Prevod
Once upon a time, as never before; and so on. There once lived an emperor and an empress. Throughout their marriage they lived like brother and sister, and they had only one child, a daughter. Like her mother, the girl had been born with a star upon her forehead. When the empress lay dying, she made her husband swear to carry out her last wish: he was not to remain a widower, but was to marry whichever woman her slipper fitted. The emperor loved her dearly, and nothing in the world could persuade him to marry again. For a whole year, a full and entire year, he mourned her after her burial. But the imperial council, knowing the empress’s dying command, kept pressing him to take another wife, and would hear of nothing else. He resisted them with every argument he could find. At last, seeing there was no escape, he yielded to the advice of the great lords of his empire. He handed over the late empress’s slipper, and two envoys of the imperial council went through kingdoms and cities in search of a woman whom it would fit. Before long they returned just as they had set out, having accomplished nothing. For the slipper fitted no emperor’s daughter, no noble lady, no merchant’s wife, no peasant woman, nor even a bondwoman. The emperor could scarcely contain his joy at this turn of events. The slipper remained always on the table in his chamber. Whoever wished to try it on was free to do so. One day, while the emperor was holding council with his great lords on the affairs of the empire, his daughter came in to play and romp about the room. Passing the table and seeing the slipper, she picked it up and put it on; and what do you suppose, my worthy lords? It might have been made for her. Then she ran back to her toys, like the child she was. She had taken the slipper without knowing whose it was or why it lay on the table. When the lords saw this, they were struck dumb with astonishment. What were they to do? The empress’s command was plain: after her death, the emperor was not to remain a widower, but was to marry the woman whom her slipper fitted. If they allowed him to remain a widower because the slipper had fitted no woman, they would break the oath sworn to the empress on her deathbed; yet they feared God too much to force the emperor to marry his own daughter. What, then, were they to do? After much deliberation, the imperial council decided that the emperor would commit no sin by marrying his daughter, since this had been the empress’s dying wish, and since God himself had ordained it so, seeing that the late empress’s slipper had fitted no one else in all the world. At once several of the lords told the girl to prepare for her wedding. Now there was another difficulty. The girl would not hear of taking her father for a husband. “Where have you ever heard of such a disgrace, my lords,” she said, “as a father taking his own daughter for his wife?” “Do not be upset, princess, and do not be so foolish. Much water will flow down the river before you understand the mysteries of the empire as we do. Besides, your late mother, whose wisdom was renowned throughout the world, left it as her dying wish that the emperor, your father, should not remain a widower, but should marry the woman whom her slipper fitted.” “Look again,” said the girl, “and find someone whose foot will fit my mother’s slipper.” “We have travelled through kingdoms and cities, market towns and hamlets,” the lords replied. “We have tried it on the good and the bad, the young and the old, on women of noble birth and women of the lowest sort, even on bondwomen, and it has fitted none of them. God has shown us whom our emperor must take to wife.” Seeing that she had no way out, the girl asked for three days to think before giving her answer. Then she went to her chamber and began to weep so bitterly that God preserve you from such sorrow. She shed tears as big as her fist and sighed as though her breast would burst. She wept and wept, but at last she saw that tears would gain her nothing. So she went to her nurse, told her what had happened, and asked her advice. The nurse thought it over and over, then told her to ask for three sets of clothes: one of gold, another of pearls, and a third of diamonds. She was to say that once she had them, she would make ready. Her request was fulfilled to the letter. Meanwhile, the nurse prepared everything she would need for her escape. When the clothes were brought to her, she was told once more to prepare for the wedding. The girl answered that she was ready. They were pleased with her answer, believing that she had at last understood she must submit to the imperial council. That evening the nurse brought her the things for her flight. She packed the splendid clothes she had been given into saddlebags, dressed herself in a donkey skin the nurse had brought her, and fled. Listen, my lords, to the words of my tale, for from here onward it grows fairer still. Fleeing her father’s court, the emperor’s daughter took hidden ways and paths untrodden by human feet. She took care that no one should see her, and fled and fled until she was beyond her father’s empire. Once she had crossed the border, her courage began to return. Until then she had walked with death in her heart; now she grew a little calmer. She travelled on and on until she reached the court of the emperor who ruled that land, and there she stood at the gate, humble and meek. Just then the cook came out and saw her. Taking pity on her, and moved by her entreaties, she let her in. She also told the empress that a poor, unfortunate girl
had sought refuge at the imperial court, and begged her to take the girl into service to tend the court’s hens. The empress was touched to hear that a poor, needy girl was asking her for shelter, and ordered that she be put in charge of the hens, but that the cook should answer for her. Serving under the cook, the emperor’s daughter did everything she could to please her. Was she ever to be found gossiping with the other servants in the yard? Did she ever utter a word of accusation or stir up discord? Did she ever disobey the cook or meddle in the quarrels and foolishness of the others? Heaven forbid! She cared for the birds in the imperial yard as though they were her own. After opening the coops and feeding them, she made their nests, set the broody hens on their eggs, and tended the chicks more tenderly than their own mothers did. Above all, they never lacked food or water. Whenever she had finished with the hens, she went to the cook and helped her too. All the servants at court thought well of her when they saw how capable she was, and all of them pitied her. Word of the hen-girl’s diligence, spirit, and purity of heart reached even the empress. She asked to have the girl brought before her so that she too might see her. The humility, innocence, and shyness she observed in the hen-girl pleased her. She ordered the cook to keep a closer watch over the girl, lest she fall prey to gossiping tongues. Before long, the emperor, the empress, and their son were invited to a wedding at another emperor’s court. Off they went. That same day, the hen-girl begged the cook to let her go into the city for a little diversion. The cook gave her leave. The hen-girl put on her golden clothes and said, “Light before me, darkness behind me; let no one see what I shall do.” Then away she went, and when she reached the wedding she joined the round dance beside the emperor’s son. The moment he saw her, his heart gave a great leap. He fell desperately in love with her. He asked whose daughter she was and where she came from, but she put him off with made-up stories. While they were talking, he took a ring from her and would not give it back. When she saw that evening was drawing near, she cautiously repeated the words she had spoken on her way there and vanished like a phantom from the midst of the dance. The cook scolded her for staying away so long. She begged forgiveness and promised not to do it again. The emperor’s son was beside himself with sorrow at having let such a treasure slip away. A little later, the emperor was invited to another imperial wedding. His son went with his father and mother. The hen-girl too asked the cook’s permission to go out. Once she had obtained it, she set off as before, this time dressed in her clothes of pearls. Again she joined the round dance beside the emperor’s son. Until evening she danced with no one but him. When dusk fell, she vanished just as she had the first time. The emperor’s son nearly died of grief at losing her. He could find no rest. He searched everywhere, but how could he find her when she was nowhere to be found? So he returned with a broken heart, and a kind of languor came over him. As soon as the hen-girl reached home, she hurried back into her donkey skin and went cheerfully about tending her hens, singing all the while. More time passed, and once again the emperor was invited to a wedding at another emperor’s court. Again he went with his son. That day the hen-girl asked leave to go out as well, but the cook no longer wanted to let her. Only after much pleading, and a promise never to ask again, did she at last persuade the cook to give her leave. She dressed in her diamond clothes and, saying the words that hid her from human eyes, went off and joined the round dance beside the emperor’s son once more. The moment he saw her, his heart was eased, for the girl had been a little late in coming. The emperor’s son danced and danced, never taking his eyes off her, as though he would devour her with his gaze. And indeed, there was much to look at. So becoming was her finery that she seemed a fairy maiden. The diamonds upon her glittered so brightly that they dazzled all who looked at her. The emperor’s son was proud beyond measure, for the fairy maiden danced with him alone for as long as the dance lasted. How he wheeled about beside her, puffing himself up like a turkey! But when evening began to fall, the hen-girl vanished once more like a phantom. When the emperor’s son saw that the fairy maiden was gone, it was more than he could bear. He fell gravely ill. Love, it seemed, had fastened itself upon him. All the healers, all the wise old women, and all the readers of the stars were summoned, but they went away confounded, for they could do nothing for him. Then the emperor’s son told his mother that he would not recover until they found the girl whose finger fitted the ring she had given him. His mother begged the emperor to grant their son’s request. So the emperor ordered several lords to go from house to house, trying the ring, and to bring with honour to the imperial court whichever girl or woman it fitted. The lords went out and searched every nook and cranny, but as for finding anyone whom the ring fitted—not a soul. So they returned just as they had set out. When the emperor’s son heard this, he almost died of vexation. At last he ordered them to search the imperial household too. All the women, maidservants, and bondwomen were summoned before him. They all came hurrying. The ring was tried, but it fitted none of them. As it happened, everyone had quite forgotten the hen-girl. The cook remembered her and told the empress. “Let her come too! Let her come too!” the empress answered. They brought her in willy-nilly, for she had little wish to show herself dressed in her donkey skin. But who would listen to her? The moment the servants saw her, they burst out laughing. With bowed head, ashamed at being mocked by all the servants, she came forward and timidly approached. As soon as the ring was put on her finger, it fitted as though it had always belonged there—and why should it not? When the emperor’s son heard that the ring had fitted, he started up as if from sleep. He ordered her to be brought before the emperor. The emperor could scarcely believe that his son had fallen ill over such a wretched creature, and was on the point of driving her away. But the emperor’s son and his mother pleaded with the hen-girl to appear as she had at the wedding. After refusing many times, she yielded, went to her little hut, dressed herself, and came back upstairs in her finery, as beautiful as a fairy maiden. The emperor stared at her wide-eyed and remained for a long time lost in wonder at her beauty. Now he too could see what a lovely bride his son had chosen. Then the emperor took the crown from his own head and placed it on his son’s; the empress did the same, setting her crown upon the hen-girl’s head. At once the emperor’s son sprang from his bed, as though he had never been ill in all his life. Then, at everyone’s urging, the hen-girl told her whole story. The wedding was arranged, and the hen-girl’s father, the emperor, was invited too. When he saw his daughter at the marriage ceremony, he stood as though struck by a thunderbolt from God. He had believed her dead, thinking she had taken her own life. Then they made merry with imperial splendour, and lived as long as the world endures, enjoying in peace every earthly happiness. And I mounted a saddle, and so on.