ZKV 112

ZKV112

 

While exploring the outer reaches of my ancestry on the distaff side, I came across Florence Knox, a niece of my maternal grandmother. Florence married Charles Harold Andrews in 1917. Their son, George Harold, was born in 1926. A couple of days back a death certificate plinged in from another user of the genealogy software. George Harold had died at the age of 10, on 13 October 1937, and I had been wondering why – illness, disease perhaps? Not so.

Cause of death: Haemorrhage left middle meningeal artery as a result of fracture of the left temporal bone. 

Struck on head by piece of dirt thrown by another boy in playground at school. – Accidental.

 

My brother Mike and I are hiding in our neighbour’s garden, which has lots of bushes and trees. We pick up pebbles and throw them in each other’s direction. I am hiding behind an apple tree, but am struck on the forehead with some force. My brother, (my guess is he is about nine and I seven) tells me to comb my fringe down to hide it. But it’s bath night. Ma baths us together, for it costs a lot to heat the tank. Ma spots the impressive swelling immediately. ‘I bumped into something,’ I explain. ‘Some something,’ Ma remarks. Mike keeps quiet. We sit facing each other in the bath tub. Ma chooses not to press the matter further.

 

Struck on head by piece of dirt thrown by another boy – accidental. Close shave.

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Lille Lise ved Brønden' (1830)

 

Lille Lise ved Brønden (1830)

 

”Unschuld, nur wenn du dich nicht kennest, wie die kindliche,

dann bist du eine; aber dein Bewustseyn ist dein Tod.”

               Jean Poul

 

Tæt ved Huset Brønden staaer,

Lille Lise til den gaaer,

Stirrer tankefuld derned,

Thi hun af sin Moder veed,

At man her fra Brøndens Vand

Trækker Børnene i Land;

Ja, hun selv, som her nu staaer,

Kom derfra for fire Aar,

Og en Broder tog’ de nys,

Ham, som faaer saa mange Kys.

 

Stivt hun ned i Brønden seer;

”Mon der nu er ingen fleer?

Eller sidde hver og een,

Skjult bag Brøndens Kampesteen?

Rigtignok har Søster sagt,

At os Børn har Storken bragt,

At han har bag Redens Tjørn,

Piger og smaae Drenge-Børn;

Men hvor skiller han de Smaae,

Naar de ei har Klæder paa?

 

Nei, de boe i Brønden her!

Jeg har selv jo været der;

O, nu kan jeg ogsaa see,

Een igjennem Vandet lee!

Hun som lille Lise staaer,

Og har ogsaa gule Haar.

Kunde jeg dog bare faae,

Kun den mindste af de Smaae!

De er’ meget bedre der,

End min dumme Dukke her!”

 

 

Little Lizzy by the well (1830)

 

‘Unschuld, nur wenn du dich nicht kennest, wie die kindliche,

dann bist du eine; aber dein Bewustseyn ist dein Tod.’

               Jean Poul

 

Near the house the deep well lies,

From close to it Lizzy spies

Down into it thoughtfully,

For her mother’s said that we

All our children from below

Haul up to the world we know;

Yes, that she came from there too

Four years earlier when new,

And a brother recently

Who gets kissed so frequently.

 

She peers down with her best stare;

Aren’t there any others there?

Or is every single one

Hidden by the well’s huge stone?

Could my sister then be wrong,

That the stork’s brought us along,

That behind its thorny nest

Baby girls and boys all rest;

How can it tell which from which,

When they’re wearing not a stitch?

 

No, down here is where they dwell!

I too once was down the well;

Oh, just look, now I can see

One that’s laughing back at me!

Standing just like Lizzy there,

And she also has blond hair.

If I just could have one too,

Just the tiniest would do!

They are so much better there

Than my stupid doll, I swear!’

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Gurre' (1842)

 

Gurre

 

Hvor Nilen vander Ægypterens Jord

I Africas brændende Lande,

Der mødtes to Fugle, de kom fra Nord,

De talte om Danmarks Strande:

’O husker du Sjølund, den deilige Ø,

Hvor de vilde Skovduer kurre,

De duftende Bøge, den stille Sø,

Husker du Gurre?’

— ’Ja, der har jeg bygget en Sommerdag,”

Saa talte den lille Svale,

„Jeg havde min Rede ved Bondens Tag,

Jeg hørte ham synge og tale.

Jeg troer der er skjønnest i Danmark!’

         CHOR

Jeg troer der er skjønnest i Danmark!

         ECCHO

         — skjønnest i Danmark!

 

 

Ved Gurre-Sø laae Kong Valdemars Borg,

Den saae ham med Tovelille;

Den kjendte hans Lykke, den kjendte hans Sorg,

— Ak Trøstens Harper hang stille;

Hans Glæde blev skrinlagt bag Kirkens Muur,

Hvor de vilde Skovduer kurre.

— Om Tovelille sang Guds Natur

Deiligst i Gurre!

Der havde de vandret hver lønlig Sti,

Naturen blev her til hende;

Han kunde ei gaae en Blomst forbi,

Den sagde: „Kan Du mig kjende?”

Jeg troer der er skjønnest i Danmark!’

         CHOR

Jeg troer der er skjønnest i Danmark!

         ECCHO

         — skjønnest i Danmark!

 

Ved Gurre-Sø holdt Kong Valdemar Jagt,

Smukt Hornet lød gjennem Skoven,

Den stod i sin rigeste Sommerpragt,

Og Stjerner funkled’ foroven;

Da raabte Kongen saa lystelig,

Hvor de vilde Skovduer kurre:

„Lad Gud beholde sit Himmerig,

Har jeg kun Gurre!”

— Det er saa deiligt en Sommerdag,

Men deiligst i Nattens Stille,

Naar Stjernerne blinke og Droslens Slag

Fortæller om Tovelille.

Jeg troer der er skjønnest i Danmark!’

         CHOR

Jeg troer der er skjønnest i Danmark!'

         ECCHO

         — skjønnest i Danmark!

 

 

Gurre

 

Where Egypt’s soil is refreshed by the Nile

In Africa’s lands hot and searing,

Two birds from the North met and talked awhile

Of Danish shores so endearing:

‘You remember Sealand, that beautiful isle

Where wood pigeons coo without ceasing,

Where sweet-scented beeches and calm lake beguile,

And Gurre so pleasing?’

– ‘Yes, one summer’s day there I built my nest,’

Replied the small swallow discreetly,

‘High up on the farmer’s roof it did rest,

I heard him repeat this so sweetly:

Here’s loveliest surely in Denmark!’

         CHOIR

Here’s loveliest surely in Denmark!

         ECHO

         — surely in Denmark!

 

Near Valdemar’s castle lay Gurre Lake

It saw him with Tovelille,

It knew his delights, it knew every ache,

– Ah, harps of solace hung still there;

His joy was entombed behind church walls dank,

Where wood pigeons coo without ceasing.

– Of Tovelille God’s nature sang

In Gurre so pleasing!

When along every secret path they strayed

All nature turned into Tove;

Each flower he would pass now seemed to say,

‘Do you know me?’ over and over

Here’s loveliest surely in Denmark!

         CHOIR

Here’s loveliest surely in Denmark!

         ECHO

         — surely in Denmark!

 

At Gurre Valdemar hunted with hounds,

Through woods the horn sounded sprightly!

They stood in their summer’s greenest gowns

And stars from above sparkled brightly;

The king then uttered a joyous cry,

Where wood pigeons cooed without ceasing:

‘Let God retain all his realms on high,

Gurre’s more pleasing!’

It’s lovely here on a summer’s day

Though best at night when it’s stiller,

When stars all twinkle, when thrushes’ play

Reminds me of Tovelille!

Here’s loveliest surely in Denmark!’

         CHOIR

Here’s loveliest surely in Denmark!

         ECHO

         — surely in Denmark!

 

Gurre – Royal hunting lodge by Gurre lake in North Sealand

Tovelille (Little Tove) – King Valdemar IV’s mistress

 

 

To listen to Sven Erik Werner’s fine choral setting of the poem, go to here.

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Psalme' (1864)

 

Psalme (1864)

 

Jeg har en Angst som aldrig før,

Som stod jeg foran Dødens Dør,

Og maatte ind og styrte ned

I Mørke og i Eensomhed!

Jeg drives frem med Stormens Hast.

O Herre, Herre, hold mig fast!

 

Alt Ondt i mig, det kom fra mig,

Hvad Godt jeg gjorde, kom fra Dig;

De Andres Skyld jeg nok opskrev,

Men ei mit eget Skyldnerbrev;

Hvor har jeg for mig selv hver Dag

Besmykket godt min egen Sag!

 

Jeg trædes skal af Dødens Hæl,

Først da sig løfte kan min Sjæl.

Læg Fadervor som Duens Blad

Mig paa min Tunge, gjør mig glad!

Har jeg ei Gud, hvad har jeg da,

Naar hele Verden falder fra!

 

 

Hymn (1864)

 

I have a fear as ne’er before,

As if I stood at Death’s dread door

And needs must enter and plunge down

In dark and lonely realms to drown;

A storm’s force drives me constantly:

O Lord, o Lord, keep hold of me!

 

All evil in me stems from me,

All good that I have done from Thee;

What others owe me I write down,

What I owe others I disown;

How well each day I seek to trace

That which enhances my own case.

 

I shall be trodden by Death’s heel

Before my soul true joy can feel.

The Lord’s Prayer, like the dove-held leaf,

Lay on my tongue to banish grief.

If God I have not, what have I

When this world’s over and I die!

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Poetiske Penneprøver I' (1831)

 

Poetiske Penneprøver I (1831)

 

At døe – det er dog sært at tænke paa!

Men grumme lidt det Hele vi forstaae;

Det er saa stort og smukt hvad Døden skjænker,

Ja, meget meer end nogen Digter tænker.

 

Ja saae vi kun klart med Aandens Blik,

Vi Alle ligestrax i Graven gik,

Men vi er’ Børn jo kun paa denne Side,

Og Børn maae ikke Alt paa eengang vide.

 

 

Poetic writing essays I (1831)

To die – so strange a thing to contemplate!

We precious little grasp, just speculate;

So great and wondrous is what Death will give,

Far more than any poet can conceive.

 

Ah, could we clearly see with our spirit see,

We all would straightway to our own grave flee,

We are but children though while here below

And therefore all at once are not to know.

Eva Gerlach: 'Kodály, Sonate in b mineur voor cello solo, op. 8'

Kodály, Sonate in b mineur voor cello solo, op. 8

 

       Say the word "and" before each phrase (...). János Starker

 

Er is een naam die je niet geeft, een toon

die ongehoord, een stem die beter ont-

stemd kan zingen, wat je zingen noemt

 

(een vis slaat in de diepte met zijn staart,

die kanteling, bijna alsof je leeft),

 

dat knarsen, hars die aan je vingers kleeft,

het korte uitstel op de snaar de vaart

die je ontsnapt, je adem tussenin,

 

het reiken met de schouder om het grote

bolle lichaam te omhelzen dat

snuift, gromt, gaat leven uit een rib een stok

die over het hart gevoerd moet dat het klopt

 

(er is een ladder alle kanten op waarlangs het 

stuitert, rammelt, dans 

beer, jank zo hoog je, spring je vrij – )

 

Zeg ‘en’ voor elke nieuwe zin en alle

dove tonen komen samen bij

de opening waaruit ik op mag staan,

 

ik lig dood in mijn graf en iemand speelt

de tijd te voorschijn en hij laat me gaan.

 

 

Kodály, Sonata in B minor for cello solo, op. 8

 

     Say the word "and" before each phrase (...). János Starker

 

There is a name you do not give, a tone

which though not heard, a voice which mis-

tuned can sing better, what you would call singing

 

(down at the deep end, a fish flicks its tail,

that toppling, almost as if you’re alive),

 

that grating, resin clinging to your fingers,

the brief delaying on the string the speed

you can’t hold on to, your breath in between,

 

the stretching of the shoulder so as to

embrace the bulging body that

snorts, growls, life starting from a rib a stick

that must work on the heart until it beats

 

(there is a scale wherever along which

it bounces, rattles, dance

bear, squeal as high as you, jump loose – )

 

Say ‘and’ before each new phrase starts and all

the mute tones will assemble at

the opening from which I may rise up,

 

I lie dead in my grave and someone plays

time into being and it lets me go.

 

 

H.C. Andersen: 'Kulbrænderen'

 

Kulbrænderen

 

Mellem Skovens Graner her

Skinner Ildens røde Skjær;

Kulsort Røg fra Hytten gaaer;

Foran Ilden Svenden staaer,

Og belyst af Træets Glød,

Seer han ud, halv sort, halv rød;

Han de store Masser vender,

Dybere det brænder.

 

Lænet til sin Løfte-Stang, 

Nynner han en gammel Sang: 

»Granen voxer Aar for Aar, 

Altid lige grøn den staaer, 

Som min Kjærlighed saa skjøn, 

Altid grøn, men dunkelgrøn!« 

Sangen ingen Trøst ham sender, 

– Dybere det brænder.

 

 

The charcoal burner

 

’Mongst the forest’s spruce trees here

Gleams the fire’s red glow so clear;

From the hut comes coal-black smoke;

By the fire the man must stoke,

And lit by the wood’s strong gleam

He half-black, half-red does seem;

As the huge piles he is turning

Deeper still it’s burning.

 

Leaning on his lifting-pole

He a song hums known of old:

‘Year by year the spruce grows grand

Always just as green it stands,

Lovely as my love’s has been,

Always green , but deep, deep green!’

But the song him comfort's spurning

– Deeper still it’s burning.

 

Hans Christian Andersen: 'Hjertetyven'

 

The heart-thief

 

               A heart can be quite brash, a heart can be demure,

              A thief though is a thief, of that you can be sure.

                                                                                                   Wessel

 

Ah Cupid is well-known, the wicked lad!

Portrayed as a sweet child that goes unclad,

With bow and arrow, and great wings what’s more;

That sounds more like some superstitious lore,

How could one think he thus would fly around,

No, God forbid! He’s always clothed or gowned;

And every time he wants to match a pair,

He knows precisely just what clothes to wear.

The young girl would then most of all him see

Clad as a student, officer maybe;

And for such men the converse would apply!

They’d most of all a girl in him espy.

From top to toe, this devious young pup

Is but a thief who ought to be strung up.

– The very first time that he caught my eye,

I was still young, a simple lad though spry;

With other children I played hide and seek,

And twixt a fence and rosebush sought to sneak,

I wormed my way in and then squatted down,

No one could find me, I made not one sound;

Along came Lise from next door – you see?

A hideout – handsome officer was he!

But what they spoke of I have no idea,

I saw though all the roses nod from here,

And deep inside one rose that dangled low

Across the fence – impossible, I know!

There sat – though common sense it just defies!

There sat an officer, mere finger-size,

Moustachioed, with sword and cap was he,

Just like the officer he seemed to be!

I saw just how the rose began to sway,

Saw it brush Lise’s nose and cheek, straightway

The full-size officer plucked stem and head,

And Lise took it, though she turned quite red.

Whoosh! out flew a lovely-wingèd butterfly –

Yes, Cupid – with his little finger I

Was told to never tell all that I saw;

For there was kissing, I looked on in awe!

Since when I often little Cupid met,

Maybe in silks, or homespun tunic dressed;

But I, when older, came to realise

That what he did was not exactly nice,

For I then swore, no matter what, that he

Would never get his fingers close to me.

This I did swear at confirmation time,

And now – just listen to what fate was mine! –

– Close to the village where the vicar dwells

There is a hazel wood with groves and dells,

Wild strawberries galore one’s eyes there spy,

I came there on a day the sun was high,

Behind the trees a farmboy there I saw

Collecting strawberries upon a straw,

I filled both hands with them and ate;

The lad showed me his straw, now full beset,

And then a chat between us two did start,

It was as if a knife plunged in my heart.

I grew so odd – the fellow laughed at me,

It was but Cupid and his devilry.

They were not berries, no, but tiny hearts,

That on his straw he’d threaded with great art;

This I felt keenly, and among their throng

My heart must surely be, as on a thong!

I scolded, wept and prayed, but he just laughed

And curtly said ‘Oh yes!’ Such is my craft,

See here, these are today’s hearts, what is more,

And yours is now the last one on the straw.’

He stressed these words, quite heedless of my grief,

And off he sped, the callous, wicked thief!

I set out after him as fast as I could go,

And cried out without ceasing in my woe

But all too soon he’d disappeared from view.

Now I imagine without more ado

He’ll go from door to door with stolen hearts,

And that which pains me most, which hurts and smarts,

Will peddle mine, that is his ruthless plan;

So I must steal it back now if I can!

Perhaps there’s someone quite prepared to give?

For heartless I can never learn to live!

To see the original poem, go to here.