The Bishop of Borglum and His Warriors

by Hans Christian Andersen（1861）

　　OUR scene is laid in Northern Jutland， in the so-called “wild moor.” We hear what is called the “Wester-wow-wow”—the peculiar roar of the North Sea as it breaks against the western coast of Jutland. It rolls and thunders with a sound that penetrates for miles into the land； and we are quite near the roaring. Before us rises a GREat mound of sand—a mountain we have long seen， and towards which we are wending our way， driving slowly along through the deep sand. On this mountain of sand is a lofty old building—the convent of Borglum. In one of its wings （the larger one） there is still a church. And at this convent we now arrive in the late evening hour； but the weather is clear in the bright June night around us， and the eye can range far， far over field and moor to the Bay of Aalborg， over heath and meadow， and far across the deep blue sea.

　　Now we are there， and roll past between barns and other farm buildings； and at the left of the gate we turn aside to the Old Castle Farm， where the lime trees stand in lines along the walls， and， sheltered from the wind and weather， grow so luxuriantly that their twigs and leaves almost conceal the windows.

　　We mount the winding staircase of stone， and march through the long passages under the heavy roof-beams. The wind moans very strangely here， both within and without. It is hardly known how， but the people say—yes， people say a GREat many things when they are frightened or want to frighten others—they say that the old dead choir-men glide silently past us into the church， where mass is sung. They can be heard in the rushing of the storm， and their singing brings up strange thoughts in the hearers—thoughts of the old times into which we are carried back.

　　On the coast a ship is stranded； and the bishop's warriors are there， and spare not those whom the sea has spared. The sea washes away the blood that has flowed from the cloven skulls. The stranded goods belong to the bishop， and there is a store of goods here. The sea casts up tubs and barrels filled with costly wine for the convent cellar， and in the convent is already good store of beer and mead. There is plenty in the kitchen—dead game and poultry， hams and sausages； and fat fish swim in the ponds without.

　　the Bishop of Borglum is a mighty lord. He has GREat possessions， but still he longs for more—everything must bow before the mighty Olaf Glob. His rich cousin at Thyland is dead， and his widow is to have the rich inheritance. But how comes it that one relation is always harder towards another than even strangers would be？ The widow's husband had possessed all Thyland， with the exception of the church property. Her son was not at home. In his boyhood he had already started on a journey， for his desire was to see foreign lands and strange people. For years there had been no news of him. Perhaps he had been long laid in the grave， and would never come back to his home， to rule where his mother then ruled.

　　“What has a woman to do with rule？” said the bishop.

　　He summoned the widow before a law court； but what did he gain thereby？ The widow had never been disobedient to the law， and was strong in her just rights.

　　Bishop Olaf of Borglum， what dost thou purpose？ What writest thou on yonder smooth parchment， sealing it with thy seal， and intrusting it to the horsemen and servants， who ride away， far away， to the city of the Pope？

　　It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships， and soon icy winter will come.

　　Twice had icy winter returned before the bishop welcomed the horsemen and servants back to their home. They came from Rome with a papal decree—a ban， or bull， against the widow who had dared to offend the pious bishop. “Cursed be she and all that belongs to her. Let her be expelled from the conGREgation and the Church. Let no man stretch forth a helping hand to her， and let friends and relations avoid her as a plague and a pestilence！”

　　“What will not bend must break，” said the Bishop of Borglum.

　　And all forsake the widow； but she holds fast to her God. He is her helper and defender.

　　One servant only—an old maid—remained faithful to her； and with the old servant， the widow herself followed the plough； and the crop GREw， although the land had been cursed by the Pope and by the bishop.

　　“Thou child of perdition， I will yet carry out my purpose！” cried the Bishop of Borglum. “Now will I lay the hand of the Pope upon thee， to summon thee before the tribunal that shall condemn thee！”

　　then did the widow yoke the last two oxen that remained to her to a wagon， and mounted up on the wagon， with her old servant， and travelled away across the heath out of the Danish land. As a stranger she came into a foreign country， where a strange tongue was spoken and where new customs prevailed. Farther and farther she journeyed， to where GREen hills rise into mountains， and the vine clothes their sides. Strange merchants drive by her， and they look anxiously after their wagons laden with merchandise. They fear an attack from the armed followers of the robber-knights. The two poor women， in their humble vehicle drawn by two black oxen， travel fearlessly through the dangerous sunken road and through the darksome forest. And now they were in Franconia. And there met them a stalwart knight， with a train of twelve armed followers. He paused， gazed at the strange vehicle， and questioned the women as to the goal of their journey and the place whence they came. Then one of them mentioned Thyland in Denmark， and spoke of her sorrows， of her woes， which were soon to cease， for so Divine Providence had willed it. For the stranger knight is the widow's son！ He seized her hand， he embraced her， and the mother wept. For years she had not been able to weep， but had only bitten her lips till the blood started.

　　It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships， and soon will icy winter come.

　　the sea rolled wine-tubs to the shore for the bishop's cellar. In the kitchen the deer roasted on the spit before the fire. At Borglum it was warm and cheerful in the heated rooms， while cold winter raged without， when a piece of news was brought to the bishop. “Jens Glob， of Thyland， has come back， and his mother with him.” Jens Glob laid a complaint against the bishop， and summoned him before the temporal and the spiritual court.

　　“That will avail him little，” said the bishop. “Best leave off thy efforts， knight Jens.”

　　Again it is the time of falling leaves and stranded ships. Icy winter comes again， and the “white bees” are swarming， and sting the traveller's face till they melt.

　　“Keen weather to-day！” say the people， as they step in.

　　Jens Glob stands so deeply wrapped in thought， that he singes the skirt of his wide garment.

　　“Thou Borglum bishop，” he exclaims， “I shall subdue thee after all！ Under the shield of the Pope， the law cannot reach thee； but Jens Glob shall reach thee！”

　　then he writes a letter to his brother-in-law， Olaf Hase， in Sallingland， and prays that knight to meet him on Christmas eve， at mass， in the church at Widberg. The bishop himself is to read the mass， and consequently will journey from Borglum to Thyland； and this is known to Jens Glob.

　　Moorland and meadow are covered with ice and snow. the marsh will bear horse and rider， the bishop with his priests and armed men. They ride the shortest way， through the waving reeds， where the wind moans sadly.

　　Blow thy brazen trumpet， thou trumpeter clad in fox-skin！ it sounds merrily in the clear air. So they ride on over heath and moorland—over what is the garden of Fata Morgana in the hot summer， though now icy， like all the country—towards the church of Widberg.

　　the wind is blowing his trumpet too—blowing it harder and harder. He blows up a storm—a terrible storm—that increases more and more. Towards the church they ride， as fast as they may through the storm. The church stands firm， but the storm careers on over field and moorland， over land and sea.

　　Borglum's bishop reaches the church； but Olaf Hase will scarce do so， however hard he may ride. He journeys with his warriors on the farther side of the bay， in order that he may help Jens Glob， now that the bishop is to be summoned before the judgment seat of the Highest.

　　the church is the judgment hall； the altar is the council table. The lights burn clear in the heavy brass candelabra. The storm reads out the accusation and the sentence， roaming in the air over moor and heath， and over the rolling waters. No ferry-boat can sail over the bay in such weather as this.

　　Olaf Hase makes halt at Ottesworde. there he dismisses his warriors， presents them with their horses and harness， and gives them leave to ride home and GREet his wife. He intends to risk his life alone in the roaring waters； but they are to bear witness for him that it is not his fault if Jens Glob stands without reinforcement in the church at Widberg. The faithful warriors will not leave him， but follow him out into the deep waters. Ten of them are carried away； but Olaf Hase and two of the youngest men reach the farther side. They have still four miles to ride.

　　It is past midnight. It is Christmas. the wind has abated. The church is lighted up； the gleaming radiance shines through the window-frames， and pours out over meadow and heath. The mass has long been finished， silence reigns in the church， and the wax is heard dropping from the candles to the stone pavement. And now Olaf Hase arrives.

　　In the forecourt Jens Glob GREets him kindly， and says，

　　“I have just made an aGREement with the bishop.”

　　“Sayest thou so？” replied Olaf Hase. “then neither thou nor the bishop shall quit this church alive.”

　　And the sword leaps from the scabbard， and Olaf Hase deals a blow that makes the panel of the church door， which Jens Glob hastily closes between them， fly in fragments.

　　“Hold， brother！ First hear what the aGREement was that I made. I have slain the bishop and his warriors and priests. They will have no word more to say in the matter， nor will I speak again of all the wrong that my mother has endured.”

　　the long wicks of the altar lights glimmer red； but there is a redder gleam upon the pavement， where the bishop lies with cloven skull， and his dead warriors around him， in the quiet of the holy Christmas night.

　　And four days afterwards the bells toll for a funeral in the convent of Borglum. The murdered bishop and the slain warriors and priests are displayed under a black canopy， surrounded by candelabra decked with crape. There lies the dead man， in the black cloak wrought with silver； the crozier in the powerless hand that was once so mighty. The incense rises in clouds， and the monks chant the funeral hymn. It sounds like a wail—it sounds like a sentence of wrath and condemnation， that must be heard far over the land， carried by the wind—sung by the wind—the wail that sometimes is silent， but never dies； for ever again it rises in song， singing even into our own time this legend of the Bishop of Borglum and his hard nephew. It is heard in the dark night by the frightened husbandman， driving by in the heavy sandy road past the convent of Borglum. It is heard by the sleepless listener in the thickly-walled rooms at Borglum. And not only to the ear of superstition is the sighing and the tread of hurrying feet audible in the long echoing passages leading to the convent door that has long been locked. The door still seems to open， and the lights seem to flame in the brazen candlesticks； the fragrance of incense arises； the church gleams in its ancient splendor； and the monks sing and say the mass over the slain bishop， who lies there in the black silver-embroidered mantle， with the crozier in his powerless hand； and on his pale proud forehead gleams the red wound like fire， and there burn the worldly mind and the wicked thoughts.

　　Sink down into his grave—into oblivion—ye terrible shapes of the times of old！

　　Hark to the raging of the angry wind， sounding above the rolling sea！ A storm approaches without， calling aloud for human lives. The sea has not put on a new mind with the new time. This night it is a horrible pit to devour up lives， and to-morrow， perhaps， it may be a glassy mirror—even as in the old time that we have buried. Sleep sweetly， if thou canst sleep！

　　Now it is morning.

　　the new time flings sunshine into the room. The wind still keeps up mightily. A wreck is announced—as in the old time.

　　During the night， down yonder by Lokken， the little fishing village with the red-tiled roofs—we can see it up here from the window—a ship has come ashore. It has struck， and is fast embedded in the sand； but the rocket apparatus has thrown a rope on board， and formed a bridge from the wreck to the mainland； and all on board are saved， and reach the land， and are wrapped in warm blankets； and to-day they are invited to the farm at the convent of Borglum. In comfortable rooms they encounter hospitality and friendly faces. They are addressed in the language of their country， and the piano sounds for them with melodies of their native land； and before these have died away， the chord has been struck， the wire of thought that reaches to the land of the sufferers announces that they are rescued. Then their anxieties are dispelled； and at even they join in the dance at the feast given in the GREat hall at Borglum. Waltzes and Styrian dances are given， and Danish popular songs， and melodies of foreign lands in these modern times.

　　Blessed be thou， new time！ Speak thou of summer and of purer gales！ Send thy sunbeams gleaming into our hearts and thoughts！ On thy glowing canvas let them be painted—the dark legends of the rough hard times that are past！

　　我们现在在日德兰北部，在荒野沼地的另一边。我们可以听到“西海岸的呜呜声”，听到浪花翻滚的声音，离我们很近。不过在我们眼前是一个很大的沙冈，我们早就看见这东西了，我们的车子朝着它奔去。在深厚的沙地上，车子走得很慢。沙冈上有一座很大的旧庭院，那是伯尔厄隆修道院，它最大的一翼现在仍是教堂。这天晚上我们到了那里，天虽然很晚，但天色明朗，光明夜晚的季节。你可以看到四周很远的地方，可以穿过田野和沼泽望到奥尔堡海湾，望过矮树丛生的地带和草原，一直望到那深蓝色的大海。

　　我们已经到了那边，现在我们正从仓舍房屋之间慢慢穿过，拐来拐去，从大门走进那座古堡。这里椴树沿着墙成行地排着，墙为树挡了风雨，所以它们长成了大树，枝子几乎盖住了窗子。

　　我们顺着石头铺的螺旋台阶走了上去，穿过木樑屋顶下的长廊。这里风的呼啸声很奇怪，无论外面还是里面，你真搞不清它到底在哪里。於是人们便说了起来—— 是啊，当一个人心中很害怕，或者想搞得别人害怕的时候，他讲出很多理由或看出很多理由。人们说，那些古老的灭亡了的教规便悄悄地从我们身边溜进了教堂，到唱圣诗的地方，你可以从风的呼呼声中听到它。这样一来，你的心情便被它搞得很奇怪，你便想着古代——想着想着，你便回到了古代。

　　——海岸上有船遇难，主教的下属都跑到那儿去了，对在海难中倖存下来的人，他们毫不留情；海水沖洗掉了从被击碎的头骨里流出的鲜血。遇难船上的货物成了主教的。东西真不少，海水沖来了一只只酒桶，满装着价值昂贵的酒，这些都到了修道院的地下酒窖里，而里面原来已经装满了啤酒和蜜水；厨房里堆满了宰好的牲畜、香肠和火腿；外边的水潭里，肥胖的鲫鱼和鲜美的鲤鱼游来游去。伯尔厄隆的主教是一个很有势力的人，他有土地，而且还想霸佔更多；人人都得对这位奥鲁夫 ·格洛勃低头。在曲镇那个地方，他的一位富有的亲属死了。“亲人对亲人最糟糕”1，这话对那边的那位遗孀可成了真理。她的丈夫拥有除去教会的地产以外的全部土地。她的儿子在异国他乡。在他还是一个孩子的时候，他便被送去学习异国风俗习惯，那是他的志向。好多年没有他的消息了，说不定他已经躺进了坟墓，永远也不会回家来管理他母亲掌管的这些财产了。“甚么，让一个妇人来管理？”主教这么说。他送信要召见她，传她到议事会。可是这帮得了他多少忙呢？她从不触犯法律，她正当地行使着自己的合法权利。

　　伯尔厄隆的主教奥鲁夫，你在打甚么算盘？你在那张空白的羊皮纸上写下些甚么？你在盖了火漆印并用带子紮好的那封信里悄悄地写了些甚么？为甚么又让驿马差人和仆人带上它出国，跑到了远远的教皇城市去？

　　这是落叶的时节，也是海上多难的时节。严冬马上到了。已经回来两拨人了，最后这次驿马差人和仆人在众人的欢迎中回来了。他们带着教皇的信从罗马回来了，这是一封谴责胆敢冒犯虔诚的主教的那个寡妇的信。“谴责她和她所有的一切！把她从教会和教徒中赶出去！谁都不应向她伸出援助之手；亲属和朋友应该像躲避瘟疫和麻风病一样避开她！”“不屈从的必须摧毁！”伯尔厄隆的主教说道。

　　他们都远避她，但是她并不避开自己的上帝，他是她的保护人，是救助她的人。

　　只有一个老仆人——一位老女仆对她很忠心。她和她一道去耕地。谷粟长起来了，尽管土地是受过教皇和主教的诅咒的。“你这个鬼东西！我一定要实现我的旨意！”伯尔厄隆的主教说道，“现在我要使用教皇的手压住你，让你服从诏令，接受审判！”

　　於是，她把她最后的两头公牛套在车上，然后和女仆坐上去，走过荒原，离开了丹麦的国土。她来到讲外语，有异国风俗的异国人中，成了那里的异国人。她们走得很远很远，到了一片葱绿山丘堆成的、长着葡萄的大山。四处漂泊的商人来来往往，他们从装满货物的车子上恐惧地四下张望，害怕强盗匪徒来袭击。这两位妇人乘着由两头黑公牛拉着的破车，放心地行驶在那不安全的崎岖道路和密林中，来到了莱茵河中部国家。她在这里遇到了一位仪表不凡的骑士，后面跟着十二个全副武装的随从。他停住，望着这辆奇怪的车子，问这两位妇人旅行的目的，是从哪个国家来的。於是年纪轻一点的那个妇人提到了丹麦的曲镇，讲述了自己悲伤而苦难的遭遇。不过这一切很快便成了过去，上帝作了这样的安排。那位骑士正是她的儿子。他把手伸给她，拥抱她。母亲哭了。她多年来没有哭过了，而只是紧紧地咬着嘴唇，直到鲜血流了出来。

　　那是叶落的季节，海上多难的季节。

　　海水把酒桶卷到陆地上，卷到主教的地下酒窖里和厨房中；熊熊的火上烤着铁叉上的野味。在这冷得刺骨的冬天，屋子里面十分温暖。这时传来了消息：曲镇的延斯·格罗勃和他的母亲回来了；延斯·格罗勃要召集议事会，要按宗教的教规和国家的法律来指控主教。“那对他没有用处！”主教说道。“放弃这场争议吧，骑士延斯！”

　　第二年，又到了叶落和海上多难的季节，严寒的冬天来了。白色的蜜蜂2漫天飞舞，它叮在行人的脸上，一直到自己融化掉。

　　今天空气很清新，出过门的人都这么说。延斯·格罗勃在沉思，火焰飞到了他的长袍上，是啊，烧出一个小洞。“你这个伯尔厄隆的主教！我能制服你！在教皇的庇护下，法律对你无可奈何。不过，延斯·格罗勃会收拾你的！”於是他给他在萨林的姐夫奥鲁夫·哈斯先生写信，请他在圣诞节前夕做晨祷的时候到维兹贝教堂，主教要在那里主持弥撒，所以他得从伯尔厄隆来到曲镇，延斯得知了这事。草原和沼泽都被冰雪覆盖着，马和骑士、整队人、主教和教堂的神职人员以及仆人，都要从上面走过。他们骑马抄近路穿过脆干的芦苇丛，在淒淒风声中向前走去。

　　穿狐皮大衣的号手，吹起你那铜号吧！在清新的空气中，它的声音格外响亮。他们骑马走过了草原和沼泽地，炎热的夏日里莫甘娜仙女的草原幻影出现了，他们要往南去，直到维兹贝教堂。

　　风吹着它的号角，吹得越来越响。刮起了暴风，最可怕的风越来越大，成了狂风，这是上帝赐予的天气。在这样的天气中，他们走向上帝的屋子。上帝的屋子屹立不动，可是上帝的狂风却在田野上、沼泽上、海湾、海上肆虐。伯尔厄隆的主教到了教堂，但是奥鲁夫·哈斯先生却没有到，不论他骑马奔得多快。他和他的随从从他住的海湾那边前来帮助延斯·格罗勃，要在最高议事会前对主教审判。

　　上帝的屋子便是法庭，祭坛是审判台。巨大的铜烛台上的烛全都燃着。风暴在读控诉词和判决词。它的声音在天空中、在沼泽上、在荒原上，在波涛翻滚的海洋上呼啸。在这样的天气中，是没有渡船穿过海湾的。

　　奥鲁夫·哈斯在奥德松德海峡边上站着。在那里他让他的随从回去，赠给他们马匹和马具，准假让他们回家去和自己的妻子团圆。他愿独自一人在那汹涌的波浪中去冒一下生命危险。但是他手下的那些人愿以身为证，延斯·格罗勃在维兹贝教堂孤立无援并不是他的过错。那些忠实的随从没有离开他，他们跟着他走进了深水，其中有十个人被水卷走了，奥鲁夫·哈斯本人和两个孩子到达了对岸。他们还有四里路要走。

　　已经过了半夜，这是圣诞夜。风已经停了，教堂里灯火通明。明亮的光焰透过玻璃窗照到了草地和荒原上。太阳升起前的晨祷早已结束，上帝的屋子里一片静悄悄，人们可以听到熔蜡滴到地上的声音。这时奥鲁夫·哈斯到了。

　　在悬挂徽记的大厅里，延斯·格罗勃欢迎他。对他说：“你好，我已经和主教和解了！”“和他和解了？”奥鲁夫说道，“这么说你和主教都不能活着离开教堂了。”

　　剑出鞘了，奥鲁夫·哈斯动手了，延斯·格罗勃关上了那扇教堂的门，把他自己和哈斯隔开了，於是那扇门被劈碎了。“别着急，亲爱的兄弟，先看看是怎样的和解！我已经把主教和他手下的人全杀了。他们在这件事上没有多说一句话，我也没有讲我母亲所遭受的那一切冤屈了。”

　　祭坛上烛光鲜红，但是地上的血更红。主教的头被砍掉落到地上，他的仆从都被杀死倒下。神圣的圣诞夜里，四周一片寂静。

　　圣诞节后第三天晚上，伯尔厄隆修道院敲响了丧钟。那位被杀死的主教和仆从，被陈列在一个黑颜色的华盖下面，四周是用黑纱包裹起来的烛台。死者，这个一度十分威风的主教，现在身穿银线绣的袍子，手中握着十字杖，但已丧失权力了。香烟散发出香气，僧侣在唱。声音像是在哀诉，像是愤怒的谴责判决，这判决要乘着风，让风唱着传遍全国，使远近都听到。风会停歇，但是却永不会消失，总会再刮起，唱着自己的歌，一直唱到我们的时代。在那边唱着伯尔厄隆的主教和他的厉害的亲戚。这声音黑夜可以听到，为那些在沉重的沙上驾车行驶过伯尔厄隆修道院的惊恐的农民听到；为那些在伯尔厄隆厚墙内的屋子里难以入眠并注意着四周的人听到。因为它总是在通向教堂的发出回声的长廊里盘旋，教堂的入口早已经被砖块封住，但是在迷信者的眼中并非如此；他们仍旧看到这扇门，它是敞开着的。教堂铜烛台的火光还在闪耀，香烟仍在散发香气，教堂依旧保存着昔日的光彩，僧侣们仍旧在为那被杀死的穿着银线绣的长袍、失去了权力而拿着手杖的主教念着弥撒。在他那苍白而骄傲的额上，血迹斑斑的伤口在闪光，像火似的闪着光。那是尘俗的思想和邪恶的欲念在燃烧。

　　听风的咆哮吧，它压过了海涛翻滚的声音！那边刮起了风暴，这风暴会叫人丧命！在新的时期中它并没有改变思想。今天晚上它张开大口吞噬生命，明天说不定又成了一只能反射一切影子的眼睛，就和那个已被我们埋葬掉的古老的时代一样。如果你能睡去，那就请安详地睡吧！

　　现在到了早晨。

　　新时代的阳光照进了屋子！风仍在肆虐。又传来了海难的消息，就像古时一样。

　　夜里，在吕肯那个红房顶小渔村的附近，我们从窗子里看到一只船遇难。在那边外面稍远一点的地方，它触了礁。不过救生发射器3射出了绳索，为船骸和陆地间结上联系。船上所有的人都被救出来了，他们被送到岸上，送到床上去休息。今天他们被邀请到伯尔厄隆修道院。在舒适的屋子里，他们得到殷勤的招待，看到了温和的眼光，还可以受到本国语言的欢迎。钢琴键奏出自己祖国的乐曲，在这些结束之前，又有一根弦4颤动起来，虽说是无声的，却又十分响亮和充满信心：思想信息传到了那些航船遇难的人的故乡，通报他们已得救；他们的心灵感到了慰藉。今天晚上，在伯尔厄隆厅里的欢宴上会有舞会，我们会跳起华尔兹和方步舞，唱起歌颂丹麦和新时代的《勇敢的士兵》5的歌。

　　新的时代啊，祝福你！乘着夏日清新的空气飞进城里吧！让你的阳光照进人们的心灵和思想里吧！在你光辉闪耀的大地上，那些艰难残酷的时代里黑暗的传说将消失。

　　题注伯尔厄隆修道院在北日德兰吕肯城西6公里的地方，原是一个皇室的庄园。在12世纪时被改建为一个修道院。这里的教堂成了维兹贝区的主教堂。当时，主教是由修道院的僧侣们推选的。中世纪的丹麦还谈不上甚么法制。他们保存着原始的人民议事习俗，重大问题都由人民在议事会上决定。议事会也是司法的地方。

　　1丹麦谚语。

　　2指雪花、雪片。

　　3丹麦西海岸海难很多，那里的渔民使用一种能发射带着绳索的箭一般的铁器的机械装置。渔民们把这种“箭”射到遇难的船上，再把船拖回；或者由船上的人扶索回到岸上。

　　4指电报线。

　　5丹麦诗人彼得·费伯的诗。