A China cup, and other stories for children

by F. Volkhovskii

In the china factory the Cup thought herself the most beautiful in the world, and was quite happy; and now she was forced not only to acknowledge that there were more beautiful ones, but to listen to the mocking words and endure the most offensive looks. Envy, vexation, shame, tormented her, and she would fain run away somewhere, yet she could not move from the spot. This helplessness added still to her pain and anger. She would like to have sunk into the earth. 'Ah,' thought she, 'why did I not die before! Why does death not come now!'

Death did not come, however. The shop door opened, a fine lady, with a richly-dressed young girl of about ten years of age, came in.

'We want a nice cup, not too expensive,' said the lady to the shopman at the counter.

The shopman took our Cup and some others from the shelf and put them on the counter. Oh, what our Cup felt at that moment! She was displayed with half a dozen of her companions, every one of whom thought herself more beautiful than the others, and was proud of it. Suppose these elegant purchasers should give the preference not to her, but to one of her conceited companions? She felt as if on burning coals. The little girl stretched her hand to one of our Cup's neighbours, and the Cup trembled with anxiety. But the little purchaser only touched the rival of our Cup and finally took the latter. 'This one, mamma,' said the child, and the mother bought her. Oh, with what a pride shone now this plaything, and how haughtily she looked at her companions! Her beauty is now openly acknowledged; she is preferred to others! She was bright with happiness, and slightly trembled when the shopman took her from the counter to wrap her in paper.

'Ah, how happy I am!' said the Cup in the evening, when fragrant tea was poured in, and all who were sitting at the tea-table admired her; 'of course there is and will be nobody happier than I.'

Just at this moment the pretty little girl who had chosen her at the shop came running in from the garden. She was very thirsty. She seized the Cup and took a sip at once, notwithstanding that they cried to her that the tea was too hot. The Cup certainly was not to blame that the girl from her own carelessness had scalded her mouth, and the girl treated her unjustly. 'Oh, you nasty Cup!' cried she, and threw her to the floor.

Crash! ... and the pieces of the poor innocent Cup tinkled plaintively, and drops of tea, like big tears, trickled on to the floor from her. The footman came, gathered the pieces of the broken Cup and threw them away into the backyard on the rubbish heap. There she was with the bits of old leather, broken glass, rusty pieces of tin, and a pair of decaying cucumbers. She shivered from contact with the dirt, which she had never experienced since she was a nice cup, and she felt sick from the unpleasant odour. 'Oh, how unhappy I am!' said the broken Cup. 'All is over. I have nothing to expect from life. I have only to die!'

The Cup did not lie long in the rubbish heap. Early, early the next morning, when all were yet asleep in the house, there came into the backyard a poor, wrinkled, dirty, ragged, old woman. She had on her back a bag, and a big stick with a hook on its end in her hand. She was a rag-gatherer. She dug into the heaps with her hook, picked out of them the bones, rags, paper, nails, pieces of glass, and such things thrown away as seemed to the poor woman of some use. After having filled up the bag, the rag-gatherer went home, sorted its contents, and then took the bones to the shoeblacking maker, rags and paper to the pasteboard maker, the iron to the dealer in old iron, and the glass to the glass factory. All these places were far from each other and from her lodging, and the poor woman was exceedingly tired in going from one place to another. She gained thus a few copecks,[1] without which neither she nor her sick granddaughter would have had anything to eat. On the following morning the old woman went again to dig among the heaps.

Coming near the rubbish heap where the broken Cup was lying, the woman began to work with her hook, seeking with her old, tearful, short-sighted eyes something worth having. She had already dug up all that she wanted, when her hook struck against something hard; the old woman knew by this sound that there was something like glass in the heap. She stooped down and took up a fragment of the Cup with a nice nosegay on it.