Чорний тюльпан
The Hymn of the Flowers
“Howisitpossible,”saidCorneliustohimself,“thatIshouldescapefromLoewestein,asGrotiushasdonethesamethingbeforeme?Hasnoteveryprecautionbeentakensince?Arenotthewindowsbarred?Arenotthedoorsofdoubleandevenoftreblestrength,andthesentinelstentimesmorewatchful?AndhavenotI,besidesallthis,anArgussomuchthemoredangerousashehasthekeeneyesofhatred?Finally,istherenotonefactwhichtakesawayallmyspirit,ImeanRosa’sabsence?ButsupposeIshouldwastetenyearsofmylifeinmakingafiletofileoffmybars,orinbraidingcordstoletmyselfdownfromthewindow,orinstickingwingsonmyshoulderstofly,likeDædalus?Butluckisagainstmenow.Thefilewouldgetdull,theropewouldbreak,ormywingswouldmeltinthesun;Ishouldsurelykillmyself,Ishouldbepickedupmaimedandcrippled;Ishouldbelabelled,andputonexhibitioninthemuseumattheHaguebetweentheblood-staineddoubletofWilliamtheTaciturnandthefemalewalruscapturedatStavesen,andtheonlyresultofmyenterprisewillhavebeentoprocuremeaplaceamongthecuriositiesofHolland.
“Butno;anditismuchbetterso.SomefinedayGryphuswillcommitsomeatrocity.Iamlosingmypatience,sinceIhavelostthejoyandcompanyofRosa,andespeciallysinceIhavelostmytulip.Undoubtedly,somedayorotherGryphuswillattackmeinamannerpainfultomyself-respect,ortomylove,oreventhreatenmypersonalsafety.Idon’tknowhowitis,butsincemyimprisonmentIfeelastrangeandalmostirresistiblepugnacity.
