Prevod
The butterfly wanted a sweetheart; naturally, he wanted a pretty little one from among the flowers. He looked them over; each sat so still and demure upon her stalk, as a maiden ought to sit when she is not engaged. But there were so many to choose from that it became a troublesome business, and the butterfly could not be bothered with it, so he flew to the daisy. The French call her Marguerite; they know she can tell fortunes, and so she does, as lovers pluck off her petals one by one, asking at each a question about their sweetheart: “From the heart?—With sorrow?—Loves me much?—Just a little?—Not at all?” or something of the sort. Everyone asks in their own language. The butterfly came to ask her too; he did not pluck off her petals, but kissed each one, believing that kindness gets you furthest.
“Sweet Marguerite Daisy!” he said. “You are the wisest married lady among all the flowers! You know how to tell fortunes! Tell me, shall I have this one or that one? And whom shall I have? Once I know, I can fly straight to her and propose!”
But Marguerite did not answer at all. She did not like his calling her a married lady, for she was a maiden, and a maiden is not a married lady. He asked a second time and a third, and when he could not get a single word out of her, he could not be bothered to ask any more, but flew off without further ado to go courting.
It was early spring; there were snowdrops and crocuses in abundance. “They are very pretty!” said the butterfly. “Charming little confirmation girls! But rather green.” Like all young men, he looked for older girls. Then he flew to the anemones; they were a little too sharp for him; the violets too dreamy; the tulips too showy; the narcissi too middle-class; the lime blossoms too small, and they had such a large family. The apple blossoms did indeed look like roses, but they were there today and gone tomorrow, falling at the whim of the wind; that would make too short a marriage, he thought. The pea blossom pleased him most: she was red and white, delicate and lovely, one of those home-loving girls who look pretty and are useful in the kitchen too. He was just about to propose to her when he noticed a pea pod hanging close by, with a withered blossom at its tip. “Who is that?” he asked. “That is my sister,” said the pea blossom.
“Oh, so that is what you will look like later!” This frightened the butterfly, and off he flew. The honeysuckles hung over the fence; there were any number of those young ladies, long in the face and yellow in the skin; he did not care for that sort. Well, but what did he care for? Ask him.
Spring passed, summer passed, and then it was autumn; he was no nearer his goal. And the flowers came out in their loveliest clothes, but what good did that do? The fresh, fragrant spirit of youth was missing. As the heart grows older, fragrance is just what it needs, and there is precious little fragrance in dahlias and hollyhocks. So the butterfly went down to the spearmint.
“She has no flower at all, yet she is all flower, fragrant from root to tip, with the scent of blossoms in every leaf. I shall take her!” And at last he proposed.
But the spearmint stood stiff and silent, and at last she said, “Friendship, but nothing more! I am old, and you are old! We can very well live for one another, but marry—no! Let us not make fools of ourselves at our age!”
And so the butterfly got no one at all. He had spent too long looking, and that is something one should never do. The butterfly became an old bachelor, as they call it. It was late autumn, with rain and blustery weather; the wind blew cold down the backs of the old willow trees, making them creak. It was no weather to fly about in summer clothes; you would soon be made to feel it, as the saying goes. But the butterfly was not flying about outside either. He had happened to find his way indoors, where a fire burned in the stove and it was truly as warm as summer; he could live there. But “Living is not enough!” he said. “One must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower!”
And he flew against the windowpane, where he was seen, admired, and pinned in a cabinet of curiosities; there was nothing more anyone could do for him. “Now I too sit on a stalk, like the flowers!” said the butterfly. “Still, it is not altogether pleasant! It must be like being married: one is stuck fast!” And with that he consoled himself.
“That is poor consolation!” said the potted plants in the room. “But you cannot quite trust potted plants,” the butterfly thought. “They spend too much time with people!”
