Prevod

What we have to tell is really a story in two parts; the first part might well be left out—but it supplies some background, and that is useful!

We were staying at a country manor, and it so happened that the family went away for a day. Then a woman arrived from the nearest market town, bringing her pug with her, to ask us, as she put it, to take “shares” in her tannery. She had brought her papers, and we advised her to put them in an envelope and write the owner’s address on the outside: “Commissary-General of War, Knight, et cetera.”

She listened to us, took up the pen, paused, and asked us to repeat the address, but slowly. We did so, and she wrote; but halfway through “Commissary-General” she stopped, sighed, and said, “I am only a woman!” She had put the pug on the floor while she wrote, and he growled; after all, he too had been brought along for his pleasure and his health, and in that case one ought not to be put on the floor. A snub nose and a back like a side of bacon made up his outward appearance.

“He doesn’t bite!” said the woman. “He has no teeth. He’s just like one of the family, faithful and bad-tempered, though it’s my grandchildren who have made him so cross; they play at weddings, and then they want him to be the bridesmaid, and that is a strain on him, the old dear!”

And she handed over her papers and took the pug in her arms. That is the first part—which we might well have done without! “The pug died!” That is the second part. It was about a week later; we came to the market town and put up at the inn. Our windows looked out on the yard, which a wooden fence divided in two; in one half hung skins and hides, raw and tanned; all the materials for a tannery were there, and it belonged to the widow. The pug had died that morning and been buried there in the yard; the widow’s grandchildren—the tanner’s widow’s, that is, for the pug had never been married—patted down the grave, and a lovely grave it was; it must have been a pleasure to lie there.

The grave was bordered with broken crockery and strewn with sand; at the top they had set half a beer bottle, with its neck pointing upwards, and there was nothing allegorical about that.

The children danced round the grave, and the eldest of the boys, a practical young fellow of seven, proposed that the pug’s grave should be put on show for everyone in the street; admission was to cost a trouser button, something every boy had and could also supply for the little girls; and the proposal was carried unanimously.

And all the children from the street, and the back street too, came and paid their button; many of them had to make do with a single brace that afternoon, but then they had seen the pug’s grave, and that was well worth it.

But outside the tannery yard, close beside the gate, stood a little ragged child, so prettily made, with the loveliest curly hair and eyes so blue and clear they were a joy to see; she did not say a word, nor did she cry, but peered in as far as she could whenever the gate opened. She knew she did not own a button, and so she stood sorrowfully outside, staying there until they had all seen their fill and everyone had gone away; then she sat down, covered her eyes with her little brown hands, and burst into tears; she alone had not seen the pug’s grave. It was heartache, as great as a grown person’s can often be.

We saw it from above—and seen from above, this sorrow, like so many of our own and other people’s—why, then we can laugh at them! That is the story, and anyone who does not understand it can take shares in the widow’s tannery.