Prevod

Once upon a time there was a king and a queen who had no children, and this made the queen so unhappy that she scarcely knew a happy hour. She was always complaining of how lonely and quiet it was at the palace. “If only we had children, there would be some life here,” she said. Wherever she travelled in her kingdom, there were children in blessed abundance, even in the poorest cottage;

and wherever she went, she heard the woman of the house scolding her youngsters and saying they had been up to this or that mischief again. The queen thought this sounded delightful, and longed to do the same. At last the king and queen took in a little girl who was no kin of theirs. They would keep her with them at the palace and bring her up, and scold her as though she were their own.

One day the little maiden they had taken in was running about in the courtyard before the palace, playing with a golden apple. Along came a poor woman with a little girl of her own, and before long the child and the little maiden were firm friends, playing together and rolling the golden apple between them. The queen, who was sitting at a window in the palace, saw them, and tapped on the pane for her foster daughter to come upstairs. She came, but the poor girl came with her, and when they entered the queen’s hall they were holding hands. The queen scolded the little maiden. “It is not fitting for you to run about and play with a ragged beggar child!” she said, and tried to send the girl downstairs again.

“If the queen knew what my mother could do, she would not send me away,” said the little girl. When the queen questioned her more closely, she told her that her mother could help the queen have a child. The queen would not believe it, but the girl stood her ground, saying that every word was true, and that the queen need only try to persuade her mother to do it. So the queen sent the little girl downstairs to fetch her.

“Do you know what your daughter says?” she asked the woman when she came through the door. No, the beggar woman did not. “She says you can help me have a child, if you choose,” the queen went on.

“It is not fitting for the queen to listen to a poor child’s fancies,” said the woman, and out she went again. The queen grew angry and was about to send the little girl away once more, but she assured her that every word she had said was true.

“If the queen would only give my mother enough to drink to make her merry, she would soon know what to do,” said the child. The queen decided to try this. The poor woman was brought upstairs once more and treated to as much wine and mead as she cared to drink, and before long her tongue was loosened. Then the queen put her question again.

“Well, I might know of a way,” said the poor woman. “One evening, when the queen is about to go to bed, she must have two tubs of water brought in. She must wash herself in them, and then pour the water under the bed. When she looks beneath it in the morning, two flowers will have grown there, one lovely and one ugly. She must eat the lovely one and leave the ugly one standing. But do not forget that last part!” said the poor woman.

Well, the queen did as the woman had advised. She had the water brought up in two tubs, washed herself in it, and poured it under the bed. When she looked in the morning, there stood two flowers. One was ugly and hideous, with black leaves, but the other was so fair and lovely that she had never seen its like, and she ate it at once. But the lovely flower tasted so good that she could not help herself, and ate the other one too;

surely it could make no difference, she thought. After a time, the queen was brought to bed. First she gave birth to a girl who had a wooden spoon in her hand and was riding a billy goat. Ugly and hideous she was, and the very moment she came into the world she cried, “Mama!” “If I am your mama, then heaven help me!” said the queen.

“Do not fret over that. There is a prettier one coming soon,” said the girl on the goat. A little later the queen gave birth to another girl, so fair and lovely that no one had ever seen so beautiful a child; and you may be sure the queen was fond of her. The elder they called Lurvehætte, for she was so ugly and ragged, and wore a hood that hung in tatters about her head. The queen could scarcely bear the sight of her, and the maids tried to shut her in another room, but it was no use. Wherever the younger girl was, there she would be too, and they could never keep the two apart.

When the girls were half-grown, there came a Christmas Eve when a dreadful noise and uproar arose in the gallery outside the queen’s chamber. Lurvehætte asked what was creaking and clattering so out there. “Oh, it is not worth asking about,” answered the queen. But Lurvehætte would not give in; she was determined to know, and at last the queen told her that it was the troll hags holding their Christmas revels.

Lurvehætte said she would go out and drive them away. Though everyone begged her to leave them alone, it was no use: out she would go, and out she must go, to chase away the troll hags. But she told the queen to keep all the doors firmly shut, and not let a single one open so much as a crack. Then out she dashed with her spoon, and began driving and sweeping the troll hags before her. Such a clatter arose in the gallery as you never heard in all your life. The walls creaked and cracked as though the timbers would burst from every corner joint. But somehow or other, one of the doors was left a little ajar after all;

her sister wanted to peep out and see how Lurvehætte was faring, and put her head through the crack. In a flash, up came a troll hag, snatched off her head, and put a calf’s head in its place. At once the princess began walking about the room, lowing. When Lurvehætte came back in and saw her sister, she scolded them angrily for not taking better care of her, and asked whether they thought things were any better now that her sister had been turned into a calf. “Well, I suppose I must see about saving her,” she said. She demanded a ship from the king, well supplied and ready to sail, but she would have neither captain nor crew. She meant to sail away with her sister, quite alone, and in the end they had to let her have her way.

Lurvehætte sailed away and steered straight for the land where the troll hags lived. When she reached the quay, she told her sister to stay aboard the ship and keep perfectly quiet. Then Lurvehætte herself rode her goat up to the troll hags’ castle. When she arrived, one of the hall windows was open, and there she saw her sister’s head standing on the windowsill;

so she rode full tilt into the gallery, snatched up the head, and made off with it. The troll hags rushed after her to get the head back, swarming so thickly around her that they seemed to be everywhere at once. But the goat shoved and butted with his horns, while she struck and thrashed about with her spoon, until the whole pack of troll hags had to give way. Lurvehætte returned to the ship, took the calf’s head off her sister, and put her own head back in its place, so that her sister became human as before. Then she sailed far, far away to a foreign kingdom.

The king of that country was a widower and had only one son. When he caught sight of the foreign ship, he sent men down to the shore to find out where it had come from and who owned it. But when the king’s men reached it, they saw not a living soul aboard except Lurvehætte. She was riding her goat back and forth about the deck, with wisps of hair flying around her head. The men from the palace were quite astonished at the sight, and asked whether there was anyone else aboard.

Oh yes, she had her sister with her, said Lurvehætte. The men wanted to see her, then, but Lurvehætte said no. “No one shall see her unless the king comes himself,” she said, and rode her goat about until the deck thundered beneath its hooves.

When the servants returned to the palace and told what they had seen and heard aboard the ship, the king set off at once to see the girl who rode the goat. When he arrived, Lurvehætte brought out her sister, and she was so fair and lovely that the king fell in love with her on the spot. He took them both back to the palace and wished to make the sister his queen. But Lurvehætte said no: the king could not have her on any account unless the king’s son would marry Lurvehætte herself. You may be sure the prince was none too willing, for an uglier little troll than Lurvehætte would have been hard to find. But the king and everyone at court pleaded with him so long that at last he gave in and promised to take her for his queen, though he did so most unwillingly and with a heavy heart.

Now they began preparing for the weddings, brewing and baking, and when everything was ready, it was time to set out for church. But the prince thought it the dreariest church journey he had ever made in all his life. First went the king in his carriage with his bride, who was so beautiful and splendid that everyone stopped and gazed after her along the road for as long as she remained in sight. Behind them rode the prince beside Lurvehætte, who trotted along on her goat with the cooking spoon clutched in her fist. As for him, he looked more as though he were going to a funeral than riding in his own wedding procession;

so sorrowful he looked, and not a word did he speak. “Why do you not talk?” said Lurvehætte when they had ridden a little way. “What should I talk about?” answered the prince.

“You might ask why I am riding this ugly goat,” said Lurvehætte. “Why are you riding that ugly goat?” asked the king’s son.

“Is it an ugly goat? It is the finest horse any bride could ride,” answered Lurvehætte, and at that very moment the goat became a horse, the most magnificent the king’s son had ever seen in all his days.

They rode on a little farther, but the prince was just as sorrowful and could not bring out a word. So Lurvehætte asked him again why he did not speak, and when he answered that he did not know what to talk about, she said, “You might ask why I ride with this ugly spoon in my fist.” “Why do you ride with that ugly spoon?” asked the king’s son.

“Is it an ugly spoon? It is the loveliest silver fan any bride could carry,” said Lurvehætte, and at that very moment it became a silver fan, so bright that it gleamed.

They rode on a little farther still, but the king’s son was just as sorrowful and said not a word. After a while Lurvehætte again asked why he did not speak, and this time she told him to ask why she wore that ugly grey hood on her head.

“Why do you wear that ugly grey hood on your head?” asked the prince. “Is it an ugly hood? Why, it is the brightest golden crown any bride could wear,” answered Lurvehætte, and at that very moment, so it was.

Now they rode on for a long while, and the prince was so sorrowful that he sat without a word, just as before. His bride asked him once again why he did not speak, and this time she told him to ask why her face was so grey and ugly.

“Well, why is your face so grey and ugly?” asked the king’s son. “Am I ugly? You think my sister beautiful, but I am ten times more beautiful,” said the bride. And when the king’s son looked at her, she was so lovely that he thought no woman in the world could be as beautiful. Then, you may be sure, the prince found his tongue, and no longer rode with his head hanging down. So they celebrated the weddings long and merrily, and afterwards both the king and the prince travelled with their brides to the princesses’ father. There they celebrated the weddings all over again, until it seemed the feasting would never end. If you hurry to the palace, there may still be a drop of the wedding ale left for you.