THE TALE OF THE TOAD AND THE ROSE
Once there lived a rose and a toad. The bush on which the rose blossomed grew in a small semicircular garden in front of a country cottage. The garden was sadly neglected; rank weeds grew over the old sunken flower-beds and the garden walks, and it was long since anyone had swept them or sprinkled sand over them. The wooden fence with railings fashioned in the shape of spikelets, which had once been painted green, had cracked and crumbled, and the paint had all peeled off; the railings had been pulled out by the village boys to play soldiers with, and by peasants coming to the house, who used them to fight off the angry mongrel and the other dogs who kept him company.
But the flower-garden was none the worse for this damage. The remains of the fence were entwined with hops, large white-flowered bindweed and mouse-ear chickweed, which hung upon them in pale-green clusters of pale-lilac flowers scattered here and there. The prickly thistles grew to such a size on the rich moist soil (all around the flower-garden was a large shady orchard) that they looked almost like trees. The yellow moth mulleins reared their flowery spikes still higher. The nettles occupied a pretty large corner of the flower-garden; they stung, of course, but then one could admire their dark foliage from a distance, especially when it made a background for the pale beauty of the delicate rose petals.
The rose blossomed one fine May morning; when it opened out its petals the fleeing morning dew left several bright teardrops upon them. It seemed as if the rose was weeping. But the world around her was so beautiful, so clear and sunny on that lovely morning when first she saw the blue sky, and felt the fresh morning breeze, and the beams of the radiant sun shone through her delicate petals with a rosy light; and it was so quiet and peaceful in the flower-garden, that if she could have wept, she would have done so, not through sadness but through the sheer joy of living. She could not speak; all she could do was to nod her dainty head and spread around her a delicate fragrance, and in that fragrance was her speech, her tears, and her prayer.
Meanwhile, between the roots of the bush on the damp ground below-as if clinging to it on his flat stomach-sat a fairly fat old toad, who, after having hunted worms and midges all night, had sat down towards the morning to rest from his labours, choosing for the purpose a nice damp and shady spot. He sat with hooded eyes and you could hardly tell that he was breathing; his dingy-grey, warty, sticky sides worked like bellows, and one ugly webbed foot stuck out on one side-he was too lazy to draw it in under his belly. He found no pleasure in the morning, the sunshine or the fine weather; he had eaten his fill and was going to have a nap.
But when the breeze dropped for a moment and the scent of the rose was not wafted away, the toad smelt it, and felt vaguely uneasy. For a long time, however, he was too lazy to look where the smell came from.
It was long since anyone had visited the flower-garden where the rose grew and the toad sat. It had been in the autumn of the previous year, just on the day when the toad had found a nice hole for himself under one of the stones of the house's foundation and was about to crawl in there for his long winter sleep, that the little boy, who had been sitting in the garden every sunny day all through the summer, had last been there. He had sat under the window, while his sister, a grown-up girl, had sat next to him reading a book or doing some sewing, and glancing occasionally at her brother. He was a little boy of seven with big eyes and a large head on a thin body. He was very fond of his flower-garden (it was his because hardly anyone else ever went into that desolate spot), and when he came there he would sit down in the sun on an old wooden bench, standing in a dry sandy path right near the house-the path had survived because it was used for reaching the shutters when they had to be closed--and would start reading a book which he had brought with him.
"Would you like me to throw you the ball, Vasya?" his sister had asked him from the window. "Don't you want to run about and play with it?"
"No, Masha, I'd rather sit with a book."
And he would sit there for a long time, reading. When he got tired of reading about Robinson Crusoes, and savage lands, and sea pirates, he would leave the open book and make his way into the heart of the flower-garden. Here he knew every bush and almost every stalk. He squatted down in front of the thick stem of the moth mullein, which was surrounded with hairy whitish leaves, and was twice as tall as he, and watched the little ant people running up it to milk their cows-the plant lice; the ant would delicately touch the thin little tubes sticking up on their backs and collect the tiny drops of sweet clear fluid that appeared at the ends of the tubes. He watched the dung-beetle busily struggling along with his ball, the spider spreading his cunning rainbow-hued net and lying in wait for a fly, and the flat-nosed lizard basking in the sun with open mouth, the green corselets on its back gleaming; and once, towards the evening, he had seen a real live hedgehog! He had scarcely been able to contain himself from crying out and clapping his hands for sheet joy; afraid to scare the prickly little beast, he had sat there holding his breath, his happy eyes wide and shining, gazing rapturously at it as it snorted and sniffed at the roots of the rose bush with its little pig's snout, looking for worms, and working its fat bear-like little paws in a funny way.
"Vasya, you'd better come in, darling, it's getting damp," his sister had called.
Frightened by the human voice, the hedgehog had quickly drawn his coat of quills over his head and hind paws and rolled himself up into a ball. The boy touched the spines gingerly; the little beast had shrunk smaller and started puffing rapidly like a little steam-engine.
Afterwards he had improved his acquaintance with that hedgehog. He was such a frail, quiet, gentle little boy that even the smallest of creatures seemed to understand it and took to him quickly. How glad he was when the hedgehog tasted the milk which the master of the garden had brought him in a saucer!
This spring the boy was unable to come out to his favourite spot. His sister still sat by him, this time not at the window, but at his bedside; she was reading a book, but not for herself; she was reading it out loud to him, because it was hard for him to lift his head from the white pillows, hard for him to hold even the smallest of books in his wasted hands, not to mention that his eyes quickly grew tired from reading. It looked as if he would never go out to his favourite spot any more.
"Masha!" he suddenly whispered to his sister.
"Yes, darling?"
"It's nice in the garden now, isn't it? Have the roses blossomed?"
His sister leaned over and kissed his pale cheek, furtively wiping away a tear.
"It is nice, dear, very nice. And the roses have blossomed too. We shall go out there together on Monday. The doctor will allow you to go out."
The boy did not answer, and drew a deep sigh. His sister began reading to him again.
"That will do. I am tired. I want to sleep."
His sister straightened his pillows and the white coverlet, and he turned over with difficulty towards the wall. The sun shone through the window, which looked out on the flower-garden, and threw its bright beams upon the bed and the little figure that lay on it, lighting up the pillows and the coverlet and gilding the short-cut hair and thin neck of the child.
was all a rose's span! But short though it was, it had its full measure of fear and sorrow.
The toad had seen her.
When he saw the flower for the first time with his wicked ugly eyes, something strange stirred within him. He could not tear himself away from the tender pink petals, and he kept staring and staring. He took a fancy to the rose and felt a desire to come closer to that fragrant and beautiful creature. And to express his tender feelings, he could think of nothing better to say than these words:
"You wait," he croaked, "I'll gobble you up!"
The rose shuddered. Why was she fixed to her stem? The free birds twittered around her, fluttering and hopping from twig to twig; sometimes they flew far away, no one knew where. The butterflies, too, were free. How she envied them! If she were like one of them, she would take wing and flee the wicked eyes that pursued her with their staring look. The rose knew not that toads sometimes hunt butterflies too.
"I'll gobble you up!" the toad repeated, moving closer to the rose. He tried to speak in as sweet a voice as he could, but the effect was more sinister than ever.
"I'll gobble you up!" he repeated, staring all the time at the flower. The poor thing watched with horror as the nasty sticky paws clutched the branches of the bush on which she was growing. But it was hard for the toad to climb: his flat body could only crawl and hop about on level ground. After each attempt he looked up at the nodding swaying flower, and the poor rose had her heart in her mouth.
"Good God!" she prayed, "any other death but this!" Meanwhile the toad kept clambering up. But at the point where the old stalks ended and the young twigs began he had rather a bad time of it. The smooth dark green bark of the rose bush was studded with hard sharp thorns. The toad pricked all his feet and his belly on them, and fell bleeding to the ground. He glared at the blossom with hatred.
"I said I would gobble you up, and I will!" he repeated.
Evening set in; it was time to think of supper, and so the wounded toad slunk away to catch the insects napping. Rage did not prevent him from stuffing his belly as full as he always did; his injuries were not serious and he decided, after having had a rest, to try and reach that fascinating and hateful flower again.
He took a fairly long rest. Morning came, then noon, and the rose had almost forgotten her enemy. She had opened out to the full now and was the most beautiful creation in the flower-garden. There was nobody to come and admire her, though: the young master lay helpless in his little bed, and his sister did not leave his side or go over to the window. Only the birds and the butterflies fluttered around the rose and the buzzing bees sometimes alighted on her open corolla and flew out covered with the yellow pollen, which gave them quite a shaggy look. A nightingale flew into the rose bush and began to sing his song. How unlike the croaking of the toad it was! The rose listened to the song and was happy. She thought the nightingale was singing for her, and perhaps he really was. She did not notice her enemy, who was creeping stealthily up the branches. This time the toad spared neither paws nor belly; covered with blood, he crawled doggedly up and up-and, all of a sudden, amid the sweet tender notes of the nightingale, she heard the familiar hideous croaking: "I said I would gobble you up, and I will!"
The little master had been lying still for quite a time. Sitting in a chair by his bedside, his sister thought that he was asleep. In her lap lay an open book, but she was not reading it. Little by little her weary head drooped: the poor girl had been sitting up with her sick brother for several nights, and now fell into a light doze.
"Masha," the boy suddenly whispered.
His sister started. She had been dreaming that she was sitting by the window, and her little brother was playing in the garden, like the year before, and was calling her. She opened her eyes, and seeing him in bed, emaciated and weak, she drew a deep sigh.
"What is it, darling?"
"Masha, you told me the roses were blossoming! May I... have one?"
"Of course you may, darling!" She went up to the window and looked at the bush. A single but gorgeous rose was growing on it.
"A rose has blossomed just for you, and such a lovely one! I'll put it here next to your bed in a glass of water, shall I?"
"Yes, do. I'd like it."
The girl took a scissors and went out into the garden. She had not been out of doors for a long time; the sun dazzled her, and the fresh air made her slightly dizzy. She went up to the bush at the very moment when the toad was making ready to seize the rose.
"Oh, what a horrid thing!" she cried, and seizing the twig, she gave it a hard shake. The toad dropped off and his belly hit the ground with a smack. In a fit of rage he tried to jump at the girl, but he could jump no higher than the hem of her dress, and was kicked far away. He did not dare to try again after that, and could do nothing but watch the girl from a safe distance. Carefully she cut the flower and took it into the room.
When the boy saw his sister with the flower in her hand he smiled feebly for the first time in many weeks, and, with an effort, made a movement with his emaciated hand.
"Let me have it," he whispered. "I want to smell it."
"Ah, how lovely! . . ."
Then his little face grew set and grave, and he fell silent for ever.
whole bouquets there of other flowers, but, to tell the truth, no one even looked at them. Not so with the rose. When the young girl placed it on the table she raised it to her lips and kissed it. A teardrop rolled down her cheek on to the flower, and that was the best thing that had ever happened to the rose in all her life. When she began to fade she was laid between the leaves of a thick old book and dried, and then, many years afterwards, she was given to me. That is how I know the story.
1884