ENGLISH

The bright sun brings it to light

DANSK

Den klare sol bringer alting for en dag


A tailor's apprentice was travelling about the world in search of work, and at one time he could find none, and his poverty was so great that he had not a farthing to live on. Presently he met a Jew on the road, and as he thought he would have a great deal of money about him, the tailor thrust God out of his heart, fell on the Jew, and said, "Give me thy money, or I will strike thee dead." Then said the Jew, "Grant me my life, I have no money but eight farthings." But the tailor said, "Money thou hast; and it shall be produced," and used violence and beat him until he was near death. And when the Jew was dying, the last words he said were, "The bright sun will bring it to light," and thereupon he died. The tailor's apprentice felt in his pockets and sought for money, but he found nothing but eight farthings, as the Jew had said. Then he took him up and carried him behind a clump of trees, and went onwards to seek work. After he had traveled about a long while, he got work in a town with a master who had a pretty daughter, with whom he fell in love, and he married her, and lived in good and happy wedlock.
After a long time when he and his wife had two children, the wife's father and mother died, and the young people kept house alone. One morning, when the husband was sitting on the table before the window, his wife brought him his coffee, and when he had poured it out into the saucer, and was just going to drink, the sun shone on it and the reflection gleamed hither and thither on the wall above, and made circles on it. Then the tailor looked up and said, "Yes, it would like very much to bring it to light, and cannot!" The woman said, "Oh, dear husband, and what is that, then?" What dost thou mean by that?" He answered, "I must not tell thee." But she said, "If thou lovest me, thou must tell me," and used her most affectionate words, and said that no one should ever know it, and left him no rest. Then he told her how years ago, when he was travelling about seeking work and quite worn out and penniless, he had killed a Jew, and that in the last agonies of death, the Jew had spoken the words, "The bright sun will bring it to light." And now, the sun had just wanted to bring it to light, and had gleamed and made circles on the wall, but had not been able to do it. After this, he again charged her particularly never to tell this, or he would lose his life, and she did promise. When however, he had sat down to work again, she went to her great friend and confided the story to her, but she was never to repeat it to any human being, but before two days were over, the whole town knew it, and the tailor was brought to trial, and condemned. And thus, after all, the bright sun did bring it to light.
Der var engang en skræddersvend, som drog ud i verden. Men han kunne ikke få arbejde, og til sidst var han så fattig, at han ikke ejede en rød øre. En dag mødte han en jøde på vejen, og da han tænkte, at han måtte have mange penge, fik hans onde tilbøjeligheder magt over ham, og han gik lige løs på jøden. "Giv mig dine penge, eller jeg slår dig ihjel," sagde han. "Lad mig beholde livet," bad jøden, "jeg ejer ikke mere end otte skilling." - "Vist har du penge," råbte skrædderen, "kom nu med dem." Så pryglede han løs på jøden og slog ham omtrent ihjel. "Det vil den klare sol nok bringe for en dag," sagde jøden, og så døde han. Skrædderen stak hånden i hans lommer for at få fat i pengene, men der var ikke mere end de otte skilling. Så kastede han jøden om bag en busk og drog videre. Langt om længe kom han til en by og fik arbejde. Mesteren havde en smuk datter, hende blev han forelsket i og de blev gift og levede lykkeligt sammen.

De fik to børn, og da der var gået mange år, døde svigerfaderen og svigermoderen, og de unge folk boede så alene. En morgen, da manden sad på bordet henne ved vinduet, bragte hans kone ham en kop kaffe. Han hældte den i underkoppen og ville drikke af den. Solens stråler faldt netop derpå og genskinnet flakkede frem og tilbage oppe på væggen. "Ja, du ville nok gerne bringe det for en dag," sagde skrædderen og kiggede derop, "men det kan du ikke." - "Hvad skal det betyde, lille mand," spurgte konen. "Det tør jeg ikke sige dig," svarede han. "Jo, hvis du holder af mig, så fortæller du mig det," sagde hun, kyssede ham og sagde, at hun skulle ikke røbe det til noget menneske. Han gav til sidst efter for hendes plagerier og fortalte, at for mange år siden havde han været på vandring og ikke ejet en eneste øre. Så havde han truffet en jøde og slået ham ihjel, men jøden havde lige før han døde sagt: "Den klare sol skal nok bringe det for en dag." Det ville solen også gerne have gjort og havde hoppet og danset der på væggen og lavet kringlekranse, men den havde ikke kunnet. Han bad hende endnu engang endelig ikke sige det til nogen, for så var det jo ude med ham, og hun lovede det bestemt. Da han igen havde sat sig til at arbejde, gik konen hen til sin gudmor og fortalte hende hele historien på den betingelse, at hun ikke sagde det til et menneske. Men inden tre dage var gået, vidste hele byen det, og skrædderen blev stillet for domstolen og henrettet. Således bragte den klare sol det alligevel for en dag.




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