Читать книгу A China cup, and other stories for children - F. Volkhovskii - Страница 4

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waggon drove to the great pit dug in the clay—not common clay, but such as china vessels are made of. A man with an iron spade jumped from the waggon; he entered the pit and began to dig the clay. After the first stroke of the spade a little lump fell out of the native ground, and with a bitter, plaintive murmur rolled down. Nobody heard the murmur; it seemed to the workman that the Lump in rolling down made a slight noise, whereas it was groaning: it was hard to be torn away from mother earth. 'All is over,' it whispered; 'oh, how hard it is to live in the world!'

The workman took it up on his spade with the other clay, and threw it into the waggon. 'Oh!' groaned the bit of clay from pain, as it fell on the bottom of the waggon; 'not only was I torn away from my mother, but thrown far away from her. Alas! is there any one more unhappy in this world than I? I should like to die!'

But the Lump did not die. The workman had soon filled up his waggon, jumped in himself, and drove away, carrying it to the china factory. It was pretty well while they were going along an even place, but when they went down a steep mountain-side, the horse ran fast, and our Lump was jolted, thrown from side to side, and knocked against the waggon. Nor did all its torments end then. As soon as it was brought to the china factory, it was thrown with other clay into a large tub with water in it, and it felt with horror how it began gradually to get soft, and to be transformed into a sort of soft mud. It had no time to recover, as it was taken out with a great ladle and poured somewhere—it was into the funnel of the great millstones. The driver shouted, the horses went on, pulled one end of a bar, which was fastened by the other end to a big axle standing erect in the middle of the great millstones; the bar again turned the axle to which the upper millstone was fastened, and the millstones began to grind the water-softened clay, crushing its smallest particles. Our Lump no longer existed, but all its little particles which before formed it were now like clay-jelly, and kept close together.

Ah, how they suffered! The awful millstone pressed upon them with its whole weight—squeezed, flattened, ground them. They shrivelled, groaned, cried from pain and said: 'Oh-o-o! what a torture! it is all over with us!'

But that was not all. After the grinding the clay-jelly was poured by means of gutters into the empty wooden tub to settle. There the hard particles, heavier than water, sank.... On the bottom was the sand, next the reddish clay, mixed with iron-rust, then the coarser parts of the white clay, and finally its lightest particles, quite free from all other mixture. All the particles of our Lump happened to be of the same weight and to be nicely ground; they sank together and formed again the same Lump, only soft, delicate, and free from all unnecessary admixture. It was very nice, of course, but the little Lump was so tired from all it suffered, so exhausted, that it did not wish to live in the world. 'I would rather death would come!' it said.

Death, however, did not come. A workman came instead, poured off the water which was on the surface of the clay, cut the clay to the bottom, separated it into layers, and assorted them, so that the upper, more delicate layer was for the best china vessels, and the lower for the coarser plates. As our Lump was in the upper layer, it was taken to a workman who made the finest vessels.

The workman took our Lump, put it into the middle of a round table which turned on its centre, made this table spin round with his feet, and at the same time pressed the clay here and there till he had made a coarse cup without a handle. The workman then, with an instrument like a knife, began to turn the cup, till it became a fine, fine one. He then handed it to his neighbour, who put a nice little handle to it. 'Well,' thought the Lump, transformed now into a cup, 'it is not so bad. I suffered indeed, but what a beauty I am now!' ... and the Cup looked self-contentedly around. She did not rejoice long. She was soon put with others into one of the pots of particular form called 'muffles,' and the muffles were put into a furnace, which began to heat the Cup by scorching degrees to make it red hot. 'Oh, how hot it is!' stammered the poor Cup, perspiring, crying, and groaning at once. 'Oh, what a torture! Oh, how hard it is to live in the world! I should like to die!'

Still, she did not die. She was taken from the furnace, watered with a certain mixture, burnt once more. A charming bouquet and garland were then painted on her, and the Cup did not recognise herself. 'Ah, how happy I am!' said she to herself; 'it was worth while to suffer all that I suffered. I am the most beautiful here, and there is and will be no one happier.'

Very soon the Cup went from the factory to the shop. She was delighted to see the fine hall with large windows and nice glass cases. She enjoyed the society of china cups, teapots, plates, and all sorts of most beautiful things.

'Here,' thought she, 'they can appreciate my beauty!' and she immediately addressed her neighbour, a big, round teapot: 'Please, sir, have you been long here?'

'Yes,' answered the teapot gruffly, knocking with his coarse lid.

'And do you think there was ever before a cup with such fine ornament and delicate painting as I have?'

'Ho-ho-ho-ha-ha!' ... laughed the big teapot. 'Just listen!' shouted he to his companions, as big and coarse as himself; 'this damsel is asking whether there is in the world a beauty like her?... O-ho-ho-ho!'

'Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!' burst all the big teapots in laughter, holding their sides with their handles.

Our Cup was offended, and ashamed to tears.

'What are you laughing at?' whispered she in confusion.

'And how can we help laughing?' exclaimed her neighbour; 'you think too much of yourself; and what are you good for? To spend all your life on some nice shelf; you need cheapness and solidity to be of some use. And as for your ornament, look to your right, on the third shelf; there are more elegant ones there than you!'

The Cup looked to the right, and would have grown green from envy if she could have changed colour. There were standing fine cups on small feet; such delicate, fine cups, like white, pale, and pink rose petals! ... the beautiful bouquets, the prettiest heads, the finest gold lace, with black and green ornamentation, were painted upon them. These cups were also proud of their beauty, and as they were more beautiful than their new companion, they looked at her with contempt and haughtiness.

In the china factory the Cup thought herself the most beautiful in the world, and was quite happy; and now she was forced not only to acknowledge that there were more beautiful ones, but to listen to the mocking words and endure the most offensive looks. Envy, vexation, shame, tormented her, and she would fain run away somewhere, yet she could not move from the spot. This helplessness added still to her pain and anger. She would like to have sunk into the earth. 'Ah,' thought she, 'why did I not die before! Why does death not come now!'

Death did not come, however. The shop door opened, a fine lady, with a richly-dressed young girl of about ten years of age, came in.

'We want a nice cup, not too expensive,' said the lady to the shopman at the counter.

The shopman took our Cup and some others from the shelf and put them on the counter. Oh, what our Cup felt at that moment! She was displayed with half a dozen of her companions, every one of whom thought herself more beautiful than the others, and was proud of it. Suppose these elegant purchasers should give the preference not to her, but to one of her conceited companions? She felt as if on burning coals. The little girl stretched her hand to one of our Cup's neighbours, and the Cup trembled with anxiety. But the little purchaser only touched the rival of our Cup and finally took the latter. 'This one, mamma,' said the child, and the mother bought her. Oh, with what a pride shone now this plaything, and how haughtily she looked at her companions! Her beauty is now openly acknowledged; she is preferred to others! She was bright with happiness, and slightly trembled when the shopman took her from the counter to wrap her in paper.

'Ah, how happy I am!' said the Cup in the evening, when fragrant tea was poured in, and all who were sitting at the tea-table admired her; 'of course there is and will be nobody happier than I.'

Just at this moment the pretty little girl who had chosen her at the shop came running in from the garden. She was very thirsty. She seized the Cup and took a sip at once, notwithstanding that they cried to her that the tea was too hot. The Cup certainly was not to blame that the girl from her own carelessness had scalded her mouth, and the girl treated her unjustly. 'Oh, you nasty Cup!' cried she, and threw her to the floor.

Crash! ... and the pieces of the poor innocent Cup tinkled plaintively, and drops of tea, like big tears, trickled on to the floor from her. The footman came, gathered the pieces of the broken Cup and threw them away into the backyard on the rubbish heap. There she was with the bits of old leather, broken glass, rusty pieces of tin, and a pair of decaying cucumbers. She shivered from contact with the dirt, which she had never experienced since she was a nice cup, and she felt sick from the unpleasant odour. 'Oh, how unhappy I am!' said the broken Cup. 'All is over. I have nothing to expect from life. I have only to die!'

The Cup did not lie long in the rubbish heap. Early, early the next morning, when all were yet asleep in the house, there came into the backyard a poor, wrinkled, dirty, ragged, old woman. She had on her back a bag, and a big stick with a hook on its end in her hand. She was a rag-gatherer. She dug into the heaps with her hook, picked out of them the bones, rags, paper, nails, pieces of glass, and such things thrown away as seemed to the poor woman of some use. After having filled up the bag, the rag-gatherer went home, sorted its contents, and then took the bones to the shoeblacking maker, rags and paper to the pasteboard maker, the iron to the dealer in old iron, and the glass to the glass factory. All these places were far from each other and from her lodging, and the poor woman was exceedingly tired in going from one place to another. She gained thus a few copecks,[1] without which neither she nor her sick granddaughter would have had anything to eat. On the following morning the old woman went again to dig among the heaps.

Coming near the rubbish heap where the broken Cup was lying, the woman began to work with her hook, seeking with her old, tearful, short-sighted eyes something worth having. She had already dug up all that she wanted, when her hook struck against something hard; the old woman knew by this sound that there was something like glass in the heap. She stooped down and took up a fragment of the Cup with a nice nosegay on it.

'What fine flowers!' whispered she; 'I will take it home for Mary—a nice plaything for her—I must take it.'

The good old woman smiled, as she thought of her beloved granddaughter, called Mary. She began to search again among the rubbish, and found that there were many fine pieces, and those not too small. 'Oh, the pieces are all here,' said she; 'it is possible perhaps to cement them together.' And taking all the bits she put them by themselves into the pocket of her worn-out petticoat.

It was as dark as in a cellar in the pocket of the old woman, and as oppressively warm as in an uncared-for hospital-room in summer; there were besides an old onion and the crumbs of spoiled, ill-smelling cheese. The broken Cup felt still more sick at heart than before; she shivered; her broken pieces tinkled plaintively at every step the woman took, and she thought, 'Oh, what suffering! I should like to die!'

She did not die. It was light when the old woman came to a large brick house six stories high, near a market-place, in a narrow, dirty lane. She entered through a dirty passage the courtyard, surrounded on all sides with buildings, passed through a gloomy basement door down to the ground-floor, where her lodging was. It was a dark, cheerless room, with small windows high above the brick floor. In every corner of the room there was a whole family of beggars. The old woman approached a heap of rags, groaning, removed from her shoulder the bag with her day's gains in it, and sat down on an old pine candle-box, turned upside down, near the rags; she then took from her pocket all the pieces of the Cup, and put them on another box which stood there for a table. The first thing our Cup now heard was a harsh, noisy scolding from the farthest corner of the room; everybody in this beggars' haunt was so accustomed to it that nobody paid any attention. 'Oh,' thought the Cup, 'this is too much! In what company am I! What rough people there are! Oh, there is surely nobody in the world more unhappy than I! I would like to die as soon as possible!'

The rags in the corner now moved; under them was lying the sick, sallow, emaciated darling of the old woman. She looked at her grandmother with her wearied eyes, and nothing interested her.

'Here is a piece of pryáneek, Mary, which I brought for you,' said the old woman, taking out a piece of pryáneek, which she had bought for a copeck.

This was a cake of white, stone-like consistency, supposed to represent a horse, though it may be doubted whether four stumps instead of feet, a gilded head and a crimson tail, would give a really good idea of one. There was indeed enough flour in it, but little sweetness; still it was a thing as much to delight the heart of a Russian child as a gingerbread cat to rejoice the heart of an English one.

The girl looked at it, but shook her head, and did not eat it; she did not even touch it.

'Why don't you take it, Mary? Do take it, dear, such a nice piece of pryáneek; look!'

And the grandmother held up the present, turning it round to show all its beauty. The girl looked up once more at the cake, and then at her grandmother, without moving her head.

'I am so sore!' she whispered feebly.

'What ails you?' asked the old woman.

'Everything ails me,' said the sick girl softly, and two big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.

The broken Cup looked at all this, and was very sorry, and her pieces tinkled plaintively together, and then she felt ashamed that she had thought herself so unhappy while there was in the world plenty of sorrow far greater than her own. The girl heard the tinkling, and silently looked up to see what it was that was tinkling so on the box. She noticed the beautiful flowers on the broken pieces of the Cup; her eyes brightened by degrees, and she whispered softly:

'Give it to me, grandmamma.'

'Take it, take it, darling! I brought it home for you.'

Mary took the pieces in her hands, trembling from weakness, and began to turn them over and over, admiring them. She had never any playthings, and therefore the pretty pieces seemed to her so much the finer. The more she looked at them the more her eyes brightened, and at last she smiled. The old woman had not for a long time seen such an expression of pleasure on the worn-out face of her poor granddaughter, and the feeble smile of the sick child rejoiced her to tears.

'Oh,' thought the Cup, 'I never expected to give to any one so much pleasure after having been broken to pieces! And I am happier, indeed, than I was in the rich house where everybody at the tea-table admired me!'

'Mary, you know, we shall cement the cup; indeed we shall do it! It will be a pretty cup,' whispered the old woman.

Mary became more cheerful, and the Cup thought: 'Ah, it is possible I am really good for something! It seems to me I was in too great a hurry to die; it is worth while living in the world.'

On the next day the old woman came home after her day's work with a little toóyes, a sort of cylindrical vessel of birch bark, in which there was a handful of curd and an egg. These she had received from some kind-hearted cook.

'You see, Mary, we are going to cement the Cup!' said she, sitting down on her box.

Mary had been groaning and fretting all the day and night, but now she smiled again. The old woman broke the egg, poured it into an old wooden basin, placed on the box some curd, mixed lime with it, and, kneading all together with the white of egg, she made a thick cement. Smearing the edges of the pieces of our Cup with the mixture, the old woman pressed them together, and placed the Cup carefully in a hot oven, that the cement might harden and become proof against water or anything else. It was hot in the oven for the Cup—dreadfully hot! but she was ready to suffer anything to be the same complete beautiful cup as before. 'Oh, how happy I am!' thought she, awaiting with inward trembling the end of her trials in the oven. 'All is going on well; I will live again!'

Mary in the meantime grew worse: she fretted, groaned, and complained with bitter tears.

'Oh, grandmamma, how I ache! how I ache!'

'Oh, my poor darling!' said the old woman, sobbing, while hot tears rolled down her wrinkled, unwashed face; 'I cannot tell what to do for you, my dear pet.'

In the same room with the old woman, in another corner, there lived a beggar, an old discharged soldier of the time of the Russian Emperor Nicholas, when the discipline was so inhumanly severe and the term of service lasted a whole quarter of a century! He had been in the wars, fought bravely, and now he was quite alone in the wide world. The bullets were still in his body, old age prevented him from working, and he was obliged to get by begging here and there a few copecks. He became accustomed to sorrow; but now it grieved him to see the misery of the old woman and the sufferings of the little girl.

'You are foolish,' said he to the old woman; 'why do you cry, as if the child was dying? You must not do it! Go rather for the physician.'

'Will the physician come?' exclaimed the old woman. 'You are indeed like an innocent child, Nikítich.[2] Will the physician come to such a dirty place?'

'And why should he not come? One will not come, another will not come, but some one perhaps will come at last. There, I know a physician, Kótov, a nice gentleman! He always gives me a glass of tea and five copecks. He will not let me go without giving me something. "How do you do, Nikítich?" says he always to me. I tell you, go to him. Ask him; you needn't care.'

'Yes, at his home he will receive me perhaps, but he will not come here. No, we have nothing to do with physicians. I cannot afford to buy medicine, and very likely they will not even let me into the house. No, I dare not.'

'Well, if you dare not, I will go myself.'

At these words the old wounded soldier took his stick and hobbled away to the physician's.

The physician did come. He was a very good man, only he had the habit of speaking in an angry tone and even shouting, so that some were afraid of him. He examined the girl a long time, put his ear to her back and chest, tapped both with his fingers, spat in disgust, and complained angrily of the dirt and unwholesome air of the room. He ordered that nothing but broth be given to the girl, wrote a prescription on a bit of paper, and said that the medicine would be given gratuitously at the apothecary's.

In the evening the old woman brought the bottle with the medicine, poured some into a wooden spoon and presented it to her granddaughter. The girl shook her head feebly and turned away. She was afraid of the medicine; she thought it was something so disagreeable, and for nothing in the world would she take it.

'Ah me!' said her grandmother, sighing, 'why won't you take it? It's too bad! What will the physician say? He ordered it and you will not take it. Wait, you will see what will happen to disobedient children!'

The girl was frightened; she began to sob, and when her grandmother offered her the spoon, she covered her mouth with her hand and hid her face in her pillow.

In the morning the old woman took our Cup out of the oven. Oh, how glad was our Cup when the old woman, looking all over her, said to herself, 'Oh, I see it is as good as new now!' Just at this moment Mary called for her grandmother and asked for a drink. The old woman went with the newly-cemented Cup for some water, and as she held her hand over the tub, the Cup saw herself in the water as in a mirror. Alas! what did she see there? In many places were ugly cracks; the cement, applied by an unskilful hand, formed spots and patches. 'Oh,' groaned the Cup—'oh, how ugly I am! It would have been better for me to perish in the rubbish heap. Ah, now I would like to die as soon as possible!'

She did not die, however. The old woman was obliged to put her in haste on the window-sill, for just then the physician entered the room.

'How many spoonfuls of medicine did she take?' asked he angrily.

'She did not take any at all, sir. What shall I do with her? Such an obstinate, silly girl; she is not willing to take any; what shall I do?' answered the old woman.

'What? How does she dare? What does she mean? Give me the spoon!' cried the doctor.

At these words Mary screamed, her eyes opened wide from fear, and she covered her head with the bedclothes. The doctor turned once more to the old woman.

'And did she take the broth?' he asked.

'But, my good sir, where should we get money for the broth?' said the rag-gatherer, with tears in her eyes.

'Well, why did you ask me to come if you did not intend to do what I ordered?' He then took at once a crushed three-rouble bank note from his pocket, threw it angrily on the box which served as a table, and turned away. When he reached the door he turned his head, and, flushed with excitement, said:

'All the medicine must be taken by to-morrow, and the broth must be ready, and that's the end of it!'

When the old woman saw the three roubles in her hand she could hardly realise her good fortune and believe in her happiness. Just think, three roubles! For three years or so she had never had more than thirty copecks at one time, and now she had three roubles!

'God grant you every happiness, our benefactor!' repeated the poor woman over and over again.

As for Mary, she grew worse and worse. She groaned, her dilated eyes shone with the fire of fever, her lips became parched and black.

'Oh, you little dove, do take the medicine, and you will feel better,' entreated the old woman; but Mary obstinately refused to take any. Seeing the sufferings of the poor girl, the rag-gatherer suddenly clasped her gray head with her hands.

'Oh my God! what am I to do with her? what am I to do with her?' wept she in despair. 'She will die, I am sure, through her own foolishness. How hard it is to see her suffering just because she will not take a little medicine.'

The Cup saw and heard all this, and once more she felt ashamed of having thought herself unhappy for not being as beautiful as formerly.

'Is this misery?' thought she now of her own appearance; 'there is misery indeed!' and the little Cup was herself ready to cry for pity. In the meantime the poor woman dried her tears and approached her sick grandchild.

'Do you know that I have mended the little Cup?' she said.

The face of the little girl brightened, and a faint smile played upon it. 'Let me see it,' lisped she.

The grandmother showed her the little Cup, and Mary's face expressed as much rapture as if she saw some masterpiece of beauty. The poor child had seen during her life so few beautiful things, that the mended Cup with the pretty nosegay on her transported her with delight.

'And wouldn't you take the medicine out of the Cup?' asked the old woman, in an uncertain, coaxing tone of voice.

The girl made no reply, but smiled again.

'Well, will you take it out of the pretty little Cup?'

'I will,' answered Mary, in an almost inaudible voice.

The little Cup was standing at that moment on the window-sill, and was trembling with joy; hitherto no one had loved her so deeply as Mary did. Was it not for her sake alone that Mary consented to take the medicine? Perhaps the little girl will recover; perhaps she, the Cup, will have saved a human life. 'Oh, what a beautiful thing it is to live,' said the Cup to herself; 'never before was I so happy!'

It was a glorious summer day when Mary went the first time after her dangerous illness to take breath in the open air. She was still thin and pale, but her large eyes were bright, and she looked happy. She was sitting in the nearest square, under a big green tree, with her Cup in both her hands. The little girl was evidently eager to have the Cup always with her; she would not part with her treasure. The Cup felt herself also happy—nay, happier than ever—although she was now broken and spotted with ugly cement patches. She was happy and proud to be the best friend of the little Mary whom she had helped to restore to life and health.