Aftenen (Et Træsnit)
“Anch’io son pittore!”
Correggio
En Aften deilig, som i en Roman!
(For Rimets Skyld, som en i Hindostan.)
O Alnaturen til mit Hjerte taler,
Det maa herud: “Ja, ogsaa jeg er Maler!”
See, Solen synker i sit røde Blod,
Og Aander suse gjennem Skovens Toppe.
Her slumrer Uskyld sødt ved Bøgens Rod,
See hvilke fede Bønderdrenge-Kroppe!
Violer dufte fra det unge Græs,
Og hisset vandre Præstens hvide Gæs.
See hist en gammel Bonde paa sit Øg,
En Fugleskræmme paa en Rocinante;
Nu holder han hist ved den flakte Bøg,
Og tæller Penge af en gammel Vante.
Endnu engang han ret beseer sin Skat,
Og griber derpaa atter Tøilen fat;
Ham Længsel driver mod det elskte Hjem,
Hvor Hytten staaer imellem Nøddehække.
Men ikkun langsomt, langsomt gaaer det frem.
See, hvor han seer mod Skyens Bjergerække;
Dog Phantasus ham følger i hans Nød,
Og viser i det Fjerne et Fad Grød.
Hvor malerisk staaer Fiskerhytten der!
See, Vinduet kneiser med halvtredie Rude!
Hvor gløde dog i Aftensolens Skjær
De halve tre imellem gamle Klude!
Og rundt om Hytten Tjørnehække staae,
Broderede med Strømper og med Sokker,
Og Himlen favner Alt saa klar og blaa,
Mens Fiskerkonen hjem fra Stranden sjokker.
See, hist paa Skrænten staaer en lang Person
Med Ansigtet saa blegt, som salig Werther,
Og med en Næse, stor som en Kanon,
Og Øine bitte smaa, som grønne Ærter.
Han synger noget Tydsk med et “woher?”
Og stirrer derpaa ud i Vesterlide.
Hvorfor mon han vel staaer saa længe der?
Ja Herre Gud! Man kan ei Alting vide;
Dog er det sikkert, har jeg rigtigt seet,
En Gal, en Elsker, eller en Poet.
Trykt i »Kjøbenhavns flyvende Post«, redig. af J.L. Heiberg, 17. 8. 1827
Evening (A woodcut)
‘Anch’io son pittore!’
Correggio
An evening, one that has a novel’s charm!
(To get a rhyme, like one in Hindustan.)
Oh, Nature makes all reticence grow fainter:
It must be said: ‘I also am a painter!’
See how the sun sets like a blood-red fruit,
And spirits through the tree-tops are cavorting.
Here slumbers innocence by beech-tree root,
See all those thick-limbed farmer’s sons disporting!
The violets’ scent in young grass fills the breeze,
And there are vicar’s waddling plump white geese.
See that old farmer on his ancient nag,
A scarecrow perched up on a clapped-out critter;
He stops by the split beech tree with his bag,
Counts money out of habit he won’t fritter.
Inspects with close attention all his hoard,
Then grasps the reins when it’s been safely stored.
Longing’s what spurs him to his much-loved home,
Where nut-flecked hedges flank his humble dwelling.
But oh so slowly does he homeward roam.
See how he looks at clouds like mountains swelling;
Though fantasies ride with him in his need,
And show him distant gruel on which to feed.
That fisherman’s small hut, how picturesque!
With two’n a half panes see the window soaring!
Yet how they gleam in sun’s last arabesque
All two’n a half with old rags as their mooring!
And thorny hedgerows stand around the place,
With socks and stockings caught there in the brambles,
And all’s held in the sky’s bright blue embrace,
While from the shore his poor wife homeward shambles.
Look, on the slope a youth stands, tall and lithe,
His face as deathly pale as some poor Werther,
And with a nose that has a cannon’s size,
And eyes like small green peas, and hardly Goethe.
He sings in German, something with ‘woher?’
And out towards the western skies is gazing
Why has he for so long been standing there?
Good grief! One cannot all things be appraising:
Though have I seen aright, he is, I know it,
A madman, a fond lover, or a poet.
