Hans Christian Andersen: 'I den lille Kjøbstad er en Gade' (1839)

 

I den lille Kjøbstad er en Gade

I den lille Kjøbstad er en Gade,

Hvor ei Tiden har forandret stort.

See, det gamle Vertshuus sin Façade

Vender ud mod Kirkegaardens Port.

Her er jo et Herberg paa hver Side,

Der til Venstre kalder Hornets Klang,

Men til Højre lyder Psalme-Sang.

Gaden har et Herberg paa hver Side,

Hvor mon bedst man hviler, gad jeg vide.

Jeg maa ind til Venstre denne Gang.

 

Husets Bjælkeværk er rigt udskaaret,

Indskift mellem Løv og Snirkler staaer,

Indenfor er Tummel hele Aaret,

Der, som Fremmed kommer man og gaaer.

Men til Højre skinner deiligt Solen,

Gjæstekam’ret er en Blomsterplet,

I det Kammer bliver aldrig grædt;

Ovenover voxer Natviolen.

Men til Venstre maae jeg! Aftensolen

Gaaer nu ned. Jeg føler mig saa træt!

 

 

In the market town a street awaits me

 

In the market town a street awaits me

Where but little change has taken place.

Look, the old inn’s frontage quite sedately

T’ward the churchyard doorway turns its face.

On each side there is a hostelry,

From the left one, hunting horns are heard,

From the right one, hymns proclaim God’s word.

On both sides, then, there’s a hostelry.

I wonder where best rest is there for me.

I the left one this time have preferred.

 

Richly carved beams are a salient feature –

Leaves twined round inscriptions everywhere.

Inside, year-round clamour’s the procedure,

Passing strangers are the guests found there.

On the right, though, sunshine’s contribution,

With a guestroom that’s a flower bed,

In that room, no tears have e’er been shed;

Up above, sweet rocket in profusion.

But I chose the left one! Day’s conclusion

Now is near. I’m tired and long for bed.

Hans Christian Andersen: 'En paraplui det er et luftigt Væsen'

Danny Kaye in HCA's mahogany bed, 22 July 1952

 

En Paraplui det er et luftigt Væsen

1839

 

En Paraplui det er et luftigt Væsen,

Som oftest har den otte lange Been;

Den tidt af Silke er, hvo ei er kræsen,

Af Nankin, Cambridge og kan have een.

 

Den hører næsten til Fornødenheder.

Den conservere skal vor Pynt og Stads;

Sin Eier mangen Plage den bereder,

Jeg har for den havt mangen artig Spas.

 

Engang jeg gik paa Østergade

Med splinter-funkelnye Paraplui;

Jeg havde kjøbt den i den franske lade

Hos Herr Nabrin, der har saa svært et Rye.

 

Det regned snart; jeg lod mig dog ei skrække,

Jeg Fjenden bød et vandtæt Silkeskjold;

Men Blæsten var vel haard, den vilde trække

Det lette Væsen bort, den lede Trold!

 

Da jeg til Hjørnet kom af Hallandsaasen, 

Vinden opad et forsvarligt Træk.

Ei hjalp, hvordan jeg dirigered Kaasen 

Regnafleder havde alt en Læk.

 

Den franske Stads jeg altsaa maatte bære

Med brukne Been og Arme til Nabrin:

Den hele Stads var mig en kostbar Lære: 

At fine Pynt er stundom og trop fin.

 

En anden Gang jeg nær fik banket Ryggen

Fordi jeg Hatten stødte af en Mand;

Men raske Been, beskyttede af Lykken,

Hjalp velbeholden mig fra Farens Rand.

 

Jeg glemt har mange, mange Parapluier.

Snart her, snart der, fik sjeldent dem igjen;

En slem Geschichte er det Vei’r med Byger,

Er Regnen standset, let man glemmer den.

 

Som oftest saa uheldigt traf det gjerne,

At jeg i Solskin slæbte paa mit Skrog,

Og naar det mig mod Regnen skulde skjærme,

Stod det sædvanligt hjemme i en Krog.

 

Jeg ogsaa lidt tidt har laant et saadant Meubel 

Ud til en eller anden gammel Ven,

Men kan man troe det, skjøndt det ei var Pøbel, 

Kom Parapluien sjældent hjem igjen.

a

Nok sagt om denne store Landeplage,

Min sidste troer jeg blev i Bellevue;

Jeg aldrig mere vil i mine Dage

Bortkaste Penge til en Paraplui!

 

 

A man’s umbrella is an airy creature

1839

 

A man’s umbrella is an airy creature

Which normally has eight ribs round a shaft.

It’s made of silk, or, if it must be cheaper,

Of Nankeen or of Cambric fore and aft.

 

It’s almost one of life’s basic essentials.

Its task our fuss and feathers  to preserve;

To plague its owner’s its best-known credential,

Though I’ve had lots of fun with such a curse.

 

While walking in East Street on one occasion

With my umbrella, perfectly brand-new;

I’d bought it at the French store which I knew,

At Herr Nabrin’s, of spotless reputation.

 

Soon rain came on, but I remained unworried,

My foe with waterproof shield could control;

There was a stiff wind though which would have hurried

The lightweight creature off – the wicked troll!

 

But then I rounded Halland Ridge’s corner,

Upwind, which was a clever move to seek,

In vain my flighty craft sought a safe harbour –

The rain-deflector now had sprung a leak.

 

This French adornment I now had to hasten

With broken arms and legs to Herr Nabrin:

From this I gained a valuable lesson:

A like fate can befall all those who preen.

 

Another time I almost got a beating

For knocking off a man’s hat without cause:

Good fortune though, and my adroit retreating,

Meant I escaped unscathed from danger’s jaws.

 

Umbrellas – I mislay them altogether. 

Both here and there, they’re seldom seen again;

A sorry story is our showery weather,

Once it has ceased, one soon forgets the rain.

 

Quite often fate will often treat me meanly:

In sunshine I my carcass lug around,

And when against the rain it’s meant to screen me

In some nook back at home it’s to be found. 

 

I have a bit too often lent a brolly

To somebody or other, or a friend.

Though honest folk, it’s proved to be a folly –

I seldom ever got it back again.

 

To say no more of this curse I’ll endeavour,

The last in Bellevue could soon be trash;

From now on I will definitely never

On an umbrella waste my precious cash!

60 Poetic Synapses

My collaboration with Albert Hagenaars on translating Dutch-language poems into English began about two and a half years ago. So far we have 60 poems on the blogspot.

To make it easier to locate them, I have made two lists, an alphabetical and a numerical one. To find the alphabetical one, go to here, and the numerical one, go to here.

Jan Eijkelboom: 'Tuin Dordrechts Museum' (PS 60)

 

TUIN DORDRECHTS MUSEUM

 

Als ik gestorven ben

zal in de tuin van dit museum

boven het warrig bladerengedruis

een merel net zo helder zingen

op net zo’n late voorjaarsdag.

 

En ik, ik zal er niet meer zijn

om door dit zingen te vergeten

dat ik moet sterven mettertijd.

 

Maar aan de andre kant zal ik

- Je weet maar nooit -

veel langer leven dan die vogel.

En als ik toch onder de zoden lig

dan zal mijn zoon nog eens

een merel net zo horen klinken

op net zo’n late voorjaarsdag.

En hij zal weten wie ik was

en ach, een vogel weet van niets.

 

Maar aan de andre kant alweer:

als merels aan hun vaders konden denken,

wellicht dat ze dan krasten als een raaf.

 

 

GARDEN DORDRECHT MUSEUM

 

When I have passed away

in this museum’s garden

above the rustling babel of the leaves

a blackbird will just as clearly sing

on just such a late-spring day

 

And I, I will no longer be here

to have this singing make me forget

that at some point I’ll have to die.

 

But, on the other hand, 

– You never know for sure –

I ‘ll live much longer than that bird.

And finally, when I am six foot down,

my son will later get to hear 

a blackbird sounding just like this

on just such a late-spring day.

And he will know just who I was

and ah, a blackbird knows nothing.

 

But on the other hand once more:

if blackbirds could think of their fathers,

they might start cawing like a raven.

 

 

Translated in collaboration with Albert Hagenaars

Poetic Synapses 60

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Hør, Ungersvend, sig ikke nej, Leg Tavlebord med mig!'

 

Hør Ungersvend sig ikke nej  

1835  •  Melodi: J.P.E. Hartmann • 1844 

 

Kirsten: ”Hør, Ungersvend, sig ikke nej,

Leg Tavlebord med mig!”

Sverkel: ”Jeg ejer ej det røde Guld

At sætte op mod dig,”

Kirsten: ”Sæt du kun op din gode Hat,

Og fast om den er graa

Se, jeg min Perlesnor har sat,

Tag den, kan du den faa,”

Begge: Den første gang Guldterning på Tavlebordet randt,

Den Ungersvend han tabte, men Jomfruen hun vandt,

l: han tabte, hun vandt. :l

 

Kirsten: ”Hør Ungersvend, sig ikke nej,

Leg Tavlebord med mig!”

Sverkel: ”Det røde Guld jeg ejer ej,

At sætte op mod dig.”

Kirsten: ”Sæt du din Kjortel da på Spil,

Ja, fast om den er graa,

Min Krone af Guld jeg sætte vil,

Tag den, kan du den faa.”

Begge: Den anden gang Guldterning på Tavlebordet randt,

Den Ungersvend han tabte, men Jomfruen hun vandt,

l: han tabte, hun vandt. :l

 

Kirsten: ”Hør Ungersvend, sig ikke nej,

Leg Tavlebord med mig!”

Sverkel: ”Jeg ejer ej det røde Guld,

At sætte op mod dig.”

Kirsten: ”Din lykke har du ret i Spil,

Nu vel, sæt dine Sko;

Mod dem mig selv jeg sætte vil,

Min ære og min Tro.”

Begge: Den tredje Gang Guldterning på Tavlebordet randt,

Den Jomfru tabte Spillet, men Ungersvenden vandt,

l: hun tabte, han vandt. :l

 

Til Fruebur den jomfru gaar:

”Var det slig Skæbne værd!”

Den ungersvend i Gaaden staar,

Stolt støttet til sit Sværd.

”Gud lad mig dø” - var hendes Bøn.

”Der Taarer blive spildt,

Du faar den bedste Kongesøn

Og ingen Gangerpilt”.

”Er du den bedste kongesøn, jeg dig da hører til,

Mig selv, mit hele Hjerte, jeg glad dig give viL”

l: Hun tabte, han vandt. :l

 

Come, handsome youth, do not say no  

1835  •  Melody: J.P.E. Hartmann • 1844 

 

Kirsten: ‘Come, handsome youth, do not say no,

Come throw the dice with me!’

Sverkel: ‘I own not e’en one ounce of gold

for gambling, as you see.’

Kirsten: ‘Then gamble with your stylish hat,

Although it’s rather grey.

Look, I a string of pearls have placed,

It’s yours if you can play,’

Both: When first the golden dice o’er the board began to run,

The handsome youth he lost, but the maiden fair, she won,

l: he lost, but she won. :l

 

Kirsten: ‘Come, handsome youth, do not say no,

Come throw the dice with me!’

Sverkel: ‘I own not e’en one ounce of gold

for gambling, as you see.’

Kirsten: ‘Then why not gamble with your gown,

Although it’s rather grey.

Look, I’ve a crown of gold laid down,

It’s yours if you can play,’

Both: When now the golden dice on the board began to run,

The handsome youth he lost, but the maiden fair, she won,

l: he lost but she won. :l

 

Kirsten: ‘Come, handsome youth, do not say no,

Come throw the dice with me!’

Sverkel: ‘I own not e’en one ounce of gold

for gambling, as you see.’

Kirsten: ‘Your fortune surely soon will change,

Try gambling with your shoes.’

Against them I will stake myself

I’m yours if I should lose.

Both: Now when the golden dice on the board began to run,

The maiden fair she lost, but the handsome youth, he won,

l: she lost but he won. :l

 

The maiden then went into her bower;

‘Was this worth such a fate!’

The young man in the courtyard stands,

His proud hands on his sword.

‘God, let me die’ – that was her prayer.

‘Such tears would bring no joy,

For you shall have the best king’s son

And not some errand boy.’

‘And if you are the best king’s son, to you I shall belong,

Myself and all my heart, I shall give to you ere long.’

l: she lost, but he won. :l

 

 

Ola Hansson: 'I Senhöstnätter'

 

 

I SENHÖSTNÄTTER

Till kand. Knut Wicksell

 

Då gula septembermånen slog

genom rutan sitt skarpa sken

och dallrande skugga på väggen jog

från svängande, bladhöljd gren,

där ensam i midnattens stund jag låg,

och fastän mitt öga var lyckt,

en skräcksyn med andlös ångest i håg

jag stundom mig skönja tyckt.

 

Oktobernatt, då regnstormen tjöt,

i stönande vånda det kved,

och andetyst kring min bädd sig knöt

en likvit spökelseked.

Den lutade sig mig tätt intill

med ängsligt jämrande låt,

och våt av kallsvett lyddes jag till

de ofödda släktenas gråt.

 

 

IN LATE-AUTUMN NIGHTS

To Knut Wicksell BA

 

When the yellow moon of September flung

through my window its hard sharp stone

and my wall by flitting shadows was strung

from leaf-concealed branches thrown,

then alone I lay in the dead of night

and although I had closed my eye,

in breathless fear a horrific sight

I seemed now and then to spy.

 

October night, when the rainstorm howled

as if moaning in dreadful pain,

with silent breath round my bed, black-cowled

stood a deathly-pale spectral chain.

O’er my quaking form it now drew near

with a moaning so forlorn,

and drenched in sweat I was forced to hear

the weeping of those still unborn.

Ola Hansson: 'Senhöstblad'

 (To see the original text, go to here)

Late-autumn leaves

 

1.

 

It is a day in late-September, towards evening. Early in the morning a fine drizzle has fallen, but around midday the clouds thinned out, and now they lie only like wispy smoke that spreads a pale greyness out over the surrounding area. The earth has turned dark from the moisture; a fresh, humid scent is rising in the strangely silent air that almost has the mild warmth of spring.

The countryside is quite flat, with marshland and some hills. Among clusters and rows of elms and chestnut trees one can just make out the village. The trees are growing bare, their crowns are shrinking, their leaves turning yellow. Between their erect, bare trunks, yellow stacks and whitewashed walls are gleaming.

The garden over there seems bare and deserted. The beds and lawns are strewn with fallen fruit and large heaps of leaves torn off by the wind – green, juicy leaves and withered brown ones. Stems of plants meander over the flowerbeds, weeds thriving among them. Only asters and a cluster of flamboyant dahlias are still flowering. People are busy picking fruit right now, thin, dark branches are snapping and cracking, here and there a pear comes loose, rustles through the foliage and falls.

And then there are the fields, fringed with willows. They seem so deserted and bare, with rectangles of brownish-yellow stubble, newly ploughed, damp topsoil and juicy green clover. The country road winds its way forward, gravel-grey, with waterlogged wheel tracks and green ditches. But the willows that were pollarded in March are now topped by slender, green, lush summer sprigs.

And the stubble has been ploughed down, the black, fertile topsoil uncovered. The horses pull and strain, yoked in pairs, up the fields and down again, with the farmhands urging them on. A herd of cattle is grazing over in the clover meadow. A cow has got in among the tender shoots of the winter crop; the cattle boy rushes after it, shouting and yelling, and flings his knobbed club at it.

A hunting dog is bounding back and forth in the stubble, snuffling and scenting the air. Then a flock of partridges flies up, screeching shrilly, with noisily flapping wings, and the deep silence is broken by a sudden gunshot.

On the lea outside the stone wall of the garden, under the bushy, lush plum trees, a young girl is busy tying into bundles the linen that has been laid out on the field to stiffen. She has hitched up her dark dress, revealing clogs and red stockings – –

But the air is so mild and humid; and so quiet, so strangely and sadly quiet!

And now, yes, one can see – for it is slightly shady under the trees – that the girl is slim and elegant and that she has a small, fine face with a pair of large, shining eyes framed by the small black shawl, stretched across her forehead. But beneath it a broad, light-brown plait snakes down her back.

And then she starts to sing, quietly at first, just to herself, almost inaudibly, then increasingly more loudly. A simple song, known to no one perhaps, a sad little tune with words that speak of the profound melancholy of September days:

 

And now the day grows cold and grey

With empty heart I’m roaming.

Alone, sad thoughts cause me to stray,

Although I would be homing.

 

How quiet everything is! Mild and damp and so strangely quiet. The cattle is being driven home. The cows are lowing and shambling slowly along, the sheep trotting and tramping, the pigs grunting hither and thither.

A cawing flock of rooks is circling over the winter crop, sinking in large, slow swirls, lower and lower, and finally landing in the field.

The farmhands ploughing on a slope some way away are whistling and shouting. A cart is grating in the gravel of the country road.

Apart from that, silence. And dusk is beginning to fall.

The girl finishes her work, binds the shawl more tightly under her chin and starts to walk along the road, singing her song. She moves slowly up the slope. Now her silhouette is faintly outlined against the dark backdrop. Her song gradually fades away.

 

Alone, sad thoughts cause me to stray,

Although I would be homing.

 

She disappears behind the slope. Twilight falls swiftly over the surrounding countryside.

 

Hans Christian Andersen. 'Martsviolerne' (1830) (+ translation by Chamisso (1833))

 

Martsviolerne

 

Sig Himlen hvælver saa reen og klar,

Iisblomster fryse paa Rudens Glar.

 

I Solens Flamme saa smukt de staae,

En Yngling kommer og seer derpaa.

 

Men som han paa de Blomster seer,

To Pige-Øine derude leer.

 

Saa skjønne Blomster han aldrig saae,

To Martsvioler saa smukke blaae.

 

Iisblomsten smelter ved Kindens Brand,

— Vor Herre hjelpe den unge Mand!

 

 

The March violets

 

The vaulted sky’s pure and clear again

Ice flowers of frost deck the window pane.

 

In flaming sun they spread out so fair

A young man comes and inspects them there.

 

But as he gazes at each fine flower

A girl’s two smiling eyes him devour.

 

He’s never seen flowers of such deep hue,

Two fine March violets of perfect blue.

 

The ice flowers melt from his cheeks aglow,

– May God the poor man some mercy show!

 

 

Märzveilchen

 

Der Himmel wölbt sich rein und blau;

Der Reif stellt Blumen aus zur Schau.

 

Am Fenster prangt ein flimmernder Flor,

Ein Jüngling steht ihn betrachtend davor.

 

Und hinter den Blumen blühet noch gar

Ein blaues, ein lächelndes Augenpaar.

 

Märzveilchen, wie jener noch keine geseh'n

Der Reif wird angehaucht zergeh'n.

 

Eisblumen fangen zu schmelzen an –

Und Gott sei gnädig dem jungen Mann.