Juleaftenen av Henrik Wergeland	Christmas Eve by Henrik Wergeland
Hvo minnes ikke et vær, han tror, ei himlen mer kan skikke? et vær som om hver sjel, fra Kains til den, Gud sist fordømte, den jord forbannet, fra helvete rømte, som fristet dem å svike himmelen?....	Imagine a storm that seems as if heaven unleashed its very worst? A storm as if each soul, from Cain to he who God last condemned, who cursed the earth, from hell escaped and tempted them to betray heaven?...
Et vær, hvis stemmes forferdelser ei mere kan forglemmes? Thi alle tenkte: det må være sendt for min skyld ene; orkanens tordner meg kun meg de mene; min synd er blitt åndene bekjent...	A storm, whose voices of terror can never be forgotten? For each would think: it must be sent for me alone, the hurricane's thunder intended for me and only me, about whose sins the spirits just have learned...
Et vær, hvis styrke kan lære prest og troende å dyrke demoner i det element, hvis brak den gamle høre fra barnsben kan i sitt bemoste øre et skyens jordskjelv, luftens dommedag?	A storm the strength of which could teach priests and pious alike to worship demons in that element, in which the bang the old man could hear, from childhood in his moss-grown ear, an earthquake of the clouds, doomsday of the air?
Et vær, som rystet den sterkes hjerte i dets skjul i brystet, et himmelvær, hvori sitt eget navn han påropt hørte av ånder, stormene forbi ham førte, mens hver en tretopp hylte som en ravn?	A storm that shook the strong man's heart where he hid it in his chest, a storm from heaven, in which he heard spirits call his name, carried past him by gales, while every treetop screamed like ravens?
Men ravnen gjemte seg selv i klippen, ulven sulten temte, og reven våget seg ikke ut. I huset sluktes hvert lys, og lenkehunden inneluktes.... I slikt vær, da får du bønner, Gud!	But the ravens hid in the crevice, the wolf hid his hunger, and the fox dared not go out. In the house every light was extinguished, and the leash dog was kept indoors. In such a storm, God, will you hear prayers!
I slikt vær - det var en juleaften - da natt det ble før dagens mål var fullt, befant en gammel jøde, nær forkommen, seg midt i Sverigs ørken, Tivedskogen. Han ventedes til bygden denne side fra bygdene på hin, for julens skyld, av pikene med lengsel, thi i skreppen lå spenner, bånd og alt hva de behøvde for morgendagen, annen dag og nyttår. Det gjorde lengselen spent, men ikke bange; thi ennu hadde "Gamle-Jakob" aldri dem sviktet noen jul: Han kom så visst som juleaftenen selv.	In such a storm - it was a Christmas eve - when night fell before the day had reached its end, there was a Jew, nearly overcome, who found himself in Sweden's desert, the Tived Forest. He was expected to the town for the sake of Christmas, by girls longing for his bag of buckles, lace and everything they needed for the morrow, Second day and New Year's. This made their the longing strong, but not apprehensive, for "Old Jacob" had never missed a Christmas: he was as sure as Christmas was itself.
I slikt et vær...	In such a storm...
"Tyss! var det atter stormen, som hylte gjennom grenene? Det skrek. Nu skriker det igjen." Og Gamle-Jakob fluks stanser lyttende for annen gang. Nu tier det. Thi stormen øker på, som fossen drønner over den, der drukner. Han vandrer atter. "Tyss! igjen en lyd!" - en lyd, som skar igjennom skogens brusen. "Den falske hubro skriker som et barn. Hvo slipper barn vel ut i sådant vær? Det gjør ei selv ulven selv med sine." Og den gamle stolper atter frem i sneen. Da skrek det atter, så han mer ei tviler; thi dette stormkast, som borte alt et snoet snetårn hvirvler over skogen, har ført et ord, et enkelt ord forbi; og fluks han dreier dit hvorfra det kom, arbeidende seg dypere i skogen og dypere i sneen og i natten, der som en kullsort fjellvegg reiste seg mot hvert kans skritt, av fyk kun gjennomlyst, som om den ene hele vide skog var full av flyvende slørhyllete gespenster, der hylende seg stillet ham i veien, på luftig tå seg hvirvlet, vokste reddsomt, og så forsvant imellom stammene. Dog kjempet oldingen seg frem mot stormen. Han vandrer når den vokser, når den saktner og drager ånde, lytter han på kne. Men fluks han springer opp, og går i mulmet, som dvergen trenger gjennom, sorte, muld. .... Han hører intet mer. Den gamle skjelver ved tanken, at ham onde ånder gjekker, og mumler frem de bønner, som han vet. Da klynker det igjen, og ganske nær; hans eget rop mot stormen vender kun tilbake i hans munn. Men hist, ja hist! Ti skritt ennu! Der rører noe mørkt seg på sneen, som om stormen lekte med en stubbe, der var løsnet litt i roten.	"Shush! Was it again the storm that howled through the branches? It screamed. Now it's screaming yet again." And Old-Jacob abruptly paused and listened for the second time. There, it was quiet. For the storm is increasing, as a waterfall washes over a drowning man. He keeps walking. "Shush! Again a sound!" - a sound, cutting through the forest funk. "The treacherous owl screams like a child. Who would let a child out in such a storm? Not even the wolf does that to hers." The old man trudges again into the snow. Then the scream set in again, and his doubts fall away; for this gust, which already flies in a tower over the forest treetops, carried with it a word, a simple word; and at once he turns to whence it came, working his way deeper into the forest, deeper into the snow and the night, which raises itself as a deep black cliff against his every step, only visible through the snow, as if the whole forest were full of flying, shrouded ghouls, howling in his way, airily on toe they appear, growing fearsome, then to disappear among the trees. But the old man fights his way through the storm. He wanders when it grows and holds his breath when it slows, listening on his knees. But then he jumps up and walks into the dark as a dwarf cuts through the black mold. .... He hears no more. The old man shakes at the thought that evil spirits are playing with him, and mumbles forth, the prayers that he knows. Then a cry comes forth again, and quite near; though his own shout the storm pushes back into his throat. But here, yes here! Ten more steps! There something dark is moving in the snow, as if the storm had played with a log loosened from its root.
"O Herre! en arm! O Herre! et barn, et barn! Men dødt! - " Akk, tenkte stjernene i denne natt, da Betlehemsstjernen lyste mellom dem, og intet godt på jorden kunne skje? Thi ingen av dem så, at Gamle Jakob, så glad som om en skatt han hadde funnen, fluks kastet bort sin hele rikdom: Skreppen, trakk av sin knappe kjole, hyllet den om barnets lemmer, blott sitt bryst, og la så dets kolde kinn derved inntil det våknet av hans hjertes slag. Da sprang han opp. Men nu hvorhen? Thi stormen har blåst hans spor igjen. Det ei bekymret.	O Lord, an arm! O Lord, a child! A child! But dead! - " Did the stars think that on this night, when the Star of Bethlehem shone among them, that nothing good could happen on Earth? For none of them saw, that Old Jacob, happy as though he had found a treasure, threw - without the slightest hesitation - away his entire fortune: the bag, pulled off his threadbare cloak, enveloped the child's limbs, exposed his chest, and put the cold cheek to it until it awoke from his heartbeat. Then he leaped up. But to where? For the storm had covered his tracks - but not to his concern.
Thi han I tordenen i skogens topper nu hørte Davids jubelharper kun; ham fykene nu syntes som kjerurber, der viste vei på svanehvite vinger, og i det må og få, han fulgte, følte han Herrens eget sterke fingertrekk.	For in the thunder in the forest tops he only heard David's jubilant harps. He saw the gusts as cherubs, showing him the way on swan-white wings, and in that to and fro, he followed, feeling the Lord's strong guiding hand.
Men hus på ville Tiveden å finne I slik en natt, da lys ei turde brennes? Og midtveis lå der kun en enkelt plass; det lave tak ei skilles kan fra sneen, den sorte vegg ei fra et klippestykke. Dog stanstes ved et under han av den. Der sank han ned. Han maktet ikke mere; og mange vindstøt for før med sin byrde han orkede å slepe seg til døren. Han banket sakte først, thi barnet sov; og nu først savnet han sin tapre skreppe, fordi han intet eiede å give de gode arme folk, som snarlig ville med gjestfri hasten åpne døren. Akk, han banket mange ganger før det svarte: "I Jesu navn, hvem kommer der i slik en natt?" "Den gamle Jakob. Kjenner i meg ei? den gamle jøde?"	But to find a house in the wild Tiveden, in such a night, when lights were kept unlit? And midway there only was a simple place, the roof of which could not be told from the snow - and by a miracle he found it. There he collapsed. He could go no further - and many gusts he endured before he took his load and struggled to the door. He knocked softly at first, so as to not awake the child; and now for the first time he missed his old bag, for he had nothing to give the good, poor people who soon, with hospitality, woul open the door. Oh, he knocked many times before it answered: "In the name of our Savior, who comes here in such a night?" "The old Jacob. Don't you know me? The old Jew?"
"Jøde!" skrek forferdet en manns- og kvinnerøst. "Da blir du ute! Vi eier ingenting å kjøpe for, og blott ulykke vil du bringe huset i denne natt, da han ble født, du drepte." "Jeg?" "Ja, ditt folk, og det er synden, som igjennom tusen ledd skal straffes." "Akk! I natt da hunden lukkes inn?" "ja, hunden, men ingen jøde i et kristent hus."	"Jew!" cried the horrified couple. "Then stay outside! We have nothing with which to buy, and only misfortune will you bring to this house, on this night, when he was born that you killed." "I killed?" "Yes, your people, and that is the sin, which shall be punished through a thousand generations." "Ach! In this night, when even the dog is kept indoors?" "Yes, the dog, but no Jew in this, a Christian house."
Han hørte ikke mer. De hårde ord ham koldere enn vinden gjennomhvinte, og slengte, sterkere enn dem, ham ned i sneen, bøyet over barnets slummer. Da syntes ham, mens han mot vinduet stirret, om ei det hvite ansikt atter kom til syne dog, som om han sank i dun, at liflig varme gjennomfløt hans årer, og at bekjente vesner, hviskende som sommervindens eolsspill i gresset, omsvevede hans leie, inntil en med løftet finger sa: kom! han sover. Og i en opplyst sal ved siden av forsvant de alle; barnet kun forble der ved foten av hans leie, dragende hans puter stetse bedre om ham, til det forekom ham selv, at han sov inn. - Der sneen var, som vokste om den døde.	He heard no more. The harsh words blew through him colder than the wind, and threw him, harder than any storm, down into the snow, bent over the sleeping child. And then it seemed to him, even while he stared toward the window, as if the white face again appeared, as if he sank in down, and precious heat flowed through his veins, and as familiar beings, whispering like summer winds, surrounded him, until a lifted finger said, come, he sleeps. And into a well-lit hall nearby they went; only the child stayed at his feet, pulling the pillows more around him, until at last he felt, that also he fell asleep. - There the snow was, which grew around the dead man.
"O Jesus! Jøden sitter der ennu!" skrek mannen, da han så om morgnen ut. "Så jag ham bort! Det er jo juledag," falt konen inn. "Og se den jødeskjelm, hvor fast han holder bylten klemt til brystet!" "Han er påtrengende med sine varer. Med stive blikk han ser herinn, som om vi hadde penger nok å kjøpe for." "Dog gadd jeg se hva han i bylten har." "Vis frem da, jøde!" Begge tren de ut. Den frosne glans de så I likets øyne. De bleknet mer enn det, de skrek av skrekk, og skalv av angrens slag. "O Jemini! Hva uhell her er hendt!" De opp ham reiste, og bylten fulgte med. De åpnet kjolen. Der hang, med armene om jødens hals, Margrethe, deres barn - et lik som han. Så slår ei lyn, så rappe orm ei biter, som skrekk og smerte ekteparet slo. Så blek som faderen var ei sneen, så hylte stormen ei som moderen. "O Gud har straffet oss! Ei stormens kulde, vår egen grusomhet har drept vårt barn! Forgjeves! akk, som jøden på vår dør på nådens ville vi forgjeves banke."	"O Jesus! The Jew is still there!" the husband shouted, when he looked out that morning. "Then chase him off! It is Christmas morning," the wife chimed inn. "And see the Jewish way in which he holds his goods to his chest!" "He is aggressive with his goods. With a stiff gaze he looks in here, as if we had money with which to buy." "Though I'd like to see what he has to sell." "So show us, Jew!" They both went out The frozen glaze they saw in the corpse's eyes. They paled more than that, they screamed and shook in remorse. "Oh Jeremiah!" "What accident has happened!" They stood him up and his load came with. They opened the cloak. And there, around the Jew's neck - Margaret, their child - a corpse as him. A lightning doesn't strike, an adder doesn't bite, as horror and pain hit the couple then. The snow wasn't as pale as the father, the storm didn't howl as the mother. "Oh God has punished us! Not the cold of the storm, but our own cruelty has killed our child! For naught! Ah, for naught the Jew for the sake of mercy knocked on our door!"
Da skogen veibar ble, kom bud fra gården, hvor lille Gretha fostredes i legd, og hvorfra hun, da helgen inn ble ringet, før været kom, var vandret av seg selv, foreldrene å gjeste juleaften. Dog kom det ei å spørre efter barnet, men efter jøden fra bygdens piker, hvis håp nu til å kunne gjeste kirken kun stod til nyttårsdagen, om han fantes.	When the forest again became fit for travel, message came from the farm, where Greta was kept in foster care, and whence she went, when Christmas bells were rung and before the storm set in, wandering on her own to visit her parents on Christmas eve. But they came not to ask about the child, but about the Jew, from the town girls, whose hope to go to church was postponed to New Year's, if he came.
Der lå han død I stuen foran arnen, hvor mannen med et blikk som jødens frosne, og I en stilling krum som likets, satt, I bålets røde aske stirrende og stetse økende dets brann, at liket dog kunne blive strakt og hånden korslagt. Men foran lå på kne Margrethes moder, sin lilles stive armer bøyende bestandig fastere om likets hals. "Hun ei tilhører mere oss" hun hulket, "Han har vårt barn seg tilkjøpt for sin død. Vi tør ei skille liten Greta fra ham; thi hun for oss må bede Jesus om hans forbønn hos sin fader; thi for ham vil arme jøde klage - -"	Where he lay dead before the fireplace, the husband sat with the fixed stare of the frozen Jew's and bending like the corpse, the fire increased so the corpse was stretched and arms folded. But before him on his knees was Margaret's mother, her daughter's arms still stronger around the dead man's neck. "She belongs no more to us," she cried, "He has acquired the child with his death. We dare not separate little Greta from him; for she must intercede on our behalf to Jesus with his Father - because He will listen to a poor Jew."