Čajnik | Waltey

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There was once a proud teapot, proud of its porcelain, proud of its long spout, proud of its broad handle. It had something at the front and something at the back—the spout in front, the handle behind—and it spoke of them often. But it never spoke of its lid, which had been broken and riveted together; it had a flaw, and one does not care to speak of one’s flaws—others do quite enough of that. The cups, the cream jug and sugar bowl, the whole tea service would be more likely to remember the lid’s frailty and talk about it than the fine handle and the splendid spout. The teapot knew that.

"I know them!" it said to itself. "I know my own flaw well enough too, and I acknowledge it; therein lie my humility and modesty. We all have flaws, but we also have gifts. The cups were given a handle, the sugar bowl a lid; I was given both, and one thing besides that they will never have: I was given a spout, and that makes me queen of the tea table. The sugar bowl and cream jug are granted the privilege of serving good taste, but I am the giver, the ruler; I spread blessings among thirsty humankind. Within me the Chinese leaves are steeped in the boiling, tasteless water."

All this the teapot said in its carefree youth. It stood on the laid table and was lifted by the most delicate hand; but the most delicate hand was clumsy. The teapot fell, its spout broke off, its handle broke off; the lid is not worth speaking of—enough has been said about that. The teapot lay in a faint on the floor, the boiling water running out of it. It had suffered a terrible blow, and the worst of it was that they laughed: they laughed at the teapot, not at the clumsy hand.

"I shall never rid myself of that memory!" the teapot said when it later recounted its life to itself. "I was called an invalid, put away in a corner, and the next day given to a woman who went begging for cooking fat. I sank into poverty and stood speechless, empty within and without; but there, as I stood, my better life began. One is one thing and becomes something quite different. They put earth inside me; for a teapot, that is like being buried. But in the earth they planted a flower bulb. Who planted it, who gave it, I do not know; but given it was, in place of the Chinese leaves and the boiling water, in place of the broken handle and spout. And the bulb lay in the earth, the bulb lay within me; it became my heart, my living heart, such as I had never had before. There was life in me, there was strength and vigour; the pulse beat, the bulb put forth a shoot, it was almost bursting with thoughts and feelings. They broke into blossom; I saw it, I bore it, I forgot myself in its beauty. Blessed it is to forget oneself in others! It did not thank me; it did not think of me—it was admired and praised. I was so happy about that; how happy it must have been! One day I heard someone say that it deserved a better pot. They broke me in two; it hurt terribly. But the flower was given a better pot—and I was thrown out into the yard, where I lie like an old potsherd. But I have my memory, and that I cannot lose."

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Eventyr af Hans Christian Andersen

Der var en stolt tepotte, stolt af sit porcelæn, stolt af sin lange tud, stolt af sin brede hank; den havde noget forud og bagud, tuden for, hanken bag, og det talte den om; men den talte ikke om sit låg, det var knækket, det var klinket, det havde mangel, og sin mangel taler man ikke gerne om, det gør nok de andre. Kopper, fløde- og sukkerskål, den hele teopstilling ville nok mere huske på lågets skrøbelighed og tale om den, end om den gode hank og den udmærkede tud; det vidste tepotten.

"Jeg kender dem!" sagde den ind i sig selv, "jeg kender også nok min mangel og jeg erkender den, deri er min ydmyghed, min beskedenhed; mangler har vi alle, men man har da også begavelse. Kopperne fik en hank, sukkerskålen et låg, jeg fik nu begge dele og én ting forud, den de aldrig får, jeg fik en tud, den gør mig til dronning på tebordet. Sukkerskålen og flødepotten forundes det at være velsmagens tjenerinder, men jeg er den givende, den rådende, jeg udbreder velsignelsen blandt den tørstende menneskehed; i mit indre forarbejdes de kinesiske blade i det kogende, smagløse vand."

Alt dette sagde tepotten i dens frejdige ungdomstid. Den stod på det dækkede bord, den blev løftet af den fineste hånd; men den fineste hånd var kejtet, tepotten faldt, tuden knak af, hanken knak af, låget er ikke værd at tale om, der er talt nok om det. Tepotten lå besvimet på gulvet, det kogende vand løb ud af den. Det var et svært stød, den fik, og det sværeste var, at de lo, de lo ad den og ikke ad den kejtede hånd.

"Den erindring får jeg nu aldrig ud af mig!" sagde tepotten, når den siden fortalte sig selv sit levnedsløb. "Jeg blev kaldt invalid, sat hen i en krog og dagen derpå foræret bort til en kone, der tiggede madfedt; jeg kom ned i armoden, stod målløs, både ud og ind, men der, som jeg stod, begyndte mit bedre liv; man er ét og bliver et ganske andet. Der blev lagt jord ind i mig; det er for en tepotte at begraves, men i jorden blev lagt et blomsterløg; hvem der lagde det, hvem der gav det, ved jeg ikke, givet blev det, en erstatning for de kinesiske blade og det kogende vand, en erstatning for den afbrudte hank og tud. Og løget lå i jorden, løget lå i mig, det blev mit hjerte, mit levende hjerte, et sådant havde jeg før aldrig haft. Der var liv i mig, der var kraft og kræfter; pulsen slog, løget skød spire, det var ved at sprænges af tanker og følelser; de brød ud i blomst; jeg så den, jeg bar den, jeg glemte mig selv i dens dejlighed; velsignet er det at glemme sig selv i andre! Den sagde mig ikke tak; den tænkte ikke på mig; – den blev beundret og lovprist. Jeg var så glad derover, hvad måtte den da ikke være det. En dag hørte jeg, der blev sagt, at den fortjente en bedre potte. Man slog mig midt over; det gjorde voldsomt ondt; men blomsten kom i en bedre potte, – og jeg blev kastet ud i gården, ligger der som et gammelt skår, – men jeg har erindringen, den kan jeg ikke miste."

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