Part 17

“I won’t allow you to say such things to me,” cried the student, excitedly. “I’m no juggler, I am a student.”

“Then put a stop to this flower show,” ordered the hotel keeper, sternly.

The student only shrugged his shoulders, muttering impatiently, “I cannot.”

“In that case,” replied the hotel-keeper, “I must ask you to leave my house at once.”

“Very well,” answered the student, “I’ll go early to-morrow morning. But give me something to eat now, for I’ve been climbing among the mountains all day and am hungry.”

“No, you’ll get nothing here, and I can’t keep you till to-morrow,” said the hotel-keeper, resolutely.

The student could do nothing but rise and leave the dining room, still surrounded by his flower ring, which steadily kept pace with him. When he reached his chamber and began to pack, he found his knapsack empty. All the flowers with which he had filled it had disappeared.

He was obliged to carry his baggage himself, for no hotel servant or porter would be seen in the street with him and his moving circle of flowers. Children and grown people ran after him with shouts, and at every hotel where he went with his escort of flowers and yelling street-urchins he was refused admittance. He could get neither a warm supper nor a bed, and had nothing to do except, late in the evening, to take a train and leave the inhospitable little city.

He had scarcely entered the station when the flowers vanished. He uttered a sigh of relief, for he thought he was freed from his flower prison. The Flower Queen, he believed gleefully, probably only had power in her mountain and in the valley at its foot. It went no farther. But he was very much mistaken, as he was soon to discover. The flowers had disappeared only because, in the narrow space, whose walls he could reach everywhere by stretching out his hands and feet, there was no room for their circle. But he had scarcely gone out after a very uncomfortable night, scarcely set foot on the broad steps of the station, when the ring closed around him and moved on at the same pace.

Fury seized him and he hurled his long alpenstock into the midst of the thick, fresh blossoms. Like lightning they swayed far apart, though without separating, and the staff did not touch them. When, grinding his teeth, he picked it up, the gap closed, and the circle was as regular as before. He saw that it would do no good to act like a crazy man. The flower prison was securely fastened. He could not escape from it. All the running, leaping, striking, and throwing missiles was useless. The flowers were more nimble than he, and the distance between him and the wide hedge of living flowers never changed.

He actually hated the bright blossoms, whose beauty seemed to mock him, and shut his eyes so that he could not see them. But he could smell their perfume, and the delicious fragrance would not let him forget them for a moment. To escape, he took the only way which had proved possible. Amid the stares of all the people in the railroad station, he went on the first train and travelled without stopping home to his father, the forester.

When the forester saw his son surrounded by his guard of rare and common flowers, mountain and field blossoms, he remained motionless with amazement, and could scarcely find words to ask, “Boy, what does this mean?”

The student told him how the ring had suddenly sprung up around him, and had left him only in the railroad station; but did not mention his destruction of the Alpine blossoms and his meeting with the Flower Queen.

“Oh, father,” he pleaded, after he had finished his story, “help me, tell me how I can escape from this flower prison. If I don’t get rid of it, it will be impossible for me to live among human beings.”

The forester thought a long time, then he said: “I have never seen such a thing, and don’t understand it. But so far as I know, flowers don’t bloom here in the winter. It will soon be autumn. Stay in the house till the frost comes. That will probably kill your blossoms, unless all the laws of nature fail.”

This was a happy thought. The student threw his arms around his wise father’s neck. He was obliged to interrupt his studies, for he could not return to the university. But he tried to have patience. Four months would soon be over, then Christmas would come, and his misery would be ended.

To shut out the unbearable sight of the flowers, he locked himself into an attic room, which was almost as small as a closet. No prison could be so uncomfortable as this tiny chamber. But he preferred to be surrounded by board walls, rather than by the moving circle of flowers. He ventured out of his hiding place only on dark nights to stretch his stiff limbs a trifle by a walk through the forest, and to breathe a little fresh air. He did not mind running against trees and stumbling over stumps and roots. He preferred anything, even bruises, bumps, and aching limbs, to his prison of flowers. Yet even during the darkest nights they did not remain wholly invisible; for besides the fragrance, a faint light came from the blossoms, and they shone around him like an army of glow-worms.

He found the time very long, but it gradually passed, and Christmas came. The winter proved unusually severe. The snow lay heaped breast-high, and in the December nights one could hear the boughs, outside cracking in the forest. After a very cold night, the student ventured out into the forest early in the morning. He had scarcely passed the door of the house when the circle of flowers closed around him. He waded through the deep snow, muttering grimly, “Just wait a little while, this will finish you.” He stayed in the woods until he was almost frozen. His nose was blue, his ears were stiff, his fingers like ice; but the flowers did not seem to be injured by the cold, and were as fresh and fragrant on the snow as if it were the loveliest May day. So, after several hours of suffering, the student went back to the forest house, and with chattering teeth said, “Father, the frost will kill me before it harms those hateful flowers.”

“Yes, my poor boy,” replied his father, sadly, “and now my knowledge is over. Think for yourself till you find some way to break this magic spell.”

The student shut himself up again in his tiny garret room, and thought of his misfortune and how he could escape from it. At last he had an idea. Perhaps his father was right; the cold must surely kill the flowers, only the frost was not severe enough here. Suppose he should go to the north pole, or as near it as he could get? He would see whether the blossoms would stand it there too.

No sooner was this plan thought of than it was done. His preparations were soon made, and that very evening he left his home to go through the fog and darkness to take the train in the nearest city. For several days he travelled without stopping straight toward the north, as far as the railroad went, then he went on board a whaler, which carried him far up into the icy seas, and did not leave the vessel until the frozen water would allow no farther passage. But he had scarcely set his foot upon the boundless plain of ice when the whole circlet of flowers sprang up on it and moved along with him as gayly as ever, blossoming as brightly about him as if the mildest spring breeze was stirring their petals.

This time the student determined to defy them. He set forth, dragging after him a little sledge loaded with provisions, thinking spitefully how much the blossoms would suffer in the fierce winter cold. The northern lights alone brightened the gloomy, pathless wilderness of ice; the polar bears often trotted up to him, but stopped when they saw the unknown flowers, and dared not cross their circle. For a week the young man bore all the discomforts of the polar night; the cold, and the tiresome tramping over the rough ice; then he saw that the flowers were not harmed in the least, and discouraged and disheartened he gave up the trial. Now he attempted to find a ship again. It was not easy, and when, after many anxious days, he at last discovered one, he sailed back, always keeping shut in his cabin, to Hamburg.

What was to be done next? The flowers could bear the most severe cold without injury; he knew that. Perhaps drought and a hot sun would be worse for them. He determined to go at once to the desert of Sahara, where no plant can live. Over land and sea, in cars and ships, he hastened to Africa, and made his way into the wilderness as fast as he could. When the camels saw his ring of flowers, they dashed madly up to feed on them. But they only bit the empty air, and looked so disappointed and astonished that the student would have laughed heartily if he had felt inclined to be merry. The Bedouins, too, gathered around the stranger, staring in wonder at the magnificent flowers on the burning yellow sand, where they had never seen even a blade of grass or a tiny green leaf. Then they threw themselves in the dust before him, believing that he must be some great magician. They invited him into their tents, entertained him with milk and dates, and made him understand that they wanted him to be their chief.

The flowers throve in the heat of the desert just as well as in the ice at the pole. The student soon saw this. But here they attracted flattering notice, and instead of making him miserable brought him dignity and honor. He became accustomed to the thought of spending his life among the Bedouins as their lord and ruler. Under such pleasant circumstances his flower prison did not trouble him, and he snapped his fingers at the Flower Queen. It was hard to give up his home; but he was still young, and who could tell what might happen.

But his comfort did not last long. The former ruler, whom the Bedouins had removed on his account, plotted to ruin his successor. He persuaded the oldest men of the tribe to ask the Father of the Flowers, as they called the student, for a perpetually flowing spring and frequent rain for their oasis. They followed the crafty Bedouin’s advice. The student, though he could not understand a word of Arabic, knew very well what they wanted, and replied that he could not fulfil their wish. They did not believe it, for a magician who could make a thick, fresh hedge of flowers grow out of the sand of the desert must surely be able to give them a spring and rain if he only would. His refusal was nothing but sheer malice, for which they would punish him. They agreed to kill him in the night. A Bedouin woman, who pitied the young foreigner, warned him in time, and with her help he escaped in the twilight.

The glory of ruling and the pleasant life were again over. In despair he returned to Europe, and when he reached the coast of the Mediterranean, he asked himself whether it would not be the wisest thing he could do to jump into the sea and end his imprisonment by death. But when he was preparing for this wicked act, a secret voice said: “Perhaps I can soothe the Flower Queen. She looked so young and lovely. She cannot be pitiless.”

He summoned fresh courage and again travelled day and night, over sea and land, until he reached Switzerland and the foot of the mountain chain, where the misfortune had overtaken him. Still surrounded by the circle of flowers, he climbed with his knapsack to the pine-wood and the pasture up above the clouds to the steep hillside, saw the projecting rock, with the dense growth of edelweiss, and with a throbbing heart climbed across the narrow ridge to the overhanging boulder. He had scarcely stepped on it when the Flower Queen stood before him, looked sternly at him, and exclaimed, “Are you here again?”

At the same moment his ring of blossoms scattered, all the flowers hastened to their Queen, surrounding and nestling closely to her, and for the first time in many months he was free from his prison, even in the open air.

Kneeling before the Flower Queen, he raised his hands beseechingly and said humbly: “Fair Queen, be content with my punishment. Forgive the crime I committed against you and your flowers, and which I deeply repent.”

She was silent a short time, and then replied, “Repentance is not enough; I demand atonement.”

“What shall I do to atone?” he asked anxiously.

“Look at this slope below us. It resembled a gay carpet. Now it is wholly green, not a single blossom adorns it. You must plant it with flowers again. When you have made it as gay as it was before, the punishment shall be taken from you.”

The student wanted to ask her how he should set to work, but she disappeared, and his flower prison, which had separated, once more closed around him. He went back to the field, sat down on the grass, and wondered how he should begin to plant flowers here. Suddenly a thought darted through his brain. He started up and stretched his hand toward the circle of flowers. Lo!—it did not move back, his hand did not grasp the air, but seized a beautiful clump of Alpine violets, which quietly allowed him to hold them. He pulled gently—the violets, with all their delicate roots, remained in his hand. True, there was no gap in the ring, another flower sprang up in the place of the clump of violets. Digging a hole in the ground with his penknife and his fingers, he planted the violets and moved away several steps. His ring of flowers followed, but the violets remained.

Now he knew enough. He hurried down to the little city, bought, amid the stares of the people, gardening tools and provisions enough to last for some time, and went back to the field above the clouds. From dawn till twilight he worked with the greatest industry, dug hole after hole, took flower after flower from his ring, planted them, watered them abundantly from a neighboring spring, and scarcely allowed himself fifteen minutes rest for his scanty meals.

Three or four weeks passed, a large portion of the field was again gay with beautiful flowers growing thickly together, when to his intense joy he noticed that the flowers which he still drew from his ring were no longer replaced with others. The circular hedge first grew narrower, then gaps appeared, then one-quarter, one-half, three-quarters vanished, and one day he put the last blossom in the earth, and there was nothing more left of the ring. He knelt again and called aloud, “Oh, Queen, are you satisfied with my work?”

But the Flower Queen did not appear, only a strange movement ran through the countless blossoms in the field, as though they were all nodding their lovely little heads.

The student picked up his knapsack and went down to the valley. He cast stolen glances around him on the way, but no flower followed. He was really free from his prison of blossoms, and could again live with other men.

But while planting the Alpine meadow he had gained such a taste for gardening that he resolved to devote himself to this profession. So he became a very famous florist, and several beautiful varieties of flowers, which he introduced from foreign countries, still bear his name.

LIFE AND DEATH

At the foot of a giant mountain, with a snow-capped head, lay a quiet valley, through which flowed a swift little stream. Its waves bathed the roots of an ancient oak, which was reflected in the water. Under the shadow of the tree grew masses of blue gentians and other flowers, and in its top a very wise old raven had built a nest.

It was a midsummer day, the gentians were in bloom, and their petals began to droop in the heat. Then one blossom, whose neighbor had already lost half its leaves, began to complain: “How miserable we poor flowers are, and what a sad fate we have! We enjoy our lives only during one short spring. A few kisses from the sun, a few beautiful nights under the dew and the moonbeams, a few caresses from the evening breeze, a few visits from the moths and pretty gold beetles, a few bird songs, then all the pleasure is over, and it never comes back again. Before we fairly have time to enjoy our lives, they are ended. How much happier is this oak, whose branches rustle above us! It has seen thousands of generations of gentians bloom and fade away, yet it still lives and perhaps will enjoy the pleasures of spring a thousand years more.”

She paused and hung her little head sorrowfully. But a roaring noise passed through the boughs of the old oak, and the tree in a dry, grating voice answered:—

“Little fool, you talk as you understand. Yes, I live longer than you do. But you are very much mistaken if you imagine that I am to be envied on that account. The spring sun kisses you awake, as a mother rouses her child. You grow without any troubles, and your life is all pleasure. You know nothing except the joy of spring and the happiness of summer, you do not have to bear the sorrows of autumn. You have no enemies, you don’t know what it is to struggle and to suffer, you see nothing in the world except beauty and pleasure. But I—all through my youth I had to defend myself against numberless enemies who wanted to take my life. I was attacked by grubs and worms, caterpillars and beetles, the greedy teeth of grazing animals, and the poison of tiny fungi. After I had escaped all these perils and grew up, what was my fate? Storms vented their fury on me, tossed me about, and even broke my branches. The lightning tore my bark in long strips from my body, and gave me cruel wounds. Look at me—I am completely covered with scars.

“Autumn plucked off all my leaves every year, and winter pierced me to my inmost heart with cold. Long after you were sunning yourselves happily in the spring, I was scarcely thawed out, and still felt the pricking of the sap as it began to ascend into the frozen boughs. Even during the few pleasant weeks that my scanty blossoms adorned me, I could not help thinking anxiously of the coming winter and its tortures. So what do I gain by living longer than you? I have already been here a thousand years, and when I look back, it seems but a single day. The moments of happiness were rare, and all the rest was trouble, toil, and suffering. If I loved a bird that built its nest in my branches, or a flower that grew at my foot, I saw them disappear and had to mourn them. Now I am old, my trunk is hollow, worms are gnawing my roots, my branches are dying. Bit by bit my mouldering body will fall into ruin, until pitiless time has entirely destroyed me. I envy you the unvarying beauty and happiness of your life and its swift, easy end. If we must die, it makes no difference whether it is a little sooner or a little later. Ah, if we never grew old, if we could live forever like the mountain giant above us! If you wish a different lot, wish for his, not mine.”

All was still for a time, then the mountain shook with rumbling, groaning noises, and in deep, yawning sounds it spoke slowly, in short sentences, interrupted by long pauses:—

“Oak, oak, have you no more sense than the blue thing yonder, the little gentian? Nonsense about my eternity. I, too, shall some day perish. Nothing in the world is eternal. The earth itself is not—nor the sun. The air and the water both gnaw at me. They wear me away continually. You are growing. I am constantly becoming smaller. Some day there will be nothing left. Then it will be as if I never had existed, even though I have lasted so long. True, I feel no sorrow over it. What does it matter whether I live a long or a short time? There is no pleasure in my existence. Here I stand year after year, staring out into the world. Everything is the same to me, summer and winter, day and night. Nothing stirs within me. I feel nothing. I hope for nothing. I am afraid of nothing. I do not grow as you do. I do not draw up joyously, with thirsty roots, the juices of the earth. I put forth no leaves and blossoms. I ripen no fruits. No descendants spring up around me. I experience nothing pleasant, and nothing unpleasant.

“I think little, I dream dully, am terribly bored, and scarcely notice what is going on around me. Everything is stupid and uninteresting. How gladly I would change places with you! Or even with the gentians that live only one summer. You feel something. I—nothing.”

At this moment the raven in the top of the tree croaked loudly. “Look there!” he called to the mountain, the oak, and the flowers, pointing with his beak and wings to the brook which rippled through the valley. Above the little stream rose countless tiny, winged creatures, which hovered over it like a thick cloud. It was a swarm of ephemeræ. They spread their delicate, transparent wings, breathed the fresh air, bathed their dainty bodies in the warm sunbeams. Intoxicated by the light and the warmth, the sweet air, thrilling in every nerve with joy and excitement, they began to dance: singly, in couples, in bands. They darted to and fro, swung in circles, whirled around hither and thither, up and down, with twitching legs and beating wings. Their eyes shone with pleasure. Their shrill buzzing expressed the greatest joy. They felt neither hunger nor thirst, but feasted on the air and sunshine. They did not think of what might be before them. They did not puzzle their brains about what might happen after. The present hour was theirs, and that was enough. They were alive now, they were enjoying all the pleasures of the summer world, they were perfectly happy.

The sun reached his noonday height and sank toward the west, but the ephemeræ did not heed it. They went on dancing, absorbed in their wild whirl, rejoicing in their mutual happiness, until the day was nearly over and the evening shadows began to gather in the valley. Then a delightful weariness stole over them, a pleasant, drowsy feeling destroyed their joy in dancing and dulled their senses. They drew up their legs, folded their wings, and sank down from the air upon the brook. The wonderful memories of the happy day, which filled their little heads, grew less distinct, everything around them became misty, and they fell asleep sweetly, like children who have played until they are tired. But they were not asleep. They were dead.

When their little bodies covered the surface of the stream, the wise raven said to the mountain, the oak, and the gentian: “A long life, a short life, matters nothing. A beautiful life. That is happiness.”