Prevod

Once upon a time there was a merchant so rich that he could have paved the whole street, and almost a little lane besides, with silver coins. But he did not do that; he knew better ways of using his money, and whenever he spent a shilling, he got a dollar back. That was the kind of merchant he was—and then he died.

His son inherited all this money, and he lived merrily, going to masquerades every night, making paper kites out of banknotes, and skimming gold coins across the lake instead of stones. Money could easily slip away like that, and so it did. At last he had no more than four shillings left, and no clothes but a pair of slippers and an old dressing gown. His friends no longer cared about him, since they could hardly walk down the street together now; but one of them, who was kind, sent him an old trunk and said, “Pack up!” That was all very well, but he had nothing to pack, so he climbed into the trunk himself.

It was a curious trunk. As soon as you pressed its lock, it could fly; and so it did. Whisk! It flew with him up the chimney, high above the clouds, farther and farther away. The bottom creaked, and he was terrified that it might break, for then he would have taken quite a tumble! Heaven preserve us! And so he came to the land of the Turks. He hid the trunk in the woods beneath the dead leaves and walked into town. He could do that easily enough, for among the Turks everyone went about in dressing gowns and slippers, just as he did. Then he met a nurse carrying a little child. “Tell me, Turkish nurse,” he said, “what is that great palace just outside the town? Its windows are so high up!”

“The king’s daughter lives there!” she said. “It has been foretold that a sweetheart will make her very unhappy, and so no one is allowed to visit her unless the king and queen are there!”

“Thank you!” said the merchant’s son. Then he went back into the woods, sat down in his trunk, flew up onto the roof, and climbed through the window to the princess. She lay asleep on the sofa, and she was so lovely that the merchant’s son could not help kissing her. She woke and was terribly frightened, but he said he was the god of the Turks, who had come down through the air to see her, and that pleased her very much.

So they sat beside each other, and he told her stories about her eyes: they were the loveliest dark lakes, and thoughts swam in them like mermaids. And he told her about her forehead: it was a snowy mountain with the most splendid halls and pictures. And he told her about the stork that brings the dear little babies.

Oh, what lovely stories they were! Then he asked the princess to marry him, and she said yes at once. “But you must come here on Saturday,” she said, “for then the king and queen will be taking tea with me! They will be very proud that I am to marry the god of the Turks, but be sure you know a really beautiful fairy tale, for my parents are particularly fond of them. My mother likes them moral and distinguished, and my father likes them merry, so that he can laugh!”

“Yes, I shall bring no other bridal gift than a fairy tale!” he said. Then they parted, but the princess gave him a sword set with gold coins, and that was especially useful to him.

Now he flew away, bought himself a new dressing gown, and sat out in the woods composing a fairy tale. It had to be ready by Saturday, and that is not so easy as you might think.

At last he was ready, and it was Saturday. The king, the queen, and the whole court were waiting to take tea with the princess. He was most graciously received. “Now, will you tell us a fairy tale?” said the queen. “One that is profound and instructive!”

“But one we can laugh at all the same!” said the king. “Certainly!” he said, and began. Now you must listen carefully. “Once upon a time there was a bundle of matches, and they were extraordinarily proud because they were of noble birth. Their family tree—that is to say, the great pine tree of which each of them was a little splinter—had been a grand old tree in the forest. The matches now lay on the shelf between a tinderbox and an old iron pot, and they told them about their youth. ‘Ah, when we were on the green branch!’ they said. ‘Those were flourishing times indeed! Diamond tea every morning and evening—that was the dew—and sunshine all day, whenever the sun shone; and all the little birds had to tell us stories. We could easily tell that we were rich, too, for the leafy trees were dressed only in summer, while our family could afford green clothes both summer and winter. But then the woodcutters came—that was the great revolution—and our family was scattered. The head of the family was given a position as the mainmast of a magnificent ship, which could sail round the world if it chose; the other branches went to other places, and now our task is to kindle a light for the lowly masses. That is how people of our standing have come to be here in the kitchen.’

‘Well, my life has been rather different!’ said the iron pot beside the matches. ‘Ever since I came into the world, I have been scrubbed and boiled in, time after time! I see to the substantial things in life, and, properly speaking, I am the foremost person in this house. My only pleasure is to sit clean and tidy on the shelf after dinner and have a sensible chat with my companions. But apart from the water bucket, which goes down into the yard now and then, we always live indoors. Our only source of news is the market basket, but it talks so alarmingly about the government and the people. Why, the other day an old pot was so frightened by it that it fell down and broke to pieces! The basket has liberal views, I can tell you!’ ‘Now you are talking too much!’ said the tinderbox, and the steel struck the flint until sparks flew. ‘Why don’t we have a merry evening?’

‘Yes, let us discuss who is the most distinguished!’ said the matches. ‘No, I do not care to talk about myself,’ said the earthenware pot. ‘Let us have an evening’s entertainment! I shall begin. I shall tell you something of the sort everyone has experienced; it is so pleasant to put oneself in the story, and so enjoyable: “By the Baltic Sea, among the Danish beeches!”’

‘What a lovely beginning!’ said all the plates. ‘This is sure to be a story I shall like!’ ‘Yes, I spent my youth there with a quiet family. The furniture was polished, the floor was washed, and clean curtains were put up every fortnight!’

‘How interestingly you tell it!’ said the feather duster. ‘One can hear at once that it is a lady telling the story; there is such a delightful air of cleanliness about it!’

‘Yes, one can feel it!’ said the water bucket, and it gave a little jump for joy, splashing water onto the floor. And the pot went on telling her story, and the ending was just as good as the beginning.

All the plates rattled with delight, and the feather duster took some green parsley from the sand bin and crowned the pot with it, for he knew it would annoy the others. ‘If I crown her today,’ he thought, ‘she will crown me tomorrow.’

‘Now I shall dance!’ said the fire tongs, and dance she did. Good heavens, how high she could kick her leg! The old chair cover in the corner split at the sight of it. ‘May I be crowned, too?’ said the fire tongs, and she was.

‘Nothing but common rabble!’ thought the matches. Now the tea urn was to sing, but it had a cold, it said, and could not sing unless it was boiling. But that was sheer snobbery: it would sing only when it stood on the table in the drawing room.

In the window lay an old quill pen that the maid used to write with. There was nothing remarkable about it, except that it had been dipped too deep into the inkpot, but that was precisely what made it so conceited. ‘If the tea urn will not sing,’ it said, ‘then let it be! Outside there is a nightingale hanging in a cage, and it can sing. Admittedly, it has had no training, but we shall not speak ill of that tonight!’

‘I consider it most improper,’ said the teakettle, who was the kitchen singer and half-sister to the tea urn, ‘that such a foreign bird should be heard! Is that patriotic? I shall let the market basket judge!’

‘I am simply vexed,’ said the market basket. ‘As thoroughly vexed as anyone could possibly imagine! Is this a fitting way to spend the evening? Would it not be better to put the house in proper order? Everyone should be put in their rightful place, and I would manage the whole business. That would be something quite different!’

‘Yes, let us make a commotion!’ they all said. Just then the door opened. It was the maid, and they fell silent; not one of them uttered a peep. But there was not a pot among them that did not know perfectly well what it could do and how distinguished it was. ‘Ah, if I had chosen,’ they thought, ‘we really would have had a merry evening!’

The maid took the matches and struck a light with them. Good heavens, how they spluttered and burst into flame! ‘Now everyone can see,’ they thought, ‘that we rank first! What brilliance we have! What light!’ And then they were burnt out.”

“That was a lovely fairy tale!” said the queen. “I felt quite as though I were in the kitchen with the matches. Yes, now you shall have our daughter.” “Indeed you shall!” said the king. “You shall marry our daughter on Monday!” And now they spoke to him familiarly, since he was to be one of the family.

The wedding was settled, and on the evening before it the whole town was illuminated. Buns and pretzels were tossed out for everyone to scramble after; the street boys stood on tiptoe, shouting hurrah and whistling through their fingers. It was quite magnificent.

“Well, I suppose I had better do something too!” thought the merchant’s son. So he bought rockets, squibs, and every kind of firework imaginable, put them in his trunk, and flew up into the air with them.

Whoosh, how they soared! And how they crackled! All the Turks jumped so high that their slippers flew about their ears; they had never seen such a sight in the sky before. Now they could certainly understand that it was the god of the Turks himself who was to marry the princess.

As soon as the merchant’s son had come down into the woods again with his trunk, he thought, “I shall go into town and hear how it all looked!” And it was quite natural that he should want to.

My, how the people talked! Every single person he asked had seen it in a different way, but they had all found it wonderful. “I saw the god of the Turks himself,” said one. “He had eyes like shining stars and a beard like foaming waters!”

“He flew in a cloak of fire,” said another. “The loveliest little angels peeped out from its folds!” Oh, what wonderful things he heard! And the next day was to be his wedding day.

Now he went back to the woods to sit in his trunk—but where was it? The trunk had burnt up. A spark from the fireworks had remained behind and set it alight, and the trunk was nothing but ashes. He could no longer fly, no longer reach his bride.

She stood on the roof all day, waiting. She is waiting still; but he wanders round the world telling fairy tales, though they are no longer as merry as the one he told about the matches.