Чорний тюльпан
The Hymn of the Flowers
Heheldinhishandahugestick,hiseyesglisteningwithspitefulthoughts,amalignantsmileplayedroundhislips,andthewholeofhiscarriage,andevenallhismovements,betokenedbadandmaliciousintentions.
Corneliusheardhimenter,andguessedthatitwashe,butdidnotturnround,asheknewwellthatRosawasnotcomingafterhim.
Thereisnothingmoregallingtoangrypeoplethanthecoolnessofthoseonwhomtheywishtoventtheirspleen.
Theexpensebeingonceincurred,onedoesnotliketoloseit;one’spassionisroused,andone’sbloodboiling,soitwouldbelabourlostnottohaveatleastanicelittlerow.
Gryphus,therefore,onseeingthatCorneliusdidnotstir,triedtoattracthisattentionbyaloud—
“Umph,umph!”
Corneliuswashummingbetweenhisteeththe“HymnofFlowers,”—asadbutverycharmingsong,—
“WearethedaughtersofthesecretfireOfthefirewhichrunsthroughtheveinsoftheearth;WearethedaughtersofAuroraandofthedew;Wearethedaughtersoftheair;Wearethedaughtersofthewater;Butweare,aboveall,thedaughtersofheaven.”
Thissong,theplacidmelancholyofwhichwasstillheightenedbyitscalmandsweetmelody,exasperatedGryphus.
Hestruckhisstickonthestonepavementofthecell,andcalledout,—
“Halloa!mywarblinggentleman,don’tyouhearme?”
Corneliusturnedround,merelysaying,“Goodmorning,”andthenbeganhissongagain:—
“Mendefileusandkilluswhilelovingus,Wehangtotheearthbyathread;Thisthreadisourroot,thatistosay,ourlife,Butweraiseonhighourarmstowardsheaven.
