13.The Tea-Pot

There was a proud tea-pot, proud of its porcelain, proud of its long spout, proud of its broad handle；it had something both before and behind, the spout before and the handle behind, and it talked about it；but it did not talk about its lid；that was cracked, it was riveted, it had a defect, and one does not willingly talk of one's defects；others do that sufficiently. The cups, the cream-pot, and the sugar-basin, the whole of the tea-service would remember more about the frailty of the lid and talk about it, than about the good handle and the splendid spout；the tea-pot knew that.

“I know them!”it said to itself,“I know also my defect and I admit it；therein lies my humility, my modesty；we all have defects, but one has also merits. The cups have a handle, the sugar-basin a lid, I have both of these and another thing besides, which they never have, I have a spout, and that makes me the queen of the tea-table.To the sugar-basin and the cream-pot it is granted to be the servants of sweet taste, but I am the giver, the ruler of all；I disseminate blessing among thirsty humanity；in my inside the Chinese leaves are prepared in the boiling, tasteless water.”

The tea-potsaid all this in its undaunted youth. It stood on the table laid for tea, and it was lifted by the finest hand；but the finest hand was clumsy, the te-pot fell, the spout broke off, the handle broke off, the lid is not worth talking about, for enough has been said about it.The tea-pot lay in a faint on the floor；the boiling water ran out of it.That was a hard blow it got, and the hardest of all was that they laughed；they laughed at it, and not at the awkward hand.

“I shall never get that experience out of my mind,”said the tea-pot, when it afterwards related its career to itself,“I was called an invalid and set in a corner, and the day after, presented to a woman who begged kitchen-refuse. I came down into poverty, stood speechless both out and in；but there, as I stood, my better life began；one is one thing, and becomes something quite different.Earth was put into me；for a tea-pot, that is the same as to be buried, but in the earth was put a bulb；who laid it there, who gave it, I know not, but given it was, a compensation for the Chinese leaves and the boiling water, a compensation for the broken-off handle and spout.And the bulb lay in the earth, the bulb lay in me, it became my heart, my living heart, and such a thing I had never had before.There was life in me, there was strength and vigour.The pulse beat, the bulb sprouted, it was bursting with thoughts and feelings；then it broke out in flower；I saw it, I carried it, I forgot myself in its loveliness；it is a blessed thing to forget oneself in others!It did not thank me；it did not think about me:it was admired and praised.I was so glad about it；how glad must it have been then!One day I heard it said that it deserved a better pot.They broke me through the middle；it was frightfully painful；but the flower was put in a better pot, and I was thrown out into the yard；I lie there like an old potsherd,—but I have the remembrance, that I cannot lose.”