Prevod

A farmer had a son who was no bigger than a thumb, and would grow no bigger, nor did he gain so much as a hair’s breadth in several years. One day the farmer was going out to plough his field, and the little fellow said, “Father, I want to come with you.” “You want to come with me?” said his father. “Stay here. You’d be no use out there, and I might lose you besides.” Then Tom Thumb began to cry, and for the sake of peace his father put him in his pocket and took him along. When they reached the field, he took him out again and set him in a freshly ploughed furrow. As he sat there, a great giant came striding over the hill. “Do you see that great bogeyman over there?” said his father, meaning to frighten the little fellow into behaving himself. “He’s coming to carry you off.” But the giant had taken scarcely a few strides on his long legs before he reached the furrow. He carefully lifted little Tom Thumb between two fingers, looked him over, and carried him away without a word. His father stood by, too terrified to utter a sound, and could only think that his child was lost and that he would never set eyes on him again as long as he lived.

But the giant carried him home and suckled him at his breast, and Tom Thumb grew tall and strong, as giants do. When two years had passed, the old giant took him into the forest to test him, and said, “Pull yourself up a switch.” By then the boy was so strong that he tore a young tree out of the ground, roots and all. But the giant said, “You must do better than that,” and took him home and suckled him for another two years. When he tested him again, his strength had increased so much that he could wrench an old tree out of the earth. Still this was not enough for the giant, who suckled him for two more years. Then he took him into the forest and said, “Now pull yourself up a proper switch.” The boy tore the thickest oak out of the ground with a great crack, and it was mere child’s play to him. “Now that will do,” said the giant. “You have finished your training.” And he led him back to the field where he had found him. His father was standing behind the plough. The young giant went up to him and said, “Well, Father, do you see what a man your son has become?” The farmer took fright and said, “No, you’re not my son. I don’t want you. Go away.” “Of course I’m your son. Let me get to work. I can plough as well as you, and better.” “No, no, you’re not my son, and you can’t plough either. Go away.” But he was afraid of the great fellow, so he let go of the plough, stepped back, and sat down at the edge of the field. Then the boy took hold of the plough and pressed down on it with just one hand, but so mighty was the pressure that the plough sank deep into the earth. The farmer could not bear to watch and called out, “If you mean to plough, you mustn’t press so hard. You’ll make a poor job of it.” But the boy unharnessed the horses and pulled the plough himself, saying, “Just go home, Father, and have Mother cook me a great bowlful of food. Meanwhile, I’ll turn this field over.” So the farmer went home and asked his wife to prepare the meal. The boy ploughed the whole field, two morgens of land, all by himself; then he harnessed himself to the harrows and harrowed it all with two at once. When he had finished, he went into the forest, tore up two oak trees, and laid them across his shoulders, with a harrow at either end and a horse at either end as well. Then he carried the whole load to his parents’ house as though it were a bundle of straw. When he came into the yard, his mother did not recognize him and asked, “Who is that dreadful great man?” The farmer said, “That is our son.” “No,” she said, “that can never be our son. We never had one so big. Ours was a tiny little thing.” She called to him, “Go away. We don’t want you.” The boy said nothing, but led his horses into the stable and gave them oats and hay, seeing to everything as he ought. When he had finished, he went into the house, sat down on the bench, and said, “Mother, I’m ready for something to eat now. Will it soon be done?” “Yes,” she said, and brought in two great, great bowlfuls, enough to have fed her and her husband for eight days. But the boy ate it all by himself and asked whether she could not bring him some more. “No,” she said, “that is all we have.” “Why, that was only a taste. I must have more.” She dared not refuse him, so she went and put a great kettle used for boiling the pigs’ food over the fire, filled to the brim, and when it was cooked she carried it in. “At last, a few more morsels,” he said, and ate the whole lot; but even that was not enough to satisfy his hunger. Then he said, “Father, I can see I shall never get enough to eat here. If you will get me an iron staff strong enough that I cannot break it across my knees, I will go out into the world.” The farmer was glad to hear this. He harnessed his two horses to the wagon and fetched from the smith a bar as long and thick as the two horses could possibly haul. The boy braced it against his knees, and snap! He broke it in two down the middle like a beanstalk and threw it away. His father harnessed four horses to the wagon and fetched a bar as long and thick as the four horses could haul. His son snapped this one across his knee as well, threw it down, and said, “Father, this is no use to me. You must harness more horses and fetch a stronger staff.” Then his father harnessed eight horses and fetched a bar as long and thick as the eight horses could bring. The moment his son took it in his hand, he broke a piece off the top and said, “Father, I see you cannot get me the sort of staff I need. I will stay with you no longer.”

So he went away and passed himself off as a journeyman smith. He came to a village where there lived a smith who was a miser, begrudging everyone everything and wanting it all for himself. The young giant went into his smithy and asked whether he needed a journeyman. “Yes,” said the smith, looking him over and thinking, “That is a sturdy fellow. He’ll wield the sledgehammer well and earn his bread.” He asked, “What wages do you want?” “I want no wages at all,” he answered. “Only, every fortnight, when the other journeymen are paid, I shall give you two blows, and you must bear them.” The miser was heartily pleased with this, thinking how much money he would save. The next morning the new journeyman was set to wield the sledgehammer, but when the master brought the glowing iron bar and the young man struck his first blow, the iron flew to pieces and the anvil sank so deep into the ground that they could not get it out again. Then the miser grew angry and said, “Well, you’re no use to me. You strike far too hard. What do you want for that one blow?” “I shall give you just one very little blow,” he said, “and nothing more.” He lifted his foot and gave the smith a kick that sent him flying over four wagonloads of hay. Then he chose the thickest iron bar in the smithy, took it in his hand for a walking stick, and went on his way.

After travelling for a while, he came to a farm on a large estate and asked the steward whether he needed a head farmhand. “Yes,” said the steward, “I could use one. You look like a sturdy fellow who can get something done. What yearly wages do you want?” Once again he answered that he wanted no wages, but every year he would give the steward three blows, which he must bear. The steward agreed, for he too was a miser. The next morning the farmhands were to drive into the woods, and the others were already up, but the young giant was still in bed. One of them called to him, “Get up. It’s time. We’re going to the woods, and you must come too.” “Oh,” he said, gruffly and defiantly, “off you go. I’ll still be back before the whole lot of you.” So the others went to the steward and told him that the head farmhand was still lying in bed and would not go with them to the woods. The steward said they should wake him once more and tell him to harness the horses. But the head farmhand answered as before, “Off you go. I’ll still be back before the whole lot of you.” Then he lay in bed for another two hours before he finally got up. First, however, he fetched two bushels of peas from the loft, cooked himself a porridge, and ate it at his leisure. Only when all this was done did he go and harness the horses and drive to the woods. Not far from the woods was a sunken lane through which he had to pass. He drove his wagon through, then halted the horses, went behind the wagon, and piled up trees and brushwood into a great barricade, so that no horse could get through. When he reached the woods, the others were just driving out with their loaded wagons, ready to go home. He said to them, “Off you go. I’ll still be home before you.” He drove only a little way into the woods, tore two of the very largest trees out of the earth, threw them on his wagon, and turned back. When he reached the barricade, the others were still standing there, unable to get through. “You see,” he said, “if you had stayed with me, you would have got home just as soon, and you could have had another hour’s sleep.” He was about to drive through, but his horses could not force their way past. So he unharnessed them, laid them on top of the wagon, took the shaft in his own hand, and heave-ho! He pulled the whole load through as easily as though it were feathers. Once he was on the other side, he said to the others, “You see, I’m through sooner than you,” and drove on, while they had to stay where they were. Back in the yard, he took one of the trees in his hand, showed it to the steward, and said, “Now, isn’t that a fine piece of firewood?” Then the steward said to his wife, “That is a good farmhand. He may sleep late, but he still gets back before the others.”

He served the steward for a year, and when the year was over and the other farmhands received their wages, he said that it was time for him to collect his too. But the steward was afraid of the blows he was to receive and begged him earnestly to forgo them. He would rather become head farmhand himself and let the young giant be steward. “No,” he said, “I don’t want to be steward. I am head farmhand and mean to remain so, but I intend to give you what we agreed upon.” The steward offered him anything he might ask, but it was no use: to everything the head farmhand said no. At his wits’ end, the steward begged for a fortnight’s grace so that he could think of something. The head farmhand said he might have it. The steward called all his clerks together and told them to think the matter over and advise him. The clerks pondered for a long time, and at last they said that no one’s life was safe with the head farmhand about: he could squash a man as easily as a fly. The steward should order him to climb down into the well and clean it. When he was at the bottom, they would roll over one of the millstones lying nearby and drop it on his head; then he would never see daylight again. The steward liked this advice, and the head farmhand was willing to climb down into the well. When he was standing at the bottom, they rolled the largest millstone down and thought they had crushed his skull. But he called out, “Chase the chickens away from the well. They’re scratching in the sand up there and throwing grit into my eyes, so that I can’t see.” The steward called, “Shoo! Shoo!” and pretended to drive the chickens away. When the head farmhand had finished his work, he climbed out and said, “Just look what a fine necklace I’m wearing!” It was the millstone he had round his neck. Now the head farmhand wanted to collect his wages, but the steward again begged for a fortnight to think. The clerks came together and advised him to send the head farmhand to the haunted mill to grind corn there that night, for no one had ever come out of it alive in the morning. The steward liked the scheme. That very evening he called the head farmhand and ordered him to take eight large measures of corn to the mill and grind it that night, for they needed it. So the head farmhand went up to the loft and put two measures in his right pocket and two in his left, then carried four more in a sack slung half over his back and half over his chest. Thus loaded, he went to the haunted mill. The miller told him that he could grind there well enough by day, but not at night, for then the mill was haunted, and everyone who had ventured inside had been found dead there in the morning. “I shall manage well enough,” he said. “Just be off with you and get some sleep.” Then he went into the mill and poured in the corn. Towards eleven o’clock he went into the miller’s room and sat down on the bench. He had been sitting there a little while when the door suddenly opened and a great, great table came in. Wine and roast meat and all manner of good food appeared upon it, all by themselves, for there was no one there to serve them. Then chairs drew up to the table, but no people appeared, until all at once he saw fingers handling knives and forks and putting food on plates. Beyond that, he could see nothing. As he was hungry and could see the food, he too sat down at the table, joined in the meal, and ate with great enjoyment. When he had had his fill and the others had emptied all their dishes as well, all the lights were suddenly snuffed out. He heard it quite plainly, and once it was pitch-dark, he felt something like a slap across the face. “If that happens again,” he said, “I shall start handing them out myself.” And when he received a second slap, he struck back. So it went on all night. He took nothing without giving plenty in return, and dealt blows all round him with a will. But at daybreak it all stopped. When the miller got up, he went to see how the young giant had fared and was astonished to find him still alive. “I have eaten my fill,” he said. “I have had my ears boxed, but I have boxed a few ears myself.” The miller was delighted and said that the mill was now freed from its spell, and he would gladly give him a handsome sum of money as a reward. But the young giant said, “I don’t want money. I have enough already.” Then he hoisted his flour onto his back, went home, and told the steward that he had done the job and now wanted the wages they had agreed upon. When the steward heard this, he was more frightened than ever. He did not know which way to turn, but paced up and down the room with sweat running down his forehead. He opened the window for some fresh air, but before he knew what was happening, the head farmhand had given him a kick that sent him flying out through the window and into the sky, farther and farther, until no one could see him any more. Then the head farmhand said to the steward’s wife, “If he doesn’t come back, you must take the next blow.” “No, no, I cannot bear it!” she cried, and opened the other window, for sweat was running down her forehead too. Then he gave her a kick that sent her flying out as well, and because she was lighter, she went much higher than her husband. The husband called, “Come over to me!” But she called back, “You come over to me. I can’t get to you.” And there they floated in the air, neither able to reach the other. Whether they are floating there still, I do not know; but the young giant took up his iron staff and went on his way.