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| Ustergade, 1830 |
Østergade
poetisk betragtet
"Wandl’ im Grünen;
"Willst Du die Blumen verstehn,
"Mußt Du erst den Wald durchgehn."
Tieck.
Det hele Liv, ret som det staaer
Og gaaer,
Kan findes paa en simpel Promenade
Igjennem østergade.
— Først stirre vi med Barnets Drømmeblik,
Paa al den smukke Stads i Høis’s Boutik.
O hvilken Verden! skjøn og underfuld;
Hvor straaler den med deiligt Glimmer-Guld!
Ja Alt er Strengespil, fra Faar til Nattergalen,
Selv Hestene man seer med Pibe midt i Halen.
Vi drømme os en evig Blomster-Mai, —
Men Klokken slaaer paa Nicolai
Rask trækker Tiden os i Barne-Kjolen,
Vi maae i Skolen.
I Efterslægten sidde vi paa Bænken,
Nu skal man lære lidt fornuftig Tænken,
Beklappes smukt med Viisdoms Ferle,
Til en Examens Perle.
Saa dimitteres vi til Brummers Stue.
Rundt om vi skue
En Mængde — stive Bind
Af Svinelæder, Pap og Kalveskind;
Ret smukke Folk, men tørre — Jammerskade!
Thi Livet vinker — — — ud paa Østergade.
— Brogede Vrimmel!
Oppe sig hvælver den skyklare Himmel;
O hvilket Liv! ha, lystig og fro!
Skilles og mødes,
Puffes og stødes,
Slide paa Livet, paa Støvler og Skoe.
Flagrende Baand og flagrende Qvinder,
Sminkede Hjerter og sminkede Kinder,
Hefte paa fire, og Heste paa to;
Fromme Matroner,
Bitte Baroner,
Riigmand og Tigger,
Lystigt i Drosker, Kareter og Gigger;
Alle vil larme;
Gud sig forbarme!
Heden os qvalte med Haar og Skind,
Gjorte ei Damerne Vind. —
Her en Frugthandler
Vinker med Æbler, Rosiner og Mandler,
Svulmende Druer,
Ak Hjertet luer!
Det kriller saa sært i Marv og Been,
Man føler sig blive en løierlig Een.
Man snakker om Længsel i sit Bryst,
Om Silke som Blaae-Violer,
Om Sølverskyer og Lysets Kyst,
Samt Smertens Piil og Pistoler,
Og for man har sig ret selv beseet,
Er man Poet. —
Electrisk gnistrer Haaret;
Ind paa Aviscontoiret
Man styrter nu. Høit strutte alle Lommer
Af Digterblommer.
— Saa gaaer det fort i Ungdoms glade Flugt;
Alt er saa smukt,
I Harmonie det store Hele svinder,
Fra Skraldemanden til de ni Gudinder.
Men som man allerbedst paa Flisen dandser,
Man standser.
Hos Jürgensen bag Rudens Glar
Man bliver vaer
En Mængde Uhre; hvert os minder,
At Tiden svinder,
At som vi bedst vil nyde Promenaden,
Staae vi ved Enden alt af Gaden.
Forstrækket i vort Sind,
Vi falde strax paa Apotheket ind,
Beværte Sjæl og Krop med Draaber og med Piller,
Kort sagt, man stiller
Sit Febergys med saadant Slikkeri,
Og hopper fort — men det er snart forbi;
Vi staae ved Gadens Ende;
Paa Hjørnet kan vi kjende
Som Tidens Billed, mutationum mater,
Komedie Placater.
Hver Dag man spiller,
Der vexle sært Tragedier og muntre Vaudeviller.
— Nu staae vi her, i Kjole eller Trøie,
Det store Ny-Torv ligger for vort Øie.
Vi see Theatret vel, men vide ikke
Hvad vore Blikke
Skal bag det store, dunkle Forhæng skue
I magisk Lue.
Vi grunde — — ak! kun kort er her vort Stade;
Et Skridt — og saa — Farvel vor Østergade!
The name ‘Efterslægten’ means ‘progeny, posterity’, which might seem an odd name for a school, but it stresses the ‘Non nobis’ idea of education, i.e. not for our own generation, but for generations to come. The school was founded in 1786 and is based on Enlightenment principles.
‘Brummers Stue’ was the university bookstore, which was actually located in the school courtyard. The image of a person’s life as a book with many pages runs through the poem, along with the ‘tempus fugit’ idea and walking down one’s street.
The poem first appeared in Kjøbenhavns-Posten, on 29 March 1829 – when Andersen was nearing his 24th birthday.
East Street, Copenhagen
a poetical view
Wandl’ im Grünen
Willst Du die Blumen verstehn,
Mußt Du erst den Wald durchgehn.
Tieck.
The whole of life, for all to share
Right there,
On a simple walk you’ll find awaits you
In Østergade
– First we stare with childlike gaze
At Høis’s shop with its glisten and its glaze.
Oh, what a world! with treasure troves untold;
See how it gleams with glitter-gold!
All full of music, from sheep to nightingales,
Even horses have whistles in their tails.
We dream up an endless flower-filled May,–
But the clock strikes at St. Nicolai,
In child attire time has us thrust,
And school’s a must.
At Progeny School we are neatly benched,
Where the use of sound reason is dispensed,
And with wisdom’s rod we’re gently lanced,
Then to Brummer’s Bookshop we advance
At thick books we glance –
It makes your head spin –
Volumes of pigs leather, pasteboard, calfskin;
Fine-looking folk, but unable to savour,
For life beckons –– back to Østergade!
Motley crowds fly!
Above them the vault of the clear blue sky;
Oh, so much life! As gay as you choose!
Meeting and parting,
Shoving and darting,
Constantly wearing out life, boots and shoes.
Fluttering ribbons and fluttering women,
Hearts over-painted and cheek far too crimson,
Four-page folios, horses in twos;
Strait-laced matrons,
Teeny-wee barons,
Rich man and pauper
Carriages, coaches, gigs with no halter;
Noise that unnerves us –
May God preserve us!
The heat nigh choked us with hair and skin
Unless ladies fanned us some welcome wind. –
Here a greengrocer charms us
With apples, raisins and almonds,
Juice-swollen grapes
Ah the heart’s ablaze!
There’s a strange tickling down to the bone,
As if into an oddity one’s grown,
One talks of the longing that fills one most,
Of silks as if blue violets’ pistils
Of silver clouds and of light’s distant coast,
Of arrows of pain and of pistols,
And scarcely before one can know it
One is a poet. –
At the adverts office hair grows static
The crackling emphatic.
One rushes off, pockets full of showers
Of poetry flowers.
In youth’s glad flight things quickly flare;
All is so fair,
In harmony the universe reduces,
From dustman to the ancient muses.
But just as twinkled-toed one prances,
One no more dances.
At Jürgensen’s glass front,
Where many clocks confront
You, and each of which reminds
That time unwinds,
That just when we our walk wish to extend
We’re standing where the street comes to an end.
And this we find so scary,
We hurry to the apothecary,
Our minds and bodies calm with drops and pills,
In short, one stills
One’s feverish chills with suchlike sweets
Then dashes on – but in no time the street
Has now come to an end;
And on the corner apprehends
As time’s own image, mutationum mater,
Play posters plastered,
Each day one thrills
At alternating tragedies and cheerful vaudevilles.
– So here we stand, dressed up or otherwise,
With the New Market Square before our eyes.
We see the theatre, but can’t surmise
Just what our eyes
Will glimpse in some quite magic guise
When the dark curtain rises.
We ponder –– Ah! Time’s motion is so fleet:
One step – and then – Farewell, beloved street!
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