Der var engang en gammel digter, sådan en rigtig god gammel digter. En aften, han sad hjemme, blev det et forskrækkeligt ondt vejr udenfor; regnen skyllede ned, men den gamle digter sad lunt og godt ved sin kakkelovn, hvor ilden brændte og æblerne snurrede.
A long time ago, there lived an old poet, a thoroughly kind old poet. As he was sitting one evening in his room, a dreadful storm arose without, and the rain streamed down from heaven; but the old poet sat warm and comfortable in his chimney-comer, where the fire blazed and the roasting apple hissed.
"Der bliver da ikke en tør tråd på de stakler, som er ude i det vejr!" sagde han, for han var sådan en god digter.
"Those who have not a roof over their heads will be wetted to the skin," said the good old poet.
"Oh, luk mig op! jeg fryser og er så våd!" råbte et lille barn udenfor. Det græd og bankede på døren, medens regnen skyllede ned og blæsten ruskede i alle vinduer.
"Oh let me in! Let me in! I am cold, and I'm so wet!" exclaimed suddenly a child that stood crying at the door and knocking for admittance, while the rain poured down, and the wind made all the windows rattle.
"Din lille stakkel!" sagde den gamle digter, og gik hen at lukke døren op. Der stod en lille dreng; han var ganske nøgen og vandet drev af hans lange gule hår. Han rystede af kulde, var han ikke kommet ind, havde han vist måttet dø i det onde vejr.
"Poor thing!" said the old poet, as he went to open the door. There stood a little boy, quite naked, and the water ran down from his long golden hair; he trembled with cold, and had he not come into a warm room he would most certainly have perished in the frightful tempest.
"Din lille stakkel!" sagde den gamle digter og tog ham ved hånden. "Kom du til mig, så skal jeg nok få dig varmet! Vin og et æble skal du få, for du er en dejlig dreng!"
"Poor child!" said the old poet, as he took the boy by the hand. "Come in, come in, and I will soon restore thee! Thou shalt have wine and roasted apples, for thou art verily a charming child!"
Det var han også. Hans øjne så ud som to klare stjerner, og skønt vandet flød ned af hans gule hår, krøllede det sig dog så smukt. Han så ud, som et lille englebarn, men var så bleg af kulde og rystede over sin hele krop. I hånden havde han en dejlig flitsbue, men den var ganske fordærvet af regnen; alle kulørerne på de smukke pile løb ud i hinanden af det våde vejr.
And the boy was so really. His eyes were like two bright stars; and although the water trickled down his hair, it waved in beautiful curls. He looked exactly like a little angel, but he was so pale, and his whole body trembled with cold. He had a nice little bow in his hand, but it was quite spoiled by the rain, and the tints of his many-colored arrows ran one into the other.
Den gamle digter satte sig ved kakkelovnen, tog den lille dreng på sit skød, vred vandet af hans hår, varmede hans hænder i sine, og kogte sød vin til ham; så kom han sig, fik røde kinder, sprang ned på gulvet, og dansede rundt om den gamle digter.
The old poet seated himself beside his hearth, and took the little fellow on his lap; he squeezed the water out of his dripping hair, warmed his hands between his own, and boiled for him some sweet wine. Then the boy recovered, his cheeks again grew rosy, he jumped down from the lap where he was sitting, and danced round the kind old poet.
"Du er en lystig dreng!" sagde den gamle. "Hvad hedder du?"
"You are a merry fellow," said the old man. "What's your name?"
"Jeg hedder Amor!" svarede han, "kender du mig ikke? Dér ligger min flitsbue! den skyder jeg med, kan du tro! se, nu bliver vejret godt udenfor; månen skinner!"
"My name is Cupid," answered the boy. "Don't you know me? There lies my bow; it shoots well, I can assure you! Look, the weather is now clearing up, and the moon is shining clear again through the window."
"Men din flitsbue er fordærvet!" sagde den gamle digter.
"Why, your bow is quite spoiled," said the old poet.
"Det var slemt!" sagde den lille dreng, tog den op og så på den. "Oh, den er ganske tør, har slet ikke lidt nogen skade! strengen sidder ganske stram! nu skal jeg prøve den!" så spændte han den, lagde en pil på, sigtede og skød den gode gamle digter lige ind i hjertet: "Kan du nu se, at min flitsbue ikke var fordærvet!" sagde han, lo ganske højt og løb sin vej. Den uartige dreng! således at skyde på den gamle digter, der havde lukket ham ind i den varme stue, været så god mod ham og givet ham den dejlige vin og det bedste æble.
"That were sad indeed," said the boy, and he took the bow in his hand -and examined it on every side. "Oh, it is dry again, and is not hurt at all; the string is quite tight. I will try it directly." And he bent his bow, took aim, and shot an arrow at the old poet, right into his heart. "You see now that my bow was not spoiled," said he laughing; and away he ran. The naughty boy, to shoot the old poet in that way; he who had taken him into his warm room, who had treated him so kindly, and who had given him warm wine and the very best apples!
Den gode digter lå på gulvet og græd, han var virkelig skudt lige ind i hjertet, og så sagde han: "Fy! hvor den Amor er en uartig dreng! det skal jeg fortælle til alle gode børn, at de kan tage sig i agt, og aldrig lege med ham, for han gør dem fortræd!"
The poor poet lay on the earth and wept, for the arrow had really flown into his heart. "Fie!" said he. "How naughty a boy Cupid is! I will tell all children about him, that they may take care and not play with him, for he will only cause them sorrow and many a heartache."
Alle de gode børn, piger og drenge, han fortalte det til, tog sig sådan i agt for den slemme Amor, men han narrede dem alligevel, for han er så udspekuleret! Når studenterne går fra forelæsninger, så løber han ved siden af dem, med en bog under armen og en sort kjole på. De kan slet ikke kende ham, og så tager de ham under armen og tror, det er også en student, men så stikker han dem pilen ind i brystet. Når pigerne går fra præsten, og når de står på kirkegulvet, så er han også efter dem. Ja, han er alle tider efter folk! Han sidder i den store lysekrone på teatret og brænder i lys lue, så folk tror, det er en lampe, men de mærker siden noget andet. Han løber i Kongens Have og på Volden! ja, han har engang skudt din fader og moder lige ind i hjertet! Spørg dem kun ad, så skal du høre, hvad de siger. Ja, det er en slem dreng, den Amor, ham skal du aldrig have noget med at gøre! han er efter alle folk. Tænk engang, han skød endogså en pil på gamle bedstemoder, men det er længe siden, det er gået over; men sådan noget glemmer hun aldrig. Fy, den slemme Amor! Men nu kender du ham! ved, hvad han er for en uartig dreng!
And all good children to whom he related this story, took great heed of this naughty Cupid; but he made fools of them still, for he is astonishingly cunning. When the university students come from the lectures, he runs beside them in a black coat, and with a book under his arm. It is quite impossible for them to know him, and they walk along with him arm in arm, as if he, too, were a student like themselves; and then, unperceived, he thrusts an arrow to their bosom. When the young maidens come from being examined by the clergyman, or go to church to be confirmed, there he is again close behind them. Yes, he is forever following people. At the play, he sits in the great chandelier and burns in bright flames, so that people think it is really a flame, but they soon discover it is something else. He roves about in the garden of the palace and upon the ramparts: yes, once he even shot your father and mother right in the heart. Ask them only and you will hear what they'll tell you. Oh, he is a naughty boy, that Cupid; you must never have anything to do with him. He is forever running after everybody. Only think, he shot an arrow once at your old grandmother! But that is a long time ago, and it is all past now; however, a thing of that sort she never forgets. Fie, naughty Cupid! But now you know him, and you know, too, how ill-behaved he is!