The Work of Love in Remembering Someone Who Has Died

IX. Den Kjerlighedens Gjerning at erindre en Afdød

IX. The Work of Love in Remembering Someone Who Has Died

Naar man paa een eller anden Maade frygter for ikke at skulde kunne holde Oversigten over hvad der er mangfoldigt og vidtløftigt, saa søger man at skaffe sig eller at faae overladt et kort Indbegreb af det Hele – for Overskuelsens Skyld.

When, for one reason or another, one fears being unable to keep an overview of what is manifold and extensive, one seeks either to obtain or to be given a concise summary of the whole—for the sake of seeing it all at a glance.

Saaledes er Døden det korteste Indbegreb af Livet, eller Livet ført tilbage til sin korteste Skikkelse.

Thus death is life's briefest compendium—or life brought back to its shortest form.

Derfor har det ogsaa altid været dem, som i Sandhed tænke over Menneskelivet, saa vigtigt, mange mange Gange ved Hjælp af det korte Indbegreb at gjøre Prøve paa hvad de have forstaaet om Livet.

That is why those who truly reflect on human life have always considered it so important, many, many times, to use this brief compendium to test what they have understood about life.

Thi ingen Tænker magter Livet saaledes som Døden gjør det, denne mægtige Tænker, der ikke blot kan tænke ethvert Sandsebedrag igjennem, men kan tænke det sønder og sammen, tænke det til Intet.

For no thinker masters life as death does—this mighty thinker, who can not only think through every sensory illusion, but think it to pieces, think it into nothing.

Dersom det da forvirrer sig for Dig, idet Du betragter de mangfoldige Livets Veie, saa gaae ud til de Døde, »der samles alle Veie« – saa er jo Overskuelsen let.

If, as you contemplate life's many paths, they grow confused before you, then go out to the dead: “there all paths meet”—and the overview is easy.

Dersom det svimler for Dig ved idelig at see paa og høre om Livets Forskjelligheder, saa gaae ud til de Døde, der har Du Magt over Forskjellighederne: mellem »Muldets Frænder« er der ingen Forskjel, men kun det nære Slægtskab.

If continually seeing and hearing about life's differences makes you dizzy, then go out to the dead: there you have mastery over those differences—for among “the kin of the earth” there is no difference, only close kinship.

Thi at alle Mennesker ere Blodsforvandte, altsaa af eet Blod, dette Livets Slægtskab det fornegtes saa ofte i Livet; men at de ere af eet Muld, dette Dødens Slægtskab, det lader sig ikke fornegte.

For all human beings are blood-kindred, and so of one blood: this kinship of life is so often denied in life. But that they are of one earth—this kinship of death cannot be denied.

Ja, gaae engang igjen ud til de Døde, for der at tage Sigte paa Livet: saaledes bærer jo Skytten sig ad, han søger et Sted, hvor Fjenden ikke kan ramme ham, men hvorfra han kan ramme Fjenden, og hvor han kan have fuldkommen Ro til Sigtet.

Yes, go out once more to the dead, so that from there you may take aim at life. That is how the marksman acts: he seeks a place where the enemy cannot hit him, but from which he can hit the enemy, and where he can take aim in perfect calm.

Vælg ikke Aftenens Time til Besøget; thi den Ro, der er i Aftenen og i en Aften tilbragt blandt de Døde, er ofte ikke langt fra en vis Overspændthed, som anstrænger og »mætter med Uro,« opgiver nye Gaader istedenfor at forklare de opgivne.

Do not choose evening for the visit; for the calm of evening—especially an evening spent among the dead—is often close to a certain overwrought state that strains one and “sates one with unrest”, posing new riddles instead of explaining those already posed.

Nei, gaae der ud tidligere paa Formiddagen, naar Morgensolen titter ind mellem Grenene med Vexlen i Lys og Skygge, naar Havens Skjønhed og Venlighed, naar Fugle-Qviddren og det mangfoldige Liv derude næsten lader Dig glemme, at Du er blandt Døde.

No, go out there earlier in the morning, when the morning sun peers between the branches amid the interplay of light and shadow, when the garden's beauty and friendliness, when the birds' warbling and the abundant life out there almost make you forget that you are among the dead.

Det vil da være Dig som var Du kommen til et fremmed Land, der var forblevet ukjendt med Livets Forvirring og Adskillelse, i Barnlighedens Tilstand, bestaaende af lutter smaa Familier.

Then it will seem to you as though you had come to a foreign land untouched by life's confusion and separation—a land remaining in the state of childlikeness, made up of nothing but small families.

Herude er det nemlig naaet, hvad der forgjeves er eftertragtet i Livet: den lige Fordeling.

For out here, what is pursued in vain in life has been achieved: equal distribution.

Hver Familie har et lille Stykke Jord for sig, omtrent lige stort.

Each family has a small plot of its own, roughly the same size as the others.

Udsigten er omtrent eens for dem alle; Solen kan ligeligt komme til at skinne over dem alle; ingen Bygning reiser sig saa høit, at den tager Solens Straale eller Regnens Vederqvægelse eller Vindens friske Luftning eller Fuglesangens Gjenlyd fra Naboe eller Gjenboe.

The outlook is much the same for them all; the sun can shine equally upon them all; no building rises so high as to deprive any neighbour, beside or opposite, of the sun's rays, the rain's refreshment, the wind's fresh breath or the echo of birdsong.

Nei, her er den lige Fordeling.

No—here there is equal distribution.

Thi i Livet hænder det vel stundom en Familie, som har levet i Overflod og Velstand, at den maa indskrænke sig; men i Døden have de Alle maattet indskrænke sig.

For in life a family that has lived in abundance and prosperity may sometimes have to reduce its circumstances; but in death they have all had to reduce theirs.

En lille Forskjel kan der være, een Alens maaskee i Jordloddens Størrelse, eller at den ene Familie eier et Træ, hvad den anden Indsidder ikke har paa sin Lod.

There may be a slight difference—perhaps an ell in the size of the plot, or one family may own a tree that the other occupant does not have on theirs.

Hvorfor troer Du denne Forskjel er der?

Why do you think this difference remains?

Den er for dybsindigt gjækkende at erindre Dig ved dens Lidenhed om hvor stor Forskjellen var.

The tiny difference is there in profound jest: by its smallness it reminds you how great the difference once was.

Saa kjerlig er Døden!

How loving death is!

Thi det er netop Kjerlighed af Døden, at den ved Hjælp af denne lille Forskjel i opløftende Spøg minder om den store.

For death shows love precisely by using this small difference—in an uplifting jest—to recall the great one.

Døden siger ikke »der er slet ingen Forskjel«, den siger »der kan Du see hvad Forskjellen var: en halv Alen«.

Death does not say, “There is no difference at all”; it says, “There you can see what the difference once was: half an ell.”

Dersom denne lille Forskjel ikke var, var jo heller ikke Dødens Indbegreb ganske tilforladeligt.

Without this small difference, death's summary would not, after all, be wholly trustworthy either.

Saaledes vender Livet i Døden tilbage til Barnligheden.

Thus, in death, life returns to childlikeness.

I Barndommens Alder var det jo ogsaa den store Forskjel, at Een eiede et Træ, en Blomst, en Steen.

In childhood, too, the great difference was that one child owned a tree, a flower or a stone.

Og denne Forskjel var en Antydning af hvad der saa i Livet vilde vise sig efter en ganske anden Maalestok.

And this difference foreshadowed what would appear in life on an altogether different scale.

Nu er Livet forbi, og mellem de Døde er den lille Antydning af Forskjellen bleven tilbage som en i Spøg formildet Erindring om, hvordan det var.

Now life is over, and among the dead that slight hint of difference remains as a playfully softened reminder of how things once were.

See, herude er Stedet til at tænke over Livet, til ved Hjælp af det korte Indbegreb, som forkorter alle de indviklede Forholds Vidtløftighed, at faae Overskuelsen.

See, out here is the place to reflect on life—to gain an overview with the aid of this brief summary, which cuts short the confusion of all those intricate relationships.

Hvorledes skulde jeg da i et Skrift om Kjerlighed lade denne Leilighed gaae ubenyttet hen, til at faae gjort Prøve paa, hvad dog egentligen Kjerlighed er.

How, then, could I, in a work about love, let this opportunity pass unused—an opportunity to put to the test what love really is.

Sandeligen, vil Du ret forvisse Dig om, hvad Kjerlighed der er i Dig, eller i et andet Menneske, saa agt paa, hvorledes han forholder sig til en Afdød.

Truly, if you really want to be sure what love there is in you—or in another person—then pay attention to how that person relates to someone who has died.

Naar man vil anstille Iagttagelse over et Menneske er det saa vigtigt, for Iagttagelsens Skyld, at man, idet man seer ham i Forholdet, dog alene seer paa ham.

When observing a person, it is vital—for the sake of the observation—that, even while seeing him within the relationship, one focuses on him alone.

Naar nu det ene virkelige Menneske forholder sig til det andet virkelige Menneske, saa er der altsaa To, saa er Forholdet sammensat, Iagttagelsen over den Ene alene gjort vanskelig.

When one actual person relates to another actual person, there are therefore two: the relationship is composite, making observation of the one person alone difficult.

Dette andet Menneske skjuler nemlig Noget over det første Menneske, og fremdeles kan det andet Menneske jo have megen Indflydelse paa, at det første Menneske viser sig anderledes, end han er.

For the other person obscures something about the first person and may, moreover, strongly influence the first person to present himself differently from what he is.

Her er altsaa en Dobbeltberegning nødvendig, Iagttagelsen maa føre en egen Regning for hvad det andet Menneske ved sin Personlighed, sine Egenskaber, sine Dyder og sine Feil indflyder paa det Menneske, som er Iagttagelsens Gjenstand.

A double reckoning is therefore needed: observation must keep a separate account of how the other person's personality, qualities, virtues and faults influence the person being observed.

Dersom Du kunde faae et Menneske at see for ramme Alvor fægte med Luften, eller dersom Du kunde faae en Dandser til ene at dandse den Dands, han ellers dandser med en Anden: saa vilde Du bedst kunne iagttage hans Bevægelser, bedre end om han sloges med et virkeligt andet Menneske, eller om han dandsede med et virkeligt andet Menneske.

If you could watch someone fence in dead earnest with the air, or have a dancer dance alone the dance he normally dances with another, you could observe his movements most clearly—more clearly than if he fought with an actual other person or danced with an actual other person.

Og hvis Du forstaaer den Kunst, i Samtale med En at gjøre Dig til »Ingen«, saa faaer Du bedst at vide, hvad der boer i dette Menneske.

And if, in conversation with someone, you know the art of making yourself “Nobody”, you will discover most clearly what dwells within that person.

O, men naar et Menneske forholder sig til en Afdød, saa er der i dette Forhold kun Een, thi en Afdød er ingen Virkelighed; Ingen, Ingen kan saa godt gjøre sig til »Ingen« som en Afdød, thi han er »Ingen«.

Ah, but when someone relates to a dead person, there is only one person in that relation, for the dead person is no actuality; no one—no one—can make himself “Nobody” so well as one who is dead, for he is “Nobody”.

Her kan der altsaa ikke være Tale om nogen Mislighed for Iagttagelsen, her bliver den Levende aabenbar, her maa han vise sig ganske som han er; thi en Afdød, ja det er en underfundig Mand, han har ganske trukket sig udenfor, han har ikke den mindste Indflydelse, hverken forstyrrende eller hjælpende, paa den Levende, som forholder sig til ham.

Here, then, there can be no doubt about the observation: the living person is disclosed and must show himself entirely as he is; for the dead person—indeed, a crafty fellow—has withdrawn altogether and has not the slightest influence, disruptive or helpful, on the living person who relates to him.

En Afdød er ingen virkelig Gjenstand, han er kun den Anledning, som bestandigt aabenbarer, hvad der boer i den Levende, der forholder sig til ham, eller som hjælper til at gjøre det aabenbart, hvorledes den Levende er, som ikke forholder sig til ham.

A dead person is no actual object, only the occasion that continually reveals what dwells in the living person who relates to him—or helps to disclose what the living person who does not relate to him is like.

Thi mod Afdøde have vi dog vel ogsaa Pligter.

For surely we too have duties towards the dead.

Skulle vi elske de Mennesker, vi see, da ogsaa dem, vi have seet, men ikke mere see, fordi Døden tog dem bort.

If we are to love the people we see, we must also love those we have seen but see no longer, because death took them away.

Man skal ikke forstyrre den Døde ved sin Klagen og Skrigen; man skal omgaaes en Død, som man omgaaes en Sovende, hvem man ikke nænner at vække, fordi man haaber, at han nok vaagner af sig selv.

We must not disturb the dead with our lamentation and cries; we must treat a dead person as we treat someone asleep, whom we have not the heart to wake because we hope he will wake on his own.

»Græd saa sagteligen over en Død, thi han er kommen til Rolighed«, siger Sirach (22, 12); og ikke bedre veed jeg at betegne den sande Erindren end ved denne sagtelige Græden, der ikke tager hulkende paa i Øieblikket – og snart aflader.

“Weep gently over the dead, for he has come to rest,” says Sirach (22:12); and I know no better way to describe true remembrance than this gentle weeping, which does not burst into sobs for a moment—only to cease soon afterwards.

Nei, man skal erindre den Afdøde, græde sagtelig, men græde længe.

No: we must remember the dead, weep gently, but keep weeping for a long time.

Hvor længe lader sig ikke forud bestemme, da ingen Erindrende med Bestemthed kan vide, hvor længe han skal være adskilt fra den Afdøde.

How long this must continue cannot be fixed in advance, since no one who remembers can know for certain how long they will be separated from the dead.

Men Den, der kjerligt erindrer en Afdød, han kan gjøre nogle Ord af Davids Psalme, hvor der jo ogsaa er Tale om Erindren, til sine »dersom jeg forglemmer Dig, saa forglemme min høire Haand mig; min Tunge hænge ved min Gane, naar jeg ikke ihukommer Dig, naar jeg ikke ophøier Dig over min ypperste Glæde« –

But whoever lovingly remembers someone who has died can make some words of David's psalm their own, which also speaks of remembrance: “if I forget you, let my right hand forget me; let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth when I do not remember you, when I do not exalt you above my highest joy” —

kun erindre han, at Opgaven ikke er at sige det, strax den første Dag, men at blive sig selv og den Afdøde tro i denne Sindsstemning, selv om man, hvad der som oftest baade for en vis Sømmeligheds og for Sikkerhedens Skyld er at foretrække, fortier det.

only let them remember that the task is not to say this at once on the very first day, but to remain true to themselves and to the dead in this frame of mind, even if—as is usually preferable, for the sake of both propriety and safety—they say nothing about it.

Det er en Opgave; og man behøver da ikke at have seet meget i Livet for at have seet nok til at forvisse sig om, at det godt kan behøve at indskærpes, at det er en Opgave, en Pligt, at erindre den Afdøde: den ene til sig selv overladte menneskelige Følelses Uvederhæftighed viser sig maaskee aldrig større end netop i dette Forhold.

It is a task; and one need not have seen much of life to have seen enough to be sure that this point may well need driving home—that remembering the dead is a task, a duty: human feeling, when left entirely to itself, may never show its unreliability more starkly than in precisely this relation.

Og dog er derfor jo ikke denne Følelse usand eller dens heftige Udbrud, det vil sige, man mener, hvad man siger, man mener det i det Øieblik man siger det, men man tilfredsstiller sig selv og sin uoptugtede Følelses Lidenskab ved at tale i Udtryk, som forpligtige saaledes, at der maaskee sjeldent er En, som ikke ved sit Senere gjør sit Første, skjøndt det var sandt, usandt.

And yet, for all that, the feeling is not false, nor are its vehement outbursts: people mean what they say—they mean it at the moment they say it—but they satisfy themselves and the passion of their undisciplined feeling by using words that bind them so strongly that there may be scarcely anyone whose later conduct does not turn their first declaration, though true when uttered, into a falsehood.

O, man taler ofte om, hvilken ganske anden Betragtning af Menneskelivet man vilde faae, hvis alt Det blev aabenbart, som Livet skjuler over – ak, hvis Døden vilde rykke ud med hvad den veed om de Levende: hvilket forfærdeligt Bidrag til den Menneskekundskab, der i det mindste ikke ligefrem befordrer Menneskekjerlighed!

Oh, people often speak of how utterly different their view of human life would be if everything life covers over were made manifest—ah, if death were to disclose what it knows about the living: what a terrible contribution that would make to our knowledge of humankind, a knowledge that, at the very least, does not directly foster love of humankind!

Saa lad os da blandt Kjerlighedens Gjerninger ikke glemme denne, ikke glemme at betragte

den Kjerlighedens Gjerning at erindre en Afdød.

So then, among the works of love, let us not forget this one; let us not forget to consider

the work of love that consists in remembering someone who is dead.

Den Kjerlighedens Gjerning at erindre en Afdød er en Gjerning af den uegennyttigste Kjerlighed.

The work of love that consists in remembering someone who is dead is a work of love at its most unselfish.

Naar man vil forvisse sig om, at Kjerlighed er ganske uegennyttig, saa kan man jo fjerne enhver Mulighed af Gjengjeld.

If one wants to be sure that love is wholly unselfish, one can, after all, remove every possibility of anything being given in return.

Men denne er just fjernet i Forholdet til en Afdød.

Yet in relation to someone who has died, that very possibility has been removed.

Bliver da Kjerligheden alligevel ved, saa er den i Sandhed uegennyttig.

If love continues all the same, it is truly unselfish.

Gjengjelden i Forhold til Kjerlighed kan være det meget Forskjellige.

In relation to love, return can take many different forms.

Man kan jo for den Sags Skyld have ligefrem Fordeel og Vinding; og det er jo vel bestandigt det Almindelige, dette »Hedenske« »at elske dem, som kunne gjøre Gjengjeld.«

For that matter, one may gain direct advantage and profit; and surely this is always the usual pattern, this “pagan” one: “to love those who can give something in return.”

I denne Betydning er Gjengjelden Noget fra Kjerligheden selv Forskjelligt, det Ueensartede.

In this sense, return is something distinct from love itself—something heterogeneous to it.

Men der gives jo ogsaa en med Kjerligheden eensartet Gjengjeld for Kjerlighed: Gjenkjerlighed.

But there is also a return for love of the same kind as love itself: love in return.

Og saa meget Godt er der dog vel i det større Antal af Mennesker, at de i Reglen ville ansee denne Gjengjeld, Taknemlighedens, Skjønsomhedens, Hengivenhedens, kort Gjenkjerlighedens Gjengjeld for den betydeligste,

And surely there is enough good in most people for them generally to regard this return—the return of gratitude, appreciation and devotion, in short, of love in return—as the most significant,

om de maaskee i en anden Forstand ikke ville indrømme, at den er Gjengjeld, og derfor mene, at man ikke kan kalde Kjerligheden egennyttig, forsaavidt den eftertragter denne Gjengjeld.

even though, in another sense, they may be unwilling to admit that it is a return, and so suppose that love cannot be called self-interested insofar as it seeks this return.

– Men den Døde gjør i ingen Forstand Gjengjeld.

– But the dead person makes no return in any sense.

Der er i denne Henseende en Lighed mellem det kjerligt at erindre en Afdød og Forældres Kjerlighed til Børn.

In this respect, lovingly remembering someone who has died resembles the love parents have for their children.

Forældre elske Børnene næsten førend de blive til, og længe førend de blive sig bevidste, altsaa som Ikke-værende.

Parents love their children almost before they come into being, and long before the children become self-aware—that is, while they are still non-beings.

Men en Afdød er ogsaa en Ikkeværende; og dette er de to største Velgjerninger: at give et Menneske Livet og at erindre en Afdød; men den første Kjerlighedens Gjerning har Gjengjeld.

But someone who has died is also a non-being; and these are the two greatest benefactions: to give a person life and to remember someone who has died; yet the first work of love does receive something in return.

Dersom der for Forældrene slet intet Haab var om, slet ingen Udsigt til engang at faae Glæde af Børnene og Løn for deres Kjerlighed – ja, der blev vel mangen Fader og Moder, som alligevel vilde kjerligt gjøre Alt for Børnene: o, men der var vist ogsaa mangen Fader og Moder, hvis Kjerlighed blev kold.

If parents had no hope at all, no prospect whatsoever, of one day finding joy in their children and reward for their love—yes, many a father and mother would nevertheless lovingly do everything for them: oh, but there would surely also be many a father and mother whose love grew cold.

Det er ikke vor Mening hermed strax at ville erklære en saadan Fader eller Moder for ukjerlig, nei, men Kjerligheden i dem var dog saa svag, eller Selvkjerligheden saa stærk, at der behøvedes dette glade Haab, denne opmuntrende Udsigt.

We do not mean by this to declare such a father or mother unloving at once—no; but the love in them was nevertheless so weak, or self-love so strong, that this joyful hope, this encouraging prospect, was needed.

Dog med dette Haab og denne Udsigt har det nu engang sin Rigtighed.

Yet this hope and this prospect are, after all, well founded.

Forældrene kunne sige til hinanden: »der ligger rigtignok en lang Tid for vort lille Barn, det er mange Aar; men i al den Tid have vi dog ogsaa Glæde af ham, og fremfor alt have vi det Haab, at han engang vil lønne vor Kjerlighed, vil, om han ikke gjør Andet, til Gjengjeld gjøre os vor Alderdom glad«.

The parents could say to one another: “A long time certainly lies ahead of our little child—it is many years; but throughout all those years we too have joy in him, and above all we have the hope that one day he will repay our love and, if he does nothing else, make our old age glad in return.”

Men den Afdøde gjør ingen Gjengjeld.

But the person who has died gives nothing in return.

Den kjerligt Erindrende kan maaskee ogsaa sige: »der ligger et langt Liv for mig, indviet til Erindring, men Udsigten er i det første og i det sidste Øieblik den samme, der er i en vis Forstand slet Intet til Hinder for den Udsigt, thi der er slet ingen Udsigt.«

The person who remembers lovingly may also perhaps say: “A long life lies before me, devoted to remembrance; but the prospect is the same at the first moment and the last: in a certain sense nothing at all stands in its way, for there is no prospect at all.”

O, det er saa haabløst i en vis Forstand, saa utaknemligt et Arbeide, en Beskæftigelse at erindre en Afdød!

O, in a certain sense it is such a hopeless, such a disheartening work—this occupation of remembering someone who has died!

Thi en Afdød, han voxer og trives ikke, som Barnet gjør, Fremtiden imøde: en Afdød smuldrer blot mere og mere hen i den visse Undergang. En Afdød glæder ikke den Erindrende som Barnet glæder Moderen, glæder ham ikke som Barnet glæder hende, naar det paa hendes Spørgsmaal hvem det elsker meest, svarer »Moder«: den Afdøde elsker Ingen meest, han synes slet Ingen at elske. O, det er saa forstemmende, at han saaledes roligt bliver dernede i Graven, medens Længselen efter ham tiltager, saa forstemmende, at der ikke er Tanke om nogen Forandring uden Opløsningens, stærkere og stærkere. Vel sandt, saa er han heller ikke vanskelig, som stundom Barnet kan være, han volder ikke, idetmindste ikke ved sin Vanskelighed, søvnløse Nætter – thi, forunderligt nok, det gode Barn volder ikke søvnløse Nætter, og derimod en Afdød, han volder søvnløse Nætter, jo bedre han var! O, men selv i Forhold til det vanskeligste Barn er der dog Haab om og Udsigt til Gjenkjerlighedens Gjengjeld: men den Døde gjør slet ingen Gjengjeld; hvad enten Du for hans Skyld er søvnløs og ventende, eller Du ganske glemmer ham, det synes at være ham aldeles ligegyldigt.

For the person who has died does not grow and thrive towards the future, as a child does; the dead person only crumbles away more and more towards inevitable ruin. The person who has died does not bring joy to the one who remembers as a child brings joy to its mother—not the joy a child gives her when, asked whom it loves most, it answers, “Mother”: the dead person loves no one most; he seems to love no one at all. O, it is so disheartening that he remains so quietly down there in the grave while the longing for him increases—so disheartening that no change is imaginable except dissolution's, growing stronger and stronger. True enough, neither is he troublesome, as a child can sometimes be; he causes no sleepless nights, or at least not by being troublesome—for, strangely enough, the good child does not cause sleepless nights, whereas the person who has died does: the better he was! O, but even with the most difficult child there is still hope and prospect of love returned in kind; the dead person, however, makes no return at all. Whether for his sake You lie sleepless and waiting, or forget him entirely, seems to matter to him not in the least.

Dersom Du derfor vil prøve Dig selv, om Du elsker uegennyttigt, saa agt engang paa, hvorledes Du forholder Dig til en Afdød. Megen Kjerlighed, upaatvivleligt den meste, vilde vistnok for en skarpere Prøvelse vise sig at være Selvkjerlighed. Men Sagen er den, i Kjerligheds-Forholdet mellem Levende er der dog gjerne Haab om, Udsigt til Gjengjeld, idetmindste til Gjenkjerlighedens Gjengjeld; og i Almindelighed kommer Gjengjelden ogsaa. Men dette Haab, denne Udsigt, samt at saa Gjengjelden kommer, gjør, at man ikke ganske bestemt kan see, hvad der er Kjerlighed og hvad der er Selvkjerlighed, fordi man ikke ganske bestemt kan see, om Gjengjelden er forventet og i hvilken Forstand. I Forholdet til en Afdød derimod er Iagttagelsen saa let. O, dersom Menneskene vare vante til at elske i Sandhed uegennyttigt, saa vilde man vist ogsaa erindre de Afdøde anderledes end man ordentligviis gjør, naar den første, stundom temmelig korte, Tid er forbi, i hvilken man da elsker de Afdøde uordentligt nok med Skrigen og Støien.

If, then, You wish to test Yourself—whether You love unselfishly—consider for once how You relate to someone who has died. Much love—undoubtedly most of it—would, under a keener test, prove to be self-love. But this is the point: in a relation of love between living people there is usually some hope and prospect of return—at least of love returned in kind—and, as a rule, that return does come. Yet this hope and prospect, and the fact that the return then comes, make it impossible to see with complete certainty what is love and what is self-love, since one cannot see with complete certainty whether a return is expected, and in what sense. By contrast, the matter is easy to observe in one's relation to someone who has died. O, if people were accustomed to love truly and unselfishly, they would surely remember the dead differently from the usual way—once that first, sometimes rather brief, period has passed in which they love the dead quite immoderately, with cries and commotion.

Den Kjerlighedens Gjerning at erindre en Afdød, er en Gjerning af den frieste Kjerlighed. For ret at prøve om Kjerligheden er ganske fri, kan man jo fjerne alt Det, som paa nogen Maade kunde afnøde En Kjerligheds-Gjerningen. Men dette er netop borte i Forholdet til en Afdød. Bliver da Kjerligheden alligevel ved, saa er dette den frieste Kjerlighed. Hvad der kan afnøde et Menneske Kjerlighedens Gjerning kan være det saare Forskjellige og lader sig ikke saaledes opregne. Barnet skriger, den Fattige trygler, Enken bestormer, Hensynet nøder, Elendigheden tvinger og saaledes fremdeles. Men al den Kjerlighed i Gjerning, der saaledes afnødes, er jo ikke ganske fri. Jo stærkere det Nødende er, jo mindre fri er Kjerligheden. Dette bringe vi ogsaa i Almindelighed i Anslag betræffende Forældres Kjerlighed til Børn.

The work of love in remembering someone who has died is a work of love at its freest. To test properly whether love is entirely free, one may remove everything that might in any way compel someone to perform the work of love. But precisely this is absent in one's relation to someone who has died. If love nevertheless persists, it is love at its freest. The things that can compel a person to perform love's work are very varied and cannot be exhaustively listed. The child cries, the poor person pleads, the widow importunes, consideration urges, misery compels—and so on. But love put into action under such pressure is not entirely free. The stronger the compelling pressure, the less free the love. We generally take this into account, too, when considering parents' love for their children.

Naar man ret vil skildre Hjælpeløshed, og skildre den i dens meest nødende Skikkelse, saa pleier man at minde om det spæde Barn, der ligger i al dets Hjælpeløshed, ved hvilken det ligesom afnøder Forældrene Kjerligheden – det ligesom afnøder, thi virkeligt afnøder det jo kun de Forældre Kjerlighed, som ikke ere hvad de burde være. Altsaa det spæde Barn i al sin Hjælpeløshed! Og dog, naar et Menneske først ligger i sin Grav med tre Alen Jord over sig, da er han mere hjælpeløs end Barnet!

Men Barnet skriger! Dersom Barnet ikke kunde skrige – ja der blev vel mangen Fader og Moder, som alligevel pleiede det med al Kjerlighed: o, men der var vel ogsaa mangen Fader og Moder, som saa, i det mindste mange Gange, vilde glemme Barnet. Vor Mening er ikke, strax derfor at kalde en saadan Fader eller Moder ukjerlig; men Kjerligheden i dem var dog saa svag, saa selvkjerlig, at de behøvede denne Paamindelse, denne Nøden.

When one wishes to portray helplessness in its most compelling form, one commonly thinks of an infant lying there in utter helplessness, as though by that helplessness it exacted love from its parents—as though it exacted it, for in truth it exacts love only from parents who are not what they ought to be. Thus the infant in all its helplessness! And yet, once a person lies in the grave with three ells of earth above them, that person is more helpless than the child!

But the child cries! If the child could not cry—well, many a father and mother would surely still care for it with wholehearted love; yet, alas, many a father and mother would also, at least on many occasions, forget the child. We do not mean, on that account, to call such a father or mother unloving straight away; but the love in them was nevertheless so weak, so self-loving, that they needed this reminder, this prompting.

Den Døde derimod, han skriger ikke som Barnet, han bringer sig ikke i Erindring som den Trængende, han trygler ikke som Tiggeren, han nøder ikke ved Hensynet, han tvinger Dig ikke ved den synlige Elendighed, han bestormer Dig ikke som Enken Dommeren: den Døde tier og siger ikke eet Ord, han bliver ganske stille og rører sig ikke af Stedet – og maaskee lider han heller ikke Ondt! Der er Ingen, som uleiliger en Levende mindre end en Afdød, og Ingen, hvem det for en Levende er lettere at undgaae end en Afdød. Du kan sætte Dit Barn ud hos Fremmede, for ikke at høre dets Skrigen, Du kan negte Dig hjemme for at undgaae Tiggerens Tryglen, Du kan gaae forklædt omkring for at Ingen skal kjende Dig: kort Du kan i Forholdet til Levende bruge mange Forsigtighedsmidler, som dog maaskee ikke ganske skulle sikkre Dig; men i Forholdet til en Afdød behøver Du ikke den mindste Forsigtighed, og Du er dog ganske sikker.

The person who has died, by contrast, does not cry like the child, does not bring himself to mind like someone in need, does not plead like the beggar, does not press upon You through consideration, does not compel You by visible misery, does not importune You as the widow did the judge: the dead person is silent and does not say a single word, becomes entirely still and does not move from the spot—and perhaps he does not suffer either! No one troubles a living person less than someone who has died, and no one is easier for a living person to avoid than someone who has died. You can send Your child away to strangers so as not to hear its crying, You can say You are not at home so as to avoid the beggar's pleading, You can go about in disguise so that no one will recognise You: in short, in Your dealings with the living You can take many precautions, though perhaps they will not make You wholly safe; but in relation to someone who has died You need no precaution at all, and yet You are perfectly safe.

Dersom Nogen er saaledes til Sinds, dersom det passer bedst ind i hans Kram at blive den Døde qvit jo før jo hellere, saa kan han, aldeles upaatalt og uden at vorde Gjenstand for nogetsomhelst Søgsmaal, blive kold saa noget nær i samme Øieblik som den Døde er bleven kold. Naar han blot for en Skams Skyld (og for den Dødes Skyld er det da ikke) husker at græde lidt i Avisen paa Begravelsesdagen, naar han blot passer paa at vise den Afdøde den sidste Ære – for en Skams Skyld: saa kan han for den Sags Skyld lee af den Døde lige op i hans – nei ikke i hans aabne Øine, thi de ere nu lukkede. En Død har, som naturligt er, slet ingen Rettigheder i Livet; der er ingen Øvrighed, som har med det at gjøre, om Du erindrer en Afdød, ingen Øvrighed, der blander sig ind i dette Forhold, som dog stundom i Forholdet mellem Forældre og Børn – og den Døde gjør saa vist selv intet Skridt for paa nogen Maade at uleilige eller nøde. – Vil Du derfor prøve, om Du elsker frit, saa agt engang paa, hvorledes Du i Tidens Længde forholder Dig til en Afdød.

If someone is so minded—if it best suits his purposes to be rid of the dead person, the sooner the better—then he may grow cold almost at the very moment the dead person grows cold, entirely without reproach and without exposing himself to any sort of legal action. So long as, merely for appearance's sake (and surely not for the dead person's sake), he remembers to weep a little in the newspaper on the day of the funeral, and so long as he takes care to pay the deceased the last honours—for appearance's sake—then, for all that, he may laugh straight into the dead person's—no, not open eyes, for they are closed now. A dead person naturally has no rights whatever among the living; no public authority concerns itself with whether You remember someone dead, and no public authority intervenes in this relation, as it sometimes does between parents and children—and the dead person himself assuredly takes not a single step to trouble or press You in any way. —So if You wish to test whether You love freely, consider, for once, how You relate to someone dead over the course of time.

Dersom det ikke syntes saa spøgende (hvad det dog visseligen ikke er uden for Den, som ikke veed hvad det Alvorlige er), saa vilde jeg sige, at man som Indskrift over Porten til de Dødes Have kunde sætte »her nødes ikke« eller »hos os nødes ikke«. Og dog, jeg vil nok sige det, jeg vil ogsaa nok have sagt det, og ogsaa nok vedstaae at have sagt det; thi jeg har tænkt for meget over Døden til ikke at vide, at Den, som ikke veed, til Opvækkelse vel at mærke, at benytte den Underfundighed, al den Dybsindets Skalkagtighed, som ligger i Døden, han kan netop ikke tale alvorligt om den. Døden er ikke alvorlig paa samme Maade som det Evige er. Til Dødens Alvor hører netop det besynderligt Opvækkende, denne en dybsindig Spots Medlyden, som, løsreven fra det Eviges Tanke, er en tom ofte en fræk Spøg, men med det Eviges Tanke er just hvad den skal være, og yderst forskjelligt fra den fade Alvorlighed, der mindst af Alt fanger og rummer en Tanke, der har den Spænding, som Dødens.

If it did not sound like a joke (though it certainly is no joke except to someone who does not know what seriousness is), I would say that the inscription over the gate to the garden of the dead might read: ‘No one is compelled here’ or ‘Among us, no one is compelled.’ And yet I am quite willing to say it, to have said it and to acknowledge having said it; for I have reflected too deeply on death not to know that anyone who cannot use, for awakening, the cunning and all the profound roguery that lie in death cannot speak seriously about it. Death is not serious in the same way as the eternal. The seriousness of death includes precisely this strangely awakening element, this undertone of profound mockery, which, severed from the thought of the eternal, is an empty and often brazen joke, but, held together with the thought of the eternal, is exactly what it should be and utterly unlike the insipid solemnity least able to grasp or contain a thought with the reach of death itself.

O, der tales i Verden saa meget om, at Kjerlighed maa være fri; at man ikke kan elske, naar der er den mindste Tvang; at man i Henseende til Kjerlighed slet ikke maa nødes: nu vel, saa lad os da see, naar det kommer til Stykket, hvorledes det staaer sig med den frie Kjerlighed – hvorledes de Afdøde erindres i Kjerlighed; thi en Afdød nøder En slet ikke. Ja, i Skilsmissens Øieblik, naar man ikke kan undvære den Afdøde, da skriges der. Er dette den saa meget omtalte fri Kjerlighed, er dette Kjerlighed til den Afdøde? Og saa, lidt efter lidt, efterhaanden som den Afdøde smuldrer hen, saa smuldrer ogsaa Erindringen hen mellem Fingrene, man veed ikke, hvor den bliver af; man bliver lidt efter lidt fri for denne – svære Erindring. Men saaledes at blive fri, er det den frie Kjerlighed, er det Kjerlighed til den Afdøde? Ordsproget siger jo: ude af Øie, ude af Tanke. Og det kan man altid være sikker paa, at et Ordsprog siger sandt om hvordan det gaaer til i Verden; noget Andet er, at ethvert Ordsprog, christeligt forstaaet, er usandt.

O, so much is said in the world about love needing to be free: that one cannot love under the slightest compulsion and must never be compelled in matters of love. Very well, then; when it comes down to it, let us see how matters stand with free love – with the way the dead are remembered in love – for a dead person exerts no compulsion at all. Yes, at the moment of separation, when one feels unable to do without the person who has died, there is an outcry. Is this the free love of which so much is said? Is this love for the dead person? And then, little by little, as the dead person crumbles away, remembrance too crumbles away between one's fingers; one does not know what has become of it. Little by little one is freed from this – burdensome remembrance. But is becoming free in this way free love? Is it love for the dead person? The proverb says: out of sight, out of mind. And one may always be sure that a proverb tells the truth about how things go in the world; it is another matter that every proverb, understood in Christian terms, is untrue.

Hvis det var sandt alt Det, der siges om at elske frit, det er, hvis det skete, hvis det udførtes, hvis Menneskene vare vante til at elske saaledes, saa vilde Menneskene ogsaa elske de Afdøde anderledes end de gjøre. Men Sagen er, at i Forhold til anden menneskelig Kjerlighed er der som oftest noget Nødende, om ikke Andet saa det daglige Syn og Vanen, og derfor kan man ikke bestemt see, hvorvidt det er Kjerligheden, som frit holder sin Gjenstand fast, eller det er Gjenstanden, som paa een eller anden Maade nødende hjælper til. Men i Forholdet til en Afdød bliver Alt aabenbart. Der er intet, slet intet Nødende. Derimod har den kjerlige Erindren af en Afdød at værge sig mod Virkeligheden om En, at den ikke ved nye og nye Indtryk faaer ganske Magt til at udslette Erindringen; og har at værge sig mod Tiden: kort, den har at værge om sin Frihed i at erindre mod Det, som vil nøde En til at glemme.

If all that is said about loving freely were true—that is, if it really happened, if it were put into practice, if people were accustomed to loving in this way—then people would also love the dead differently from the way they do. But the fact is that love between human beings usually contains something that exerts pressure, if nothing else, daily sight and habit. One therefore cannot tell for certain whether love freely holds fast to its object or whether the object, by exerting pressure in one way or another, helps matters along. But in one's relation to someone dead, everything becomes manifest. There is nothing—absolutely nothing—that exerts pressure. By contrast, loving remembrance of someone dead must defend itself against the reality surrounding us, lest its ever-new impressions gain complete power to erase remembrance; it must defend itself against time. In short, it must protect its freedom to remember against everything that would compel us to forget.

Og Tidens Magt er stor. Man mærker det maaskee ikke i Tiden, fordi Tiden listigt lister Lidt fra En ad Gangen; man vil maaskee først ret faae det at vide i Evigheden, naar man skal til om igjen og baglænds at see efter, hvad det var man ved Hjælp af Tiden og de 40 Aar har faaet viklet sammen. Ja, Tiden er en farlig Magt; det lader sig i Tiden saa let gjøre at begynde forfra, og saa at glemme, hvor det var man slap. Naar derfor En blot begynder at læse en meget stor Bog, og ikke ret troer paa sin Hukommelse, saa lægger han Mærker: o, men hvor ofte glemmer ikke et Menneske i Forhold til sit hele Liv at lægge Mærker for ret at kunne lægge Mærke! Og nu i Aarenes Løb at skulle erindre en Afdød – ak, medens han slet Intet gjør for at hjælpe En, snarere, hvis han gjør Noget, eller ved slet Intet at gjøre, gjør Alt for at vise En, hvor ligegyldig han er derved! Imidlertid vinke Livets mangfoldige Opfordringer ad En, de Levende vinke ad En og sige: kom til os, vi ville holde af Dig.

And time's power is great. Perhaps we do not notice it while we are in time, because time stealthily steals a little from us at a time; perhaps we shall only truly learn it in eternity, when we must go back over our lives, looking backwards to see what we managed to tangle together with the help of time and those forty years. Yes, time is a dangerous power: in time it is so easy to start afresh and then forget where one left off. When someone begins to read a very large book and does not quite trust his memory, he therefore puts in bookmarks. O, but how often a person forgets, in the book of his whole life, to put in markers that would enable him to take proper notice! And then there is the task of remembering someone dead over the course of years—alas, while the dead person does absolutely nothing to help us; indeed, if he does anything, or by doing absolutely nothing, he does everything to show us how unconcerned he is about it! Meanwhile life's many summonses beckon to us; the living beckon and say: come to us, we will love you.

Den Afdøde derimod, han kan ikke vinke, forsaavidt det ellers var hans Ønske, han kan ikke vinke, han kan slet Intet gjøre for at fængsle os til sig, han kan ikke røre en Finger, han ligger og smuldrer hen – hvor let for Livets og Øieblikkets Magter at overvinde en saadan Afmægtig. O, der er dog Ingen saa hjælpeløs som en Afdød, medens han dog i sin Hjælpeløshed ubetinget ikke har det allermindste Nødende. Og derfor er ingen Kjerlighed fri som den Kjerligheds Gjerning, der erindrer en Afdød – thi at erindre ham er noget Andet end i den første Tid ikke at kunne glemme ham. Den Kjerlighedens Gjerning at erindre en Afdød er en Gjerning af den trofasteste Kjerlighed. For ret at prøve, om Kjerligheden i et Menneske er trofast, kan man jo fjerne alt Det, hvorved Gjenstanden kunde paa nogen Maade hjælpe ham til at være trofast. Men alt Dette er netop borte i Forholdet til en Afdød, der ingen virkelig Gjenstand er. Dersom da Kjerligheden vedbliver, saa er denne den trofasteste.

The dead person, by contrast, cannot beckon: even if that were his wish, he cannot beckon, can do nothing at all to bind us to himself, cannot move a finger, but lies there crumbling away—how easy it is for the powers of life and the passing moment to overcome one so powerless. O, no one is so helpless as someone dead; yet in his very helplessness he has not the slightest power to compel. And so no love is as free as the work of love that remembers someone dead—for to remember him is not the same as, at first, being unable to forget him. The work of love in remembering someone dead is a work of the most faithful love. To test properly whether a person's love is faithful, we may remove everything by which its object could help that person to remain faithful. But in relation to someone dead all such help is gone, for the dead person is no actual object. If love nevertheless endures, it is the most faithful love.

Ikke sjeldent er der Tale om Mangel paa Trofasthed i Kjerlighed mellem Menneskene. Saa giver da den Ene den Anden Skylden og siger »det var ikke mig, der forandrede mig, det var ham, der forandrede sig«. Godt. Og hvad saa videre? Blev saa Du uforandret? »Nei, saa var det jo naturligt og en Selvfølge, at jeg ogsaa forandrede mig.« Vi ville nu her ikke oplyse, hvor meningsløst det er med denne formeentlige Selvfølge, ved hvilken det følger af sig selv, at jeg forandrer mig, fordi en Anden forandrer sig. Nei, vi tale nu om Forholdet til en Afdød, og her kan der dog vel ikke være Tale om, at det var den Afdøde, der forandrede sig. Indtræder der en Forandring i dette Forhold, saa maa det være mig, der har forandret mig. Vil Du derfor prøve, om Du elsker trofast, saa agt engang paa, hvorledes Du forholder Dig til en Afdød.

It is not uncommon to hear people speak of a lack of faithfulness in human love. One then blames the other and says, “I was not the one who changed; he was the one who changed.” Very well. And what then? Did You remain unchanged? “No; then it was only natural, a matter of course, that I should change as well.” We shall not pause here to show how meaningless this supposed matter of course is—the claim that it follows automatically that I change because someone else changes. No, we are speaking now of our relation to someone dead, and here surely no one can claim that it was the dead person who changed. If a change enters this relation, it must be I who have changed. So, if You would test whether You love faithfully, consider for once how You relate Yourself to someone dead.

Men Sagen er den: det er sandeligen en vanskelig Opgave, at bevare sig selv uforandret i Tiden; og saa er Sagen tillige den, at Menneskene, mere end de elske baade Levende og Døde, elske at bedrage sig selv i allehaande Indbildning. O, hvor Mangen lever ikke hen i den faste Overbeviisning, som han turde døe paa, at hvis den Anden ikke havde forandret sig, saa skulde han ogsaa være bleven uforandret. Men er det da saa, er da virkeligen hver en Levende i Forholdet til en Afdød aldeles uforandret? O, i intet Forhold er maaskee Forandringen saa mærkelig, saa stor, som i den mellem en Levende og en Afdød – medens den Afdøde dog vel ikke er Den, som forandrer sig.

But the truth is this: preserving oneself unchanged through time is genuinely difficult. And there is this as well: people love deceiving themselves with every kind of illusion even more than they love the living and the dead. O, how many people live out their lives in a fixed conviction they would be willing to die for—that if the other had not changed, they too would have remained unchanged. But is that really so? Does every living person remain wholly unchanged in relation to someone dead? O, in no relationship, perhaps, is the change so perceptible, so great, as in the relationship between a living person and someone dead—even though surely it is not the dead person who changes.

Naar tvende Levende holde sammen i Kjerlighed, saa holder den Ene paa den Anden, og Sammenholdet paa dem Begge. Men med den Afdøde er intet Sammenhold muligt. I det første Øieblik efter kan han maaskee endnu siges at holde paa En, en Affølge af Sammenholdet, og derfor er det ogsaa det hyppigste Tilfælde, det Almindelige, at han erindres i denne Tid. Men i Tidens Løb holder han ikke paa den Levende, og Forholdet ophører, hvis den Levende ikke holder paa ham. Men hvad er da Trofasthed? Er det Trofasthed, at en Anden holder paa mig?

When two living people are bound together in love, each holds on to the other, and their bond holds them both. But no such mutual bond is possible with someone dead. In the first moment afterwards, perhaps the dead person can still be said to hold on to the living one—an after-effect of their former bond—and so the most frequent case, the usual thing, is that he is remembered during this period. But as time passes, the dead person does not hold on to the living one, and the relationship ends unless the living person holds on to him. But what, then, is faithfulness? Is it faithfulness that someone else holds on to me?

Naar da Døden sætter Skilsmisse mellem Tvende, saa tager den efterlevende – Trofaste paa i det første Øieblik »han skal aldrig glemme den Afdøde.« O, hvor uforsigtigt; thi sandeligen, en Afdød er en listig Mand at tale med, kun at hans List ikke er som Dens, om hvem det siges »ham tager man ikke igjen hvor man sætter ham,« thi den Dødes List bestaaer netop i, at man ikke faaer ham bort igjen derfra, hvor man satte ham. Man fristes ofte til at troe, at Menneskene have den Forestilling, at man til en Afdød kan sige saa omtrent hvad man vil, i Betragtning af, at han jo er død, Intet hører og Intet svarer. Og dog, dog tag Dig af Alt meest iagt for hvad Du siger til en Afdød. Du kan maaskee ganske roligt sige til en Levende »Dig skal jeg aldrig glemme«. Og naar saa nogle Aar er gaaet, saa have I forhaabentligen begge lykkeligt og vel glemt det Hele – det vil idet mindste være det sjeldnere Tilfælde, at Du skulde være uheldig nok til at træffe paa en mindre Glemsom.

When death separates two people, the survivor—the faithful one—at first breaks out fervently: “He shall never forget the dead person.” O, how rash! For truly, a dead person is a cunning man to talk to. Yet his cunning is not that of the man about whom it is said, “You never find him where you left him”; the dead man's cunning consists precisely in this: once you have put him somewhere, you cannot get him away from there again. We are often tempted to believe that people suppose they may say more or less whatever they like to someone dead, since, after all, he is dead, hears nothing and answers nothing. And yet—yet above all take care what you say to someone dead. You may perhaps say quite calmly to someone living, “I shall never forget you.” And when a few years have passed, the two of you will, as one may expect, have happily and successfully forgotten the whole thing—it will at least be the rarer case that you are unlucky enough to have met someone less forgetful.

Men tag Dig iagt for enhver Afdød. Thi den Døde, han er en afsluttet og bestemt Mand, han er ikke som vi Andre endnu paa Eventyr, i hvilke vi kunne opleve mange snurrige Begivenheder, og sytten Gange glemme hvad vi have sagt. Naar Du til en Afdød siger: »Dig skal jeg aldrig glemme«, saa er det, som svarede han: »godt; vær forvisset om, jeg skal aldrig glemme at Du har sagt det«. Og om end alle Medlevende ville forsikkre Dig, at han har glemt det: af den Dødes Mund skal Du aldrig faae det at høre. Nei, han gaaer til Sit – men han forandres ikke. Du skal ikke til en Afdød kunne sige, at det var ham, som var bleven ældre, og at dette forklarer Dit forandrede Forhold til ham – thi en Afdød bliver ikke ældre. Du skal ikke til en Afdød kunne sige, at det var ham, der i Tidens Løb blev kold – thi han er ikke bleven koldere end han var, da Du var saa varm; ei heller, at det var ham, der var bleven styggere, hvorfor Du ikke kunde elske ham mere – thi han er ikke væsentligen bleven styggere end da han var et smukt Liig, hvilket dog ikke egner sig som Gjenstand for Elskov; ei heller, at det var ham, der har indladt sig med Andre – thi en Afdød indlader sig ikke med Andre.

But beware of every dead person. For a dead person is a finished and fixed man: unlike the rest of us, he is no longer out on adventures where curious things may happen and we may forget seventeen times over what we have said. When you tell a dead person, “I shall never forget you”, it is as though he answered: “Good; rest assured, I shall never forget that you said it.” And even if everyone living alongside you were to assure you that he had forgotten, you will never hear that from the dead man's own mouth. No, he goes his way—but he does not change. You cannot tell a dead person that it was he who had grown older and that this explains your changed relationship with him—for a dead person does not grow older. Nor can you tell a dead person that it was he who grew cold as time went on—for he has grown no colder than he was when you were so warm; or that it was he who grew uglier, so that you could no longer love him—for he is essentially no uglier than when he was a beautiful corpse, though a corpse is admittedly unsuited to being an object of erotic love; or that it was he who became involved with others—for a dead person does not become involved with others.

Nei, hvad enten Du nu vil begynde igjen der, hvor I slap, eller Du ikke vil: en Afdød begynder med den punktligste Nøiagtighed lige der igjen, hvor I slap. Thi en Afdød er, skjøndt man ikke seer det paa ham, en stærk Mand: han har Uforandrethedens Styrke. Og en Afdød er en stolt Mand. Har Du ikke lagt Mærke til, at den Stolte netop i Forholdet til Den, han foragter dybest, beflitter sig meest paa ikke at lade sig mærke med Noget, at synes aldeles uforandret, at lade ganske som Ingenting, for derved nemlig at overgive den Foragtede til at synke dybere og dybere – thi kun Den, hvem den Stolte holder af, gjør han velvillig opmærksom paa Uretten, paa Vildfarelsen, for derved nemlig at hjælpe ham til det Rette. O, men en Afdød – hvo formaaer stolt som han slet Intet at lade sig mærke med, selv om han foragter en Levende, der glemmer ham og Afskeds-Ordet – en Afdød gjør jo endog Alt, for at bringe sig selv i Glemsel.

No: whether or not you now choose to begin again where you left off, a dead person begins again, with the most punctilious exactness, at that very point. For a dead person is a strong man, though one cannot see it in him: he possesses the strength of changelessness. And a dead person is a proud man. Have you not noticed that, in dealing with the person he despises most deeply, the proud man takes the greatest care to give nothing away—to appear completely unchanged and act as though nothing were amiss—so as to abandon the despised person to sinking deeper and deeper; for it is only someone he cares for whom the proud man kindly alerts to wrong and error, so as to help him towards what is right. Oh, but a dead person—who can, with pride such as his, give no sign at all, even if he despises a living person who forgets him and the parting word—a dead person indeed does everything to consign himself to oblivion.

Den Døde kommer ikke til Dig og minder Dig; han seer ikke paa Dig i Forbigaaende; Du møder ham aldrig, og hvis Du mødte ham og saae ham, i hans Miner er der intet Uvilkaarligt, som mod hans Villie kunde forraade hvad han mener og dømmer om Dig; thi en Død har sit Ansigt i sin Magt. Sandeligen vi skulle vel vogte os for paa Digterviis at mane Døde frem for at bringe sig i Erindring: det Frygteligste er netop, at den Afdøde slet Intet lader sig mærke med. Frygt derfor den Afdøde, frygt hans Snildhed, frygt hans Bestemthed, frygt hans Styrke, frygt hans Stolthed. Men elsker Du ham, da erindre Du ham kjerligt, og Du har ingen Grund til at frygte; Du skal af den Afdøde, og netop af ham som Afdød, lære den Snildhed i Tanken, den Bestemthed i Udtrykket, den Styrke i Uforandrethed, den Stolthed i Livet, som Du af intet Menneske, ikke det mægtigst begavede, vilde kunne lære saaledes.

The dead person does not come to remind you; he does not glance at you in passing; you never meet him—and even if you did meet and see him, his features contain nothing involuntary that might betray, against his will, what he thinks and judges about you; for a dead person has complete command of his face. Truly, we should beware of poetically conjuring up the dead so that they make themselves remembered: the most terrible thing is precisely that the dead person gives no sign at all. Therefore fear the dead person; fear his shrewdness, his definiteness, his strength, his pride. But if you love him, remember him lovingly and you have no reason to fear. From the dead person—precisely from him as dead—you are to learn shrewdness in thought, definiteness in expression, strength in remaining unchanged and pride in life: things you could not learn in this way from any human being, not even the most powerfully gifted.

Den Afdøde forandrer sig altsaa ikke, der er ikke Tanke om nogen Undskyldnings Mulighed ved at skyde Skylden paa ham. Han er altsaa trofast. Ja det er sandt, men han er ingen Virkelighed, og han gjør derfor Intet, slet Intet for at holde paa Dig. Men han forandres ikke. Indtræder da Forandringen i Forholdet mellem en Levende og en Død, saa er det dog vel klart, at det maa være den Levende, der har forandret sig. Indtræder derimod ingen Forandring, saa er det den Levende, der i Sandhed har været trofast, trofast i kjerligt at erindre ham – ak, medens han Intet kunde gjøre for at holde paa Dig, ak, medens han gjorde Alt, som for at lade, at han ganske havde glemt Dig, og hvad Du havde sagt til ham. Thi ikke Den, der virkeligen har glemt, hvad man har sagt til ham, kan udtrykke bestemtere, at det er glemt, at det hele Forhold til ham, den hele Sag med ham er glemt, end den Afdøde gjør det.

The dead person, then, does not change; there can be no question of finding an excuse by shifting the blame onto him. He is therefore faithful. Yes, that is true—but he is no reality, and so he does nothing, absolutely nothing, to hold on to you. Yet he does not change. If a change enters the relationship between a living person and a dead person, it is surely clear that the living person must be the one who has changed. If, by contrast, no change occurs, it is the living person who has truly been faithful—faithful in lovingly remembering him: alas, when he could do nothing to hold on to you; alas, when he did everything as though to show that he had completely forgotten you and what you had said to him. For even someone who has truly forgotten what was said to him cannot make it clearer than the dead person does that it is forgotten—that the whole relationship with him, the whole matter concerning him, is forgotten.

Den Kjerlighedens Gjerning at erindre en Afdød er saaledes en Gjerning af den uegennyttigste, den frieste, den trofasteste Kjerlighed. Saa gaae da hen og udøv den; erindre den Afdøde, og lær just derved at elske de Levende uegennyttigt, frit, trofast. I Forholdet til en Afdød har Du Maalestokken, hvorpaa Du kan prøve Dig selv. Den, som bruger denne Maalestok, han skal med Lethed kunne forkorte de meest forviklede Forholds Vidtløftighed, og han skal lære at væmmes ved al den Masse af Undskyldninger, som Virkeligheden ellers strax har ved Haanden, for at oplyse, at det er den Anden, som er egennyttig, den Anden, som selv er Skyld i at han glemmes, fordi han ikke bringer sig i Erindring, den Anden, som er troløs. Erindre den Afdøde, saa har Du, foruden den Velsignelse, som er uadskillelig fra denne Kjerlighedens Gjerning, tillige den bedste Veiledning til at forstaae Livet rigtigt: at det er Pligt at elske de Mennesker, vi ikke see, men ogsaa dem vi see. Pligten at elske de Mennesker vi see kan ikke ophøre, fordi Døden skiller dem fra os, thi Pligten er evig; men altsaa kan Pligten mod de Afdøde heller ikke skille de Medlevende saaledes fra os, at disse ikke blive Gjenstand for vor Kjerlighed.

The work of love in remembering someone who has died is thus a work of love at its most unselfish, freest and most faithful. Go, then, and practise it: remember the dead, and by doing so learn to love the living unselfishly, freely and faithfully. In your relationship with someone who has died, you have the standard by which to test yourself. Whoever uses this standard can easily cut short the elaborations of even the most entangled relationships and will learn to recoil from the whole mass of excuses reality otherwise keeps ready to hand, explaining that it is the other person who is selfish, the other person who is himself to blame for being forgotten because he does not make himself remembered, the other person who is faithless. Remember the dead; then, besides the blessing inseparable from this work of love, you will also have the best guidance for understanding life rightly: that it is our duty to love the people we do not see, but also those we do see. Our duty to love the people we see cannot cease because death separates them from us, for duty is eternal; but neither, therefore, can our duty towards the dead so separate those living alongside us from us that they fail to become objects of our love.