Prevod

The top and the ball lay together in a drawer among the other toys, and the top said to the ball, “Why shouldn’t we be sweethearts, since we lie in the same drawer?” But the ball, who was sewn from morocco leather and thought as much of herself as any fine young lady, would not answer such a proposal.

The next day the little boy who owned the toys came along. He painted the top red and yellow and drove a brass nail into its middle; it looked quite splendid when the top spun round.

“Look at me!” he said to the ball. “What do you say now? Shouldn’t we be sweethearts? We suit each other so well: you bounce and I dance! No one could be happier than the two of us!”

“Oh, do you think so?” said the ball. “You probably don’t know that my father and mother were morocco slippers, and that I have a cork inside me!” “Yes, but I’m made of mahogany!” said the top. “And the town magistrate turned me himself. He has his own lathe, and it gave him a great deal of pleasure!”

“Well, can I believe that?” said the ball. “May I never be whipped again if I’m lying!” answered the top. “You plead your case very well!” said the ball. “But still I cannot. I am practically half engaged to a swallow! Every time I go up in the air, he pokes his head out of the nest and says, ‘Will you?’ And in my heart I have now said yes, which is as good as half an engagement! But I promise you, I shall never forget you!”

“Well, much good that will do me!” said the top, and after that they did not speak to each other. The next day the ball was taken out. The top saw her soar high into the air like a bird, until at last she could scarcely be seen. Each time she came back again, but always gave a great leap when she touched the ground; this was either from longing or because she had a cork inside her. The ninth time, the ball disappeared and never came back. The boy searched and searched, but she was gone.

“I know where she is!” sighed the top. “She’s in the swallow’s nest, married to the swallow!” The more the top thought about it, the more enamoured he became of the ball. His love grew precisely because he could not have her; that she had chosen another was what made it so extraordinary. And the top danced round and spun, but always he thought of the ball, who grew prettier and prettier in his imagination. Many years passed in this way—and by then it was an old love.

And the top was no longer young! But one day he was gilded all over. Never had he looked so handsome. He was a golden top now, and he leaped and whirled till the air hummed. Ah, that was something! But all at once he leaped too high and—he was gone!

They searched and searched, even down in the cellar, but he was nowhere to be found. Where was he? He had jumped into the rubbish barrel, where all sorts of things lay: cabbage stalks, sweepings, and grit that had fallen from the gutter.

“What a fine place I’ve landed in! My gilding will soon come off here! And what a wretched lot I’ve fallen among!” He glanced sidelong at a long cabbage stalk stripped far too bare, and at a strange round thing that looked like an old apple. But it was no apple; it was an old ball that had lain up in the gutter for many years, with water seeping through her.

“Thank goodness someone of my own sort has come along at last, someone I can talk to!” said the ball, looking at the gilded top. “I am actually made of morocco leather, sewn by maiden hands, and I have a cork inside me, though no one would think it to look at me! I was just about to marry a swallow, but then I fell into the gutter, and there I have lain for five years, soaking through! That is a long time for a maiden, I can tell you!”

But the top said nothing. He was thinking of his old sweetheart, and the more he heard, the clearer it became to him that this was she. Then the maid came to empty the barrel. “Why, here’s the golden top!” she said.

And the top returned to the parlour, where he was held in great honour and esteem, but nothing more was heard of the ball, and the top never spoke of his old love again. Love passes when your sweetheart has lain soaking in a gutter for five years; indeed, you hardly know her again when you meet her in the rubbish barrel.