Udgivet i forbindelse med Copen Adventure 2023.
Vingårdsstræde 6.
Nytårsaften 1828 sad jeg ganske alene på mit lille værelse og så ud over de snedækkede tage på alle nabohusene, da fór den onde ånd, som man kalder Satan, ind i mig og indblæste mig den syndige tanke at blive forfatter.
Jeg så mig endnu et par gange omkring, trykkede hatten fast, slukkede lyset og flagrede ned ad trappen, hvor der just intet mærkværdigt mødte mig.
Herkules på skillevejen. Holmens Kirke
Nogle skridt og jeg var over Holmens Bro, mit blik vendte sig mod kirken, og jeg tænkte på Tordenskjold og Niels Juel, men snart blev jeg afbrudt af to kvindelige væsener, som nærmede sig.
Den ene kom fra Børsen og lignede i klæderne en amagerkone, men hendes øjne, den søde jordbærmund og den snævre midte, alt var den første elskerinde i en roman værdigt. - Den anden var lang og bleg, en døende Heloise, i hvis øjne man tydelig læste sidste akt af en tragedie. Begge havde store nøglebundter.
Uden lang indledning spurgte den første mig, om jeg ville gå over Knippelsbro; den anden, om jeg ville gå ad Langebro. Det løb mig koldt ned ad ryggen. Af alt hvad der sker nu, sker intet mere for første gang i verden, altid de samme sørgespil og lystspil.
Amagerkonen var så veltalende: ”Nøglerne til Børsen er i mine hænder. Følg mig, og jeg fører dig igennem fjerde Christians herlige bygning, vil der vise dig de store mestres værker, hvoraf du kan citere din rejse. Et nyt og bedre menneske vil jeg gøre dig til. Frem for alt husk på din egen glimrende fremtid. Følger du derimod jomfruen her, flagrer i fantasiens lystige flugt og bygger brogede trylleslotte, da vil disse snart styrte, thi grundvolden, den klassiske dannelse, det dybe, filosofiske blik mangler dig. Hun er en datter af manden, som gemmer nøglerne til druknehuset. Jeg fører dig gennem Christianshavns reelle gade, hun langs med den øde vold og den lange snorlige reberbane.
Den blege sagde intet, men i dette intet lå der langt mere end i hele den andens lange tale; bleg, men venlig stod hun for mig og vinkede – som ånden i Hamlet. Jeg rev mig løs og ilede af sted med den blege.
Allerede var jeg uden for kancelliet, da min blege med ét forsvinder. – Hendes nærværelse var rigtignok ikke længere nødvendig, eftersom jeg nu havde bestemt, hvilken vej jeg ville gå.
Idet jeg ser mig om efter hende, svæver der mig et kvindeligt væsen op ad kancellitrappen. Jeg troede det var min cicerone, og greb hende om armen. Hun udstødte et smerteligt skrig. Ansigtet, halsen og armene bar kun alt for tydelige spor af, at barbariske hænder havde mishandlet hende. Ak! Sukkede hun. Jeg er den lyriske muse. Enhver overfalder og piner mig. Man vil afpresse mig sange; jeg knibes ved bryllupper og begravelser, ja selv ved konfirmation. I dette øjeblik fór den tanke mig: Du må holde på hende og få din fodrejse besunget i jamber; hun rev sig løs og svævede op ad kancellitrappen for at slippe gennem nøglehullet i det danske Capitolium.
Et spring tre hundrede år frem i tiden. Christiansborg Slot.
Nu trådte jeg igennem den første slotsport, og var på den grund, som Biskop Absalon havde hædret ved at betræde. Da slog klokken 10, og vægteren istemte deres kvad i gader og stræder: ”Nu er det på tider, man føjer sig til seng”. Kun to timer til, og det gamle år ville også føje sig til seng for aldrig mere at stå op. Midt under disse alvorlige betragtninger hørte jeg en klagende lyd. Jeg opdagede øverst på vandposten en lille kat der klagede sig i den lange vinternat. Hvem tør afgørende benægte, at dyrene jo har fornuft, følelse og et indbyrdes sprog? Til sidst forstod jeg hvert ord.
Det kunne være ganske interessant blot alene sådan hvert tredje århundrede at aflægge et lille besøg på Jorden for at se alle de forandringer, kulisser, bagtæpper, dragter og repetoirer undergik.
Nu var jeg allerede i kolonadegangen; uvilkårligt hævede jeg hovedet i vejret og så alle slottets værelser oplyst. Midt på slottets hovedbygning var et meget højt tårn, i gården vrimlede der af mennesker, hvis påklædning var ganske underlig og fremmed. For kareterne var spændt store ørne.
Marmorkirken rejste sig fuldført med sin kobberrøde kuppel i måneskinnet, og på byens store pladser var der statuer af konger til hest. Havnen vrimlede af fremmede skibe og lod mig ane Danmarks blomstren. Der var to store teatre og langs søkysten lå prægtige villaer. Da brusede det over mit hoved, jeg så opad; et uhyre legeme, der udspyede sorte røgskyer, fløj som et lyn forbi. Jeg mærkede snart, at det var et på den tid opfundet luftdampskib. Jeg følte mig ganske underligt stemt, sådan i et minut at blive 300 år ældre. Hvad var vel mennesket med alle sine forfængelige idéer og hele jordiske stræben? Et lille skyggepunkt, som kommer og svinder uden at efterlade sig mindste spor på en klode, der kun er et atom i det store verdensrum.
Blåtårn lader sig høre som deklamator. Før Langebro.
Den snedækkede vold syntes mig en stereotyp udgave af Alperne. Fordybet i mine tanker gik jeg nogle skridt, og da jeg slog mine øjne i vejret så jeg to sære puslinger sidde på hug på taget. Jeg følte mig som Xerxes ved Hellespont. Han udgød blod, jeg udgød blæk. Allerede nogle skridt inde på broen var just lejligheden til at tænke smukke ting på grænseskellet imellem København og Amager. Det nye år holder straks sit indtog efter det gamle, og hvem kan undre sig over, at det bruger så mange dage at bringe sit flyttegods igennem livet, når man kun ret betragter det store tog. – Utallige vugger og ligkister, brudeskarer og væbnede hære ser man i det store følge.
Bogen fortæller om sin barndoms historie. Langebro.
Som en drøm husker jeg en lille mand med et underligt katteansigt, hofråd Hoffmann. Jeg så ham aldrig siden. Om dagen høre svendenes spøg og lystige viser, og om natten de underligsteeventyr. Men snart slog skilsmissens tunge timer, vi børn blev revet væk fra vores moder og sendt hen i en bogbinders værksted, for at få den politur, der var nødvendig for med anstand at træde ind i verden. Intet menneske er vist på de hårde skolebænke blevet således presset, beklistret og beskåret som vi. Endelig slog min forløsnings time, jeg var nu færdig til at dimittere og pakket ned i en stor kasse. Låget blev slået til, et kaotisk mørke omgav os i det snævre fængsel, mit livs første periode.
Da jeg atter trådte frem i lyset, var jeg i København i den Gyldendalske Boglade. Utåleligst var mig ellers stereotypudgaverne af gamle klassikere; disse unge, indbildske lærde lapse, der vrimler med trykfejl og ikke har andet end deres faders navn og så med foragt ned på mig og min lige. To dage stod jeg urørt på den høje hylde, på den tredie begyndte min vandring. I det samme slog klokken tolv. Nu faldt der mig ikke en eneste smuk tanke ind. – Se det va da det sidste puds, det gamle år spillede mig.
Ludvig den fjortende. Tommeliden fra Sirius. Toldhuset
Spadserer over broen, det gjorde jeg og stod nu mellem de parallele linjer, volden og den snorlige rebberbane. Kronen var kappet af alle træerne, og det hele fik et stift og matematisk udseende, som var jeg flyttet tilbage til Ludvig den Fjortendes tidsalder og stod ved en af alleerne i Versailles. I det samme rullede en underlig dæmpet torden over mig. Tænk min skræk, da jeg ser en uhyre stor mand lidt højere end Rundetårn , sidde på volden. Jeg var ikke mere eller mindre end Tommeliden fra planeten Sirius, hvor indvånerne er otte mile høje. Vores bestræbelse går ud på at blive såkaldte jubeloldinge, når man i 1000 år har passet sit embede, så bliver der straks slået medaljer for én. Tre gange havde han passert Mælkevejen og betrådt sol og måne.
Sankt Peters briller. Amager, Helgoland
I 10 lange skridt fór jeg over alle broer og brosten, jeg så kun ganske flygtigt, hvorledes alle Københavns dårligheder fra det gamle år blev vejet på vejerbroen, før de blev kørt udtil evig forglemmelse. Forlorne bryster og ortodoks kristendom, luksusartikler og rejicerede lotterisedler. Endelig lå da fantasiens store herlige tumleplads, det flade Amager, foran mig. Jeg må prøve Skt. Peters briller. En hel broget verden åbnede sig for mig. Højt oppe hang himlen, tidens store uendelige hav. Menneskelige skikkelser arbejdede så travle på deres babeltårne, drømte om udødelighede og forgik i det samme. Menneskets ønsker, håb og længsel drev bort. Jeg så også mine egne følelser flagre ud som små Wethern i elegiske gevandter og fløj bort. Hver fugl sang med sit næb sin fryd og smerte, og det hele jordeliv svarede i humoristisk kor.
Poesiens tempel. Kastrup Fort
Snart slap jeg ud af mit fængsel og stod nu fri og lykkelig udenfor templet i den dejlige have. Nedenfor den brede hovedtrappe lå en velsignet vrimmel af drengebørn der sang pæne smådigte i form af vaser, hjerter og kors. Højere oppe ad trappen sad en gammel visekælling med mange nye sager trykte i dettte år. Hun solgte mig for spotpris et lille kort over haven hvori det hele digterland var beskrevet, der ligesom Frankrig var inddelt i departementer. Store alléer af tragedier, herlige komiske satyrer, i træernes toppe sad vaudevillen som en fugl og kvidrede sine naturlige lystige sange.
Jeg havde troet, at jeg var den eneste der var sluppet ind i det hele digterland, og undrede mig at det overalt vrimlede med mennesker; de fleste så så prosaiske ud, at jeg ikke kunne begribe, hvorledes de var sluppet ind.
Mægtige harpetoner brusede hen over mig; Guds himmel hvælvede sig der med utallige stjerner i det rene dunkelblå. Da så jeg tæt ved mig en dejlig dreng i fantastisk dragt og med store sommerfuglevinger; fortrolig greb han mig ved hånden og nynnede sange fra den kære barndomstid, da var det, som vågnede jeg op af en lang, tung drøm. Jeg følte mig atter barn igen i denne lykkelige børnehimmel med kærlighed i møde. Et stort fuglenet blev kastet over mit hoved, så brillerne styrtede mig af næsen, og med dem styrtede også min hele herlighed.
Dykkerklokken. Den blå Planet
En tanke gik, en anden kom. Til sidst jeg på en kampesten mig tæt ved havet satte. I ilden er der lidt for hedt, på Jord som sagt man fryser. Og stige i en luftballon – ne! Nej! Mit hjerte gyser; Dog muligt at på havets bund i sikre dykkerklokker. Så tænkte jeg, og rejsen blev til næste dag belavet, i dykkerklokker, som man ved, kan vandres gennem havet.
Rundt om mig klarede det op, jeg hørte fiske bande, hver gang de på min klokke løb og stødte deres pande.
Men skæbnen, ak! Det slemme skarn, misundte mig min glæde. Og som en sværdfisk var hun nu ved klokkens snor tilstede. Klip! Klip! Klip! Rask skar hun snoren over. Da sad jeg da i klokken net, dybt under havets vover. Først blev jeg hed, så blev jeg kold, så lidt af begge dele. Jeg trøstede mig; du kan kun dø, se det er her det hele.
Ende på rejsen. Cirklen - Airport
Da klang der et posthorn i nærheden. Med et glædesudbrud sprang manden opog mere fløj end løbhen imod det forunderlige køretøj. Seks benrade af firbenede heste der sprudede klare ildfunker, trak en uhyre postvogn med vistnoknogle tusinde passagerer. – Det var alle de mennesker, der i denne nat havde forladt dette liv. Der var folk fra alle verdenshjørner. Grønlændere og pariserinder, italienere og kamskadaler imellem hverandre. På forsædet sad den lange, magre Død som postillon og grinede fælt med sin brede mund i måneskinnet. Over skulderen hang et stort jægerhorn, som han stødte i. At de alle talte vers, begreb jeg snart, det var det første skridt til åndelig fuldkommenhed. Døden vendte sig til mig og bad mig være så god at skynde mig lidt, for han havde ikke tid at vente. Om forladelse! Afbrød jeg ham ganske forskrækket og sprang et par skridt tilbage, jeg skal ikke endnu have den fornøjelse at køre med. Da galede hanen i det samme, og hui, hei! Brusede Døden bort med alle sine passagerer.
Jeg stod tæt ved strandbredden; nu var jo min Amagerrejse forbi, og aldrig havde jeg følt en mere levende lyst til at rejse.
Letterbox
Hvis du har læst om HC Andersens vandring, som her er beskrevet, så kan du finde letterbox cachen på de opgivnee koordinater.
I cachen: Logbog, blyant, stempel som skal blive i cachen og bytteting.
English:
Published at Copen Adventure 2023.
Vingårdsstræde 6.
On New Year's Eve 1828, I was sitting quite alone in my little room and looking out over the snow-covered roofs at all the neighboring houses, when the evil spirit, which is called Satan, entered me and inspired me with the sinful thought of becoming a writer.
I looked around a few more times, pressed my hat down, turned off the light and fluttered down the stairs, where nothing remarkable met me.
Hercules at the crossroads. Holmen's Church
A few steps and I was over Holmens Bro, my gaze turned towards the church and I thought of Tordenskjold and Niels Juel, but soon I was interrupted by two female beings who approached.
One came from Børsen and in her clothes looked like an amager's wife, but her eyes, the sweet strawberry mouth and the narrow middle, everything was worthy of the first mistress in a novel. - The other was tall and pale, a dying Heloise, in whose eyes you clearly read the last act of a tragedy. Both had large bundles of keys.
Without a long introduction, the first asked me if I wanted to cross Knippelsbro; the other if I wanted to walk along Langebro. It sent a chill down my spine. Of all that is happening now, nothing more is happening for the first time in the world, always the same games of sorrow and games of joy.
Amagerkonen was so eloquent: "The keys to the Stock Exchange are in my hands. Follow me, and I will lead you through the glorious building of Fourth Christian, will show you the works of the great masters, from which you can quote your journey. I will make you a new and better person. Above all, remember your own brilliant future. If, on the other hand, you follow the virgin here, flutter in the merry flight of imagination and build motley magic castles, then these will soon fall, because you lack the foundation, the classical formation, the deep, philosophical look. She is a daughter of the man who keeps the keys to the drowning house. I'll take you through Christianshavn's real street, she along the deserted rampart and the long winding ropeway.
The pale one said nothing, but in this nothing there was far more than in the whole of the other's long speech; pale but friendly she stood before me and beckoned – like the ghost in Hamlet. I tore myself free and hurried off with the pale one.
I was already outside the chancellery when my pale suddenly disappears. - Her presence was really no longer necessary, since I had now decided which way I wanted to go.
As I look around for her, a female being floats up the chancel stairs. I thought it was my cicerone, and grabbed her by the arm. She let out a pained scream. The face, neck, and arms bore only too obvious traces of the abuse of barbaric hands. Alas! She sighed. I am the lyrical muse. Anyone assaults and torments me. They want to extort me songs; I struggle at weddings and funerals, even at confirmation. At this moment the thought occurred to me: You must hold her and have your journey on foot sung in jambs; she tore herself free and floated up the chancellery stairs to escape through the keyhole in the Danish Capitol.
A leap forward three hundred years. Christiansborg Castle.
Now I stepped through the first gate of the castle, and was on the ground which Bishop Absalon had honored by treading. Then 10 o'clock struck, and the watchman called out their quatrain in the streets and alleys: "Now is the time to go to bed". Only two more hours and the old year would also go to bed never to rise again. In the midst of these serious considerations I heard a plaintive sound. I discovered at the top of the water post a small cat complaining in the long winter night. Who dares to definitively deny that animals have reason, feeling and a mutual language? Eventually I understood every word.
It could be quite interesting just to pay a small visit to Earth every three centuries to see all the changes, scenery, backdrops, costumes and repetoires that went through.
Now I was already in the colonnade; involuntarily I raised my head and saw all the rooms of the castle lit up. In the middle of the castle's main building was a very tall tower, in the courtyard it was teeming with people whose clothing was quite strange and foreign. For the chariots were strung great eagles.
The marble church rose complete with its copper-red dome in the moonlight, and in the city's great squares there were statues of kings on horseback. The harbor teemed with foreign ships and gave me an idea of Denmark's prosperity. There were two large theaters and magnificent villas along the lake shore. Then it rained over my head, I looked up; an immense body spewing black clouds of smoke flew by like lightning. I soon realized that it was an air steamer invented at that time. I felt quite strangely tuned, like for a minute getting 300 years older. What was man, with all his vain ideas and all earthly pursuits? A small point of shadow that comes and goes without leaving the slightest trace on a globe that is only an atom in the vast universe.
Blåtårn lets himself be heard as a declaimer. Before Langebro.
The snow-covered gorge seemed to me a stereotypical version of the Alps. Immersed in my thoughts, I walked a few steps, and when I raised my eyes I saw two strange pussies squatting on the roof. I felt like Xerxes at the Hellespont. He shed blood, I shed ink. Just a few steps into the bridge was the perfect opportunity to think of beautiful things on the border crossing between Copenhagen and Amager. The new year makes its entrance immediately after the old one, and who can wonder that it takes so many days to bring your moving goods through life, when you only look at the big train. - Countless cradles and coffins, bridal parties and armed armies are seen in the great entourage.
The book tells the story of his childhood. Langebro.
Like a dream, I remember a small man with a strange cat face, Court Councilor Hoffmann. I never saw him since. During the day hear the pranks and merry shows of the journeymen, and at night the strange adventures. But soon the heavy hours of divorce struck, we children were torn away from our mother and sent to a bookbinder's workshop, to get the polish necessary to enter the world with dignity. It seems that no human being has been so pressed, pasted and pruned on the hard school benches as we have. Finally the hour of my redemption came, I was now ready to graduate and packed into a big box. The lid was closed, a chaotic darkness surrounded us in the narrow prison, the first period of my life.
When I stepped into the light again, I was in Copenhagen in the Gyldendal Bookstore. Most intolerable for me were the stereotyped versions of old classics; these young, conceited scholars lapse, teeming with misprints and bearing nothing but their father's name, and look down upon me and my equal with contempt. For two days I stood untouched on the high shelf, on the third my journey began. At the same time the clock struck twelve. Now not a single beautiful thought occurred to me. - Look, that's when the last trick, the old year played me.
Louis the Fourteenth. Thumbs up from Sirius. Customs House
Strolling across the bridge, I did and now stood between the parallel lines, the rampart and the ropey rope course. The crown was shrouded by all the trees, and the whole took on a rigid and mathematical appearance, as if I had moved back to the age of Louis the Fourteenth and stood by one of the avenues of Versailles. At the same time, a strange muffled thunder rolled over me. Imagine my horror when I see an enormously large man a little taller than Rundetårn, sitting on the rampart. I was no more or less than Thumbelina from the planet Sirius, whose inhabitants are eight miles tall. Our endeavor is to become so-called cheerleaders, when you have served your office for 1000 years, medals are immediately struck for one. Three times he had passed the Milky Way and stepped on the sun and moon.
Saint Peter's glasses. Amager, Helgoland
In 10 long steps I crossed all the bridges and cobblestones, I only saw fleetingly how all Copenhagen's ills from the old year were weighed on the weighing bridge before they were driven into eternal oblivion. Forsaken breasts and orthodox Christianity, luxury items and rejected lottery tickets. Finally, the great, glorious playground of the imagination, the flat Amager, lay before me. I have to try St. Peter's glasses. A whole motley world opened up to me. High above hung the sky, the great infinite sea of time. Human figures were so busy working on their towers of Babel, dreaming of immortalities and perishing in the same. Man's desires, hopes and longings drifted away. I also saw my own emotions flutter out like little Wetherns in elegiac robes and fly away. Each bird sang with its beak its joy and pain, and all mortal life responded in humorous chorus.
The temple of poetry. Kastrup Fort
Soon I escaped from my prison and now stood free and happy outside the temple in the lovely garden. Below the wide main staircase lay a blessed throng of boys who sang neat little poems in the shape of vases, hearts and crosses. Higher up the stairs sat an old vice with many new issues printed this year. She sold me for a bargain price a small map of the garden in which the entire country of poets was described, which, like France, was divided into departments. Great avenues of tragedies, glorious comic satyrs, in the tree-tops the vaudeville sat like a bird, chirping its natural merry songs.
I had thought that I was the only one who had escaped into the whole country of poets, and wondered that it was everywhere teeming with people; most of them looked so prosaic that I could not understand how they had got in.
Mighty harp tones rushed over me; God's heaven vaulted there with countless stars in the pure dark blue. Then I saw close by me a lovely boy in a fantastic costume and with large butterfly wings; confidentially he took me by the hand and hummed songs from dear childhood, then it was as if I woke up from a long, heavy dream. I felt like a child again in this happy children's heaven with love to meet me. A great bird's net was thrown over my head, so that the spectacles fell from my nose, and with them all my glory.
The diving bell. The blue Planet
One thought went, another came. At last I sat down on a boulder close to the sea. In the fire it is a little too hot, on Earth as I said you freeze. And climb in a hot air balloon – no! No! My heart trembles; However, it is possible to on the bottom of the sea in safe diving bells. So I thought, and the journey was planned for the next day, in diving bells, as you know, can be traveled through the sea.
All around me it cleared up, I heard fish cursing every time they ran at my bell and bumped their foreheads.
But fate, alas! The mean scum, envied me my joy. And like a swordfish she was now present at the bell's string. Cut! Cut! Cut! Quickly she cut the cord. Then I sat in the bell net, deep under the sea's furrows. First I got hot, then I got cold, then a bit of both. I consoled myself; you can only die, see this is all.
End of the journey. The Circle - Airport
Then a post horn sounded nearby. With an outburst of joy the man jumped up and more flew than ran towards the marvelous vehicle. Six rows of four-legged horses, spewing bright sparks of fire, pulled an immense stagecoach with probably several thousand passengers. - It was all the people who had left this life that night. There were people from all over the world. Greenlanders and Parisians, Italians and Kamskadals among themselves. In the front seat sat the tall, gaunt Death like a postilion, laughing wildly with his wide mouth in the moonlight. Over his shoulder hung a large hunting horn, which he thrust into. That they all recited verses, I soon understood, was the first step to spiritual perfection. Death turned to me and begged me to hurry a little, for he had no time to wait. Pardon! I cut him off quite startled and jumped back a few steps, I'm not yet going to have the pleasure of riding along. Then the rooster crowed at the same time, and hey, hey! Showered Death away with all its passengers.
I stood close to the shore; now my trip to Amager was over, and I had never felt a more vivid desire to travel.
Letterbox
If you have followed HC Andersen's walk, which is described here, you can find the letterbox cache on the given coordinates.
In the cache: Logbook, pencil, stamp don't move and things to trade.