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.”