Prevod

Have you ever seen a maiden? That is to say, what the pavers call a maiden, a tool for tamping down the paving stones. She is made entirely of wood, broad at the bottom, with an iron hoop around her, and narrow at the top, with a crossbar for her arms.

In the equipment yard stood two such maidens, among shovels, fathom measures, and wheelbarrows, and there a rumour had spread that a “maiden” was no longer to be called a “maiden,” but a “stamp.” This was the newest and only correct term in the pavers’ language for what we had all called a maiden in the old days.

Now, among us human beings there are what are called “emancipated women.” These include headmistresses, midwives, dancers who can carry out their duties standing on one leg, milliners, and night nurses; and the two maidens in the equipment yard joined the ranks of these “emancipated” women. They were maidens in the road service, and they had no intention of giving up their good old name and allowing themselves to be called “stamps”!

“Maiden is a name for a person,” they said, “but a stamp is a thing, and we won’t let ourselves be called things. That is an insult!” “My fiancé might break off our engagement!” said the younger one, who was engaged to a pile driver, a great machine that drives piles into the ground, and thus does on a grand scale what a maiden does on a small one. “He wants me as a maiden, but perhaps not as a stamp, so I cannot let them christen me afresh!”

“Why, I would sooner have both my arms broken off!” said the elder. The wheelbarrow, however, thought differently, and the wheelbarrow was quite somebody: it considered itself a quarter of a carriage, since it ran on one wheel. “I really must tell you that being called a maiden is rather commonplace, and nowhere near as distinguished as being called a stamp, for bearing that name puts you in the same rank as signets. And think of the signet of the law: that is what makes the legal seal. In your place, I would give up being a maiden!”

“Never! I am too old for that!” said the elder. “You evidently know nothing of what is called European necessity!” said the honest old fathom measure. “One must accept limits, submit, and accommodate oneself to the times and to necessity; and if it is the law that a maiden must be called a stamp, then a stamp she must be called. Everything has its measure!”

“Well, I would rather,” said the younger, “be called ‘Miss,’ if the worst came to the worst. There is always something of the maiden about ‘Miss’!” “But I would sooner let myself be chopped up for firewood!” said the old maiden.

Then it was time for work. The maidens went for a ride: they were laid on the wheelbarrow, which was always a fine way to be treated, but stamps they were called. “Mai—!” they said as they pounded against the paving stones. “Mai—!” They were just on the point of saying the whole word, “Maiden,” but they bit it short and swallowed it again, for they felt they ought not even to answer. Between themselves, however, they always addressed each other as maiden, and praised the good old days when everything was called by its proper name, and anyone who was a maiden was called a maiden. And maidens they both remained, for the pile driver, that great machine, really did break off his engagement to the younger one: he would have nothing to do with a stamp.