrow village street, it looked like a big animal, shaggy and short-legged, trundling off deep in thought, sniffing the ground.

The wagon stopped outside Serritslev Inn and the sweaty horses turned their heads to the side and chomped the bit. They were glad enough to stop for a while. The driver eased himself down onto the doubletree, stretched his legs over to the ground, and fastened the reins. Turning to the porch, he shouted in and then he blew his no with, his thumb.

"Anyone around, eh?"

At once the windows were glowing—had they lit a lamp in there? A girl appeared immediately in the doorway. The driver wanted to wet his whistle. While he waited for his drink there was a stirring up in the load of hay A pair of long legs stretched down carefully, feeling for the doubletree while their owner lay on his stomach, grunting heavily But down he came, stood shaking himself, a tall, bony fellow with a cowl over his head.

"Skål," he said as the driver tossed the reddish schnapps down and coughed properly. Maybe the driver would like to stay a bit longer? They could always go in and have another one for the road, you know.

But when they into the light the driver stopped short at the door, awestruck and his companion faltered too. In the middle of the room at the table sat four fine mercenaries from the Saxon Guard, which had recently come to Copenhagen. They sported great finery, with slashed red sleeves, plumes, and beards that struck the eye like a festive bonfire. Leaning up against the table and benches were swords and spears. excellent weapons. Anyone could see that the fall of the leather straps spoke of skillful use. All four turned their heads, but then they looked quickly each other again and talked on.

The girl brought two mugs of beer over to the door and set a candle on the little table there. She had hardly gene when one of the soldiers in the middle of the room straightened up on the bench and burst out laughing.

"Just look at him over there, the one with the cowl. That beer's good for what ails him!" He was speaking German.

The others looked over good-naturedly, but they couldn't help laughing either. The lanky fellow was just drinking. Standing there with knees bent and a big pointed nose sticking out of his cowl over the beer; he did indeed present a comical picture. When he was finished drinking he sat down leisurely. The light fell of his eyes and he squinted over at the table, half affronted, half scornful, like a man with a philosophical bent.

Then one of the soldiers stood up. He took a few steps across the room and began to speak politely in German.

"We didn't mean anything by our laughter. Would you do us the honor of joining us for a glass of wine?"

"Thank you," said the tall young man in German, going over to the table with much bowing and scraping. Before he stepped over the bench and sat down, he nodded to each and gave his name: "Mikkel Thogersen, university student." Then he fell to running his fingers through his hair and rubbing his palms over his rough cheeks. He beard four names mentioned, one of which sounded Danish. and he saw a glass of blood-red wine glowing before him. And then their toast, "Prosit!"

"To your health, gentlemen!" said Mikkel Thogersen in German, drinking with careful dignity and straightening his gaunt frame as the wine ran down into him. He glanced quickly access the table, then stared at one of the soldiers, the youngest, who was sitting with his head resting on his hand. It was a white hand, with no veins or bony knuckles to be seen. The fingers buried themselves in his light brown hair. The expression on his face was sad, and it made Mikkel suddenly think of tightrope walker that he had once seen at a fair. The young acrobat had been sittíng alone in a corner, doing nothing Sick, probably.

And now Mikkel remembered that suffering young faces. The one across the table had exactly the same eyes. Furthermore, it seemed to Mikkel that he had seen him before. Who was it? Where had it been? He looked like a nobleman.

Once again the glass stood full in front of Mikkel Thogersen. He drank deeply and with elaborate courtesy, but he was distracted with the effort to remember and confused by the face on the other side of the table. There was something mysterious about that brown head. And now the young man was turning facing him, His arms were set at a remarkable distance from other—he was unusually well built. Why was he sad then? Gaiety would seem more in keeping with his appearance.

The talk ran on. The four German soldiers treated Mikkel courteously and inspired complete confidence in him. After all, they could not know that he was called "Stork" in town. Mikkel spoke a broken, eager German, but he became flustered again and again because he couldn't help thinking about his nickname. But on the other hand, neither were these Germans aware that he was known in an exclusives circle as a composer of Latin odes and couplets... Why didn't that young man there say anythings?

Otte Iversen, that was the name! So that was who it was! And in a flash Mikkel saw a gray, dilapidated portal, a wall, and a turret—back home in Jutland. He felt himself standing outside, insignificant and wretched. He had been there several times, a long time ago, but only once had he seen him. . . So it really was the same Otte Iversen, the young son at the manor. He had caught sight of him in the courtyard, a slender boy that he had thought of ever since. He was standing there in the middle of a pack of dogs, with a ruffled falcon on his thumb. And now he was sitting here, fully grown, slim as a girl.

The soldiers chuckled. Mikkel Thomsen pulled himself together and drank again.

The driver appeared in the doorway. "I'm leaving now," he said, setting a bag and a little straw basket full of eggs on the floor just inside and shutting the door behind him. It was Mikkel's things, the fruit of his tramp through the countryside. So there was his ignominy, laid bare down by the door. He turned his back on it, embarrassed.

But the German soldiers laughed and came up with an idea. Nothing at all wrong with eggs! And so, humiliated and happy at the same time, Mikkel passed the eggs around and they were all sucked, just as they. were. Otte Iversen didn't want any, and he still didn't say anything.

Then Mikkel Thogersen sat down on the bench, ardent and awkward and amiable. The marvelous wine eased his heaviness, and yet he felt hopelessly discouraged. His heart reached out eagerly to these carefree soldiers, but at the same time he was afraid of falling under their sway-and his whole spirit began to float, to ebb and flow. He stole a glance at Otte Iversen, loving, sting, fawning... Could it be that he didn't recognize him? No, juIst as well if he didn't.

One of the German mercenaries had a cleft in his upper lip, only poorly covered by his moustache. He couldn't speak clearly, and Mikkel Thogersen, listening to his sloppy speech, was sadly amused. Now he was warmed by everything he saw and heard. But even as the wine and the feeling of well-being mellowed him, he was growing hard deeper down. He felt a raw coldness rising up, but he held it down and got a grip on himself.

The three Germans crowded together over at the counter, rising up, but he held it down and got a grip on him leaving Mikkel Thogersen and Ole Iversen alone at the table. Neither of them said anything, and Mikkel tried to draw into himself. He looked down into the darkness between the table and the bench and felt a bitter loneliness. And then he tried to resign himself, sighing and drawing his lath-like legs in under him, drying the sweat off his forehead and pulling himself together. Otte Iversen sat turning his cup, still looking as if he were sick.

When the soldiers came back, now with all sorts of newly discovered d drinks, Mikkel Thogersen was more composed.. drinking sensibly and quietly. They were all guzzling now and thinking of nothing else. Otte Iversen emptied his cup as often as it was filled, and this changed him not a bit. Clas, the one with the cleft lip, livened things up with a son& which sounded curious to say the least.

Mikkel Thogersen picked up one of the great two-handed swords, testing it in his hand. and they showed him different grips. Each time the sharp tip was pointed at him, a pang went down his backbone like an ice-cold wind—which surprised him, since he vas usually not afraid of a blade.

And Clas sang...

First the battle's thunder,

Then the pikes and spears,

And then he's six feet under –

Tell me what he hears.

Chances are he'd rather

Hear a smart tattoo

Than any parson's blather –

Tell me, wouldn't you?

Half of the words leaked out in his beard. And then they treated each other to war stories, tales of skirmishes one place and another—swish! swish!—tales of victory and mortal danger and...

"Heinrich, do you remember that blonde Lenore?" shouted Clas exuberantly. Yes, Heinrich remembered Lenore. The story poured out of his mouth at once and Clas and Samuel writhed in laughter.

But Mikkel Thogersen remained silent, wincing under this flood of bawdry. He stole a glance at Otte Iversen—and he was the only one to see a smile on the haughty young face, an imperceptibe curve of the lips, as if he had caught a disgusting smell.

Mikkel could hardly breathe, and he passed his hand again and again over his face.

But Heinrich went on with gusto. Otte Iversen turned in his place at the table and threw one leg over the other. When the story finally came to an end it was dead still, as though his gloominess had been noticed. Feeling perhaps that he was the cause of the lull, Otte Iversen turned back to ihe table as if to stand by his opinion, seeking out the narrator's eye with a cold stare.

Heinrich seemed taken aback, but then Samuel stepped another story He was not young so it was not one about love. He told instead of a certain mad slaughter he had once taken part in, one where they had stomped the guts out of people with their boot heels and choked them in their own filth. This tale seemed to make the air in the    sharper and fresher to breathe, and Clas's eager questions were those of a connoisseur. Suddenly convulsed by Clas's odd speech     defect, Mikkel Thogersen lifted his nose and guffawed. Then Otte Iversen looked up reluctantly and twisted his lips wryly, as if by compulsion. Finally he too threw his head back and laughed, but his laughter was more like a loud clatter, breaking off sharply. Then he just sat there, withdrawn as before.

A little later they left in order to slip back into Copenhagen before the gates were closed. When they came outside Mikkel Thogersen felt once again the distance between himself and the soldiers. He hung back, and he left them as soon as they came in through Northgate. The mercenaries went on toward the center of town. Mikkel stood looking after them for a moment before he turned left and headed home.

 



FeltöltőP. T.
Az idézet forrásahttp://books.google.hu/books

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