Βιβλία σαν το «Η αγαπημένη και άλλα διηγήματα»

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

Ἀλλὰ πρὸ ἡμισείας ὥρας, ἐάν τις διήρχετο εἰς ἀπόστασιν διακοσίων βημάτων ἔξωθεν τοῦ σχολείου, θὰ ἐνόμιζεν ὅτι ἦτο θηριοτροφεῖον εἰδικὸν διὰ θῶας τῆς ἐρήμου καὶ δι’ ἄλλα ἀνήσυχα ἀγρίμια. Τὰ παιδία ἐχόρευαν, ἐπήδων, ἐσκίρτων, ἐφώναζαν, διεπληκτίζοντο, ἐγέλων, ἔκλαιον. Ἦτο θέρος καὶ καύσων πνιγηρός. Παμμιγὴς βοὴ ἀνήρχετο διὰ τῶν ὀκτὼ ἀνοικτῶν μεγάλων παραθύρων, ἐχόντων ὅλα σχεδὸν τὰ ὑαλία σπασμένα καὶ τὰ πλεῖστα παραθυρόφυλλα φαγωμένα, τοὺς στροφεῖς ἐσκωριασμένους. Τὰ θρανία χωλά, κινούμενα, χορεύοντα, ἐφαίνοντο ὡς σχεδίαι πλέουσαι ἐντὸς τοῦ κύματος τῶν παιδικῶν κεφαλῶν. Ἡ διδασκαλικὴ ἕδρα ὑψηλή, μὲ τὰ φατνώματα σαπρά, κεχηνότα, ὡμοίαζε μὲ βάρκαν ξουριασμένην μακρὰν τοῦ λιμένος ὑπὸ τοῦ ἀνέμου.

Her monotonous milking at the dairy was resumed, and followed for many long years, till her form became bent, and her once abundant dark hair white and worn away at the forehead—perhaps by long pressure against the cows. Here, sometimes, those who knew her experiences would stand and observe her, and wonder what sombre thoughts were beating inside that impassive, wrinkled brow, to the rhythm of the alternating milk-streams.

“When I was alive and had a human heart,” answered the statue, “I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot chose but weep.”

Whether he kissed her once or several times he could not afterward remember, though it must have been an hour that they sat there close together and he held her hand. What surprised him most about making love was that it seemed to have no element of wild passion—regret, desire, despair—but a delirious promise of such happiness in the world, in living, as he had never known. First love—this was only first love! What must love itself in its fullness, its perfection be. He did not know that what he was experiencing then, that unreal, undesirous medley of ecstasy and peace, would be unrecapturable forever.

Ο καημένος ο ζητιάνος δεν ήθελε να το πιστέψει: «Μήπως έκανες λάθος, παιδάκι μου; Για ρώτησε τους γονιούς σου. Δεν έχω όρεξη να με παίρνουν στις αστυνομίες για κλέφτη, μέρα που είναι». Του εξήγησα με τι τρόπο είχαμε μοιρασθεί το φλουρί της βασιλόπιτας. Ο γέρος έτρεμε τώρα περισσότερο. Μα έτρεμε από τη χαρά του. Σήκωσε ψηλά τ’ αρρωστημένα του μάτια και είπε: «Ο Θεός είναι μεγάλος. Να ζήσεις, παιδάκι μου, να σε χαίρονται οι γονείς σου. Και ο Θεός να σ’ αξιώσει να ’χεις πάντα όλα τα καλά, να τα μοιράζεις με τους φτωχούς και τους αδικημένους. Την ευχή μου να ’χεις». Μου ’δωσε την ευχή του, σήκωσε πάλι ψηλά, κατά τον ουρανό τα αρρωστημένα του μάτια και κατέβηκε, με το ραβδί του, τη σκάλα. Έτσι τέλειωσε η ιστορία του φλουριού της βασιλόπιτας εκείνη τη χρονιά. Από τότε πέρασαν πολλά χρόνια.