Prevod

A mother sat beside her little child, so sorrowful, so afraid that he would die. He was so pale; his little eyes were closed, and he breathed so softly, now and then drawing a deep breath as though he were sighing. And the mother gazed still more sorrowfully at the little soul.

Then there was a knock at the door, and a poor old man came in, wrapped in what looked like a great horse blanket, for it gave warmth, and he needed it: it was the cold of winter. Outside, everything lay under ice and snow, and the wind blew so sharply that it cut the face.

And as the old man was shivering with cold, and the little child had fallen asleep for a moment, the mother went and put some beer in a small pot inside the stove to warm it for him. The old man sat rocking the cradle, and the mother seated herself on the chair close beside him, looking at her sick child, who was breathing so deeply, and lifting his little hand.

"Don't you think I shall keep him?" she said. "Our Lord will not take him from me!" And the old man, who was Death himself, nodded so strangely that it might just as well have meant yes as no. And the mother looked down into her lap, and tears ran down her cheeks. Her head grew so heavy; for three days and nights she had not closed her eyes, and now she slept, but only for a moment. Then she started up, shivering with cold. "What is it?" she said, looking all around her. But the old man was gone, and her little child was gone: he had taken him away. And over in the corner the old clock whirred and whirred, its great lead weight ran right down to the floor—thump!—and then the clock, too, stood still.

But the poor mother ran out of the house and called for her child. Outside, in the midst of the snow, sat a woman in long black robes, and she said, "Death has been in your room. I saw him hurry away with your little child. He moves faster than the wind; he never brings back what he has taken!"

"Only tell me which way he went!" said the mother. "Tell me the way, and I shall find him!" "I know it!" said the woman in the black robes. "But before I tell you, you must sing me all the songs you have sung to your child. I love them; I have heard them before. I am Night, and I saw your tears as you sang them!"

"I will sing them all, every one!" said the mother. "But do not delay me, so that I may catch him, so that I may find my child!" But Night sat silent and still. Then the mother wrung her hands and sang and wept, and there were many songs, but still more tears. And then Night said, "Go to the right, into the dark fir wood. There I saw Death make his way with your little child!"

Deep in the wood the paths crossed, and she no longer knew which way to go. There stood a thornbush, without a leaf or a flower upon it, for it was the cold of winter, and ice hung on its branches.

"Have you seen Death pass by with my little child?" "Yes!" said the thornbush. "But I will not tell you which way he went unless you first warm me at your heart. I am freezing to death; I am turning all to ice!"

And she pressed the thornbush to her breast, holding it close so that it might be thoroughly warmed, and the thorns pierced her flesh, and her blood flowed in great drops. But the thornbush put forth fresh green leaves, and flowers bloomed upon it in the cold winter night, so warm was a grieving mother's heart. And the thornbush told her the way she must go.

Then she came to a great lake, where there was neither ship nor boat. The lake was not frozen enough to bear her, nor was it open and shallow enough for her to wade through, yet cross it she must if she was to find her child. So she lay down to drink the lake dry, and that, of course, was impossible for any human being, but the grieving mother thought that a miracle might yet happen. "No, that will never do!" said the lake. "Let us try instead to come to an agreement. I love collecting pearls, and your eyes are the two clearest I have ever seen. If you will weep them out for me, I shall carry you across to the great greenhouse where Death lives and tends flowers and trees. Each one is a human life!"

"Oh, what would I not give to reach my child!" said the tearful mother. And she wept still more, and her eyes sank into the depths and became two precious pearls. But the lake lifted her as though she were sitting in a swing, and in a single sweep she flew to the shore on the other side. There stood a strange house, miles wide; one could not tell whether it was a mountain with forests and caves, or whether it had been built of timber. But the poor mother could not see it, for she had wept her eyes away.

"Where shall I find Death, who went away with my little child?" she said. "He has not come here yet!" said the old grave-woman, whose task it was to look after Death's great greenhouse. "How did you find your way here, and who helped you?"

"Our Lord has helped me!" she said. "He is merciful, and you will be merciful too! Where shall I find my little child?" "Well, I do not know him," said the woman, "and you cannot see! Many flowers and trees have withered tonight; Death will soon come and transplant them. You know, surely, that every human being has a tree of life or a flower, according to each person's nature. They look like other plants, but they have a heartbeat. A child's heart can beat too! Follow the sound; perhaps you will recognize your child's. But what will you give me for telling you what else you must do?"

"I have nothing to give," said the grieving mother, "but I will go to the ends of the earth for you!" "Well, I have no business there!" said the woman. "But you can give me your long black hair. You know yourself that it is beautiful, and I like it! You shall have my white hair in return; that is something, at least!"

"If you ask nothing more," she said, "I will gladly give it to you!" And she gave her beautiful hair and received the old woman's snow-white hair in return. Then they went into Death's great greenhouse, where flowers and trees grew strangely mingled together. Delicate hyacinths stood beneath glass bells, and there were great, sturdy peonies. Water plants grew there, some so fresh, others half sickly; water snakes lay upon them, and black crayfish clutched their stems. There were lovely palm trees, oaks and plane trees; there were parsley and flowering thyme. Every tree and every flower had its name; each was a human life, and the human being was still alive, one in China, another in Greenland, all around the world. There were great trees in little pots, so cramped that they were on the point of bursting them; and in many places there was a small, dull flower in rich soil, with moss all around it, sheltered and tended. But the grieving mother bent over all the smallest plants and listened within them for the beating of the human heart, and among millions she recognized her child's.

"There he is!" she cried, stretching out her hand over a little blue crocus that drooped sickly to one side. "Do not touch the flower!" said the old woman. "But stand here, and when Death comes—I expect him at any moment—do not let him pull up the plant. Threaten to do the same to the other flowers, and then he will be afraid! He must answer to Our Lord for them; none may be pulled up until He gives leave."

All at once an icy rush swept through the hall, and the blind mother could feel that Death had come. "How did you find your way here?" he asked. "How could you come faster than I?"

"I am a mother," she said. And Death stretched his long hand towards the little, delicate flower, but she held her hands close around it, though afraid all the while that she might touch one of its leaves. Then Death blew upon her hands, and she felt that his breath was colder than the cold wind, and her hands fell helplessly to her sides.

"You can do nothing against me!" said Death. "But Our Lord can!" she said. "I do only what He wills!" said Death. "I am His gardener. I take all His flowers and trees and transplant them into the great Garden of Paradise in the unknown land. But how they grow there, and what it is like, I may not tell you!"

"Give me back my child!" said the mother, weeping and pleading. Suddenly she seized two beautiful flowers close by, one in each hand, and cried to Death, "I will tear up all your flowers, for I am in despair!"

"Do not touch them!" said Death. "You say you are so unhappy, and now you would make another mother just as unhappy!" "Another mother!" said the poor woman, and at once she let go of both flowers.

"Here are your eyes," said Death. "I fished them out of the lake; they shone so brightly. I did not know they were yours. Take them back; they are clearer now than before. Then look down into the deep well close by. I shall tell you the names of the two flowers you meant to tear up, and you will see their whole future, their entire human lives, and see what you would have disturbed and destroyed!"

And she looked down into the well. And it was a joy to see how one life became a blessing to the world, to see how much happiness and gladness unfolded all around it. And she saw the other life, and it was sorrow and want, horror and misery.

"Both are God's will!" said Death. "Which is the flower of misfortune, and which the flower of blessing?" she asked. "That I will not tell you," said Death. "But this you shall learn from me: one of the flowers was your own child's. It was your child's fate you saw, your own child's future!"

Then the mother cried out in terror, "Which of them was my child? Tell me! Save the innocent one! Save my child from all that misery! Rather carry him away! Carry him into God's Kingdom! Forget my tears, forget my prayers and everything I have said and done!"

"I do not understand you!" said Death. "Do you wish to have your child back, or shall I take him into that place you do not know?" Then the mother wrung her hands, fell upon her knees, and prayed to Our Lord: "Do not hear me when I pray against Your will, which is best! Do not hear me! Do not hear me!"

And she bowed her head into her lap. And Death went with her child into the unknown land.