University of Virginia Library

LI.—THE HUNDRED-LEAVED ROSE.

The man contended with Kurent for the earth. Unable to
decide their dispute by agreement, they seized each other,
and struggled together up and down the earth for full seven
years; but neither could Kurent overcome the man, nor
the man Kurent. At that time they kicked the earth about
and broke it up, so that it became such as it now is: where
there was formerly nothing but wide plains, they dug out
ravines with their heels, and piled up mountains and hills.
When they were wearied with fighting, they both fell down
like dead corpses, and lay for a hundred and a hundred
years; and the mighty Dobrin hastened to the earth, bound
both the man and Kurent, and ruled the world. But the
two woke up, and, looking about them, observed Dobrin's
cords, and wondered who had thrown spider's webs over
them. Raising themselves, they broke their bonds as mere
spiders' webs, seized Dobrin, bound him with golden fetters,
and handed him over to a fiery dragon, to plait the lady-dragon's
hair and wash her white hands. Then said Kurent
to the man: `See, by quarrelling we got tired out, and fell
asleep, and a good-for-nothing came to us and ruled the
world. We have handed him over to the fiery dragon, but
if we contend as before, a stronger than Dobrin will come to
us, and will conquer both me and you, and we shall suffer
like silly Dobrin. But let us give up disputing; you are a
hero, and I think I am, too; the hills and abysses are our

witnesses, when they crashed under our heels. Hear, therefore,
and follow my advice. I have a garden, and in my
garden is a mysterious plant, the hundred-leaved rose. By
the root it is attached to the bottom of the earth, imprisoning
a terrible creature—the living fire. In vain does the creature
endeavour to release and free itself from its bonds, the roots.
But woe to us, if you pull up the hundred-leaved rose out of
the earth! The creature `living-fire' would force its way
through, and the earth, and all that is in it, would become
nothing but a mighty desert where the water has dried up.
Such is the root of the hundred-leaved rose. But don't
seize hold of its top, either. It is in your power to pull it
off, it is neither too strong nor lofty, but it conceals within
it wondrous powers—lightning and thunder. They would
knock to pieces both you and the earth, and all that is
beneath it and above it; the hundred-leaved rose would
alone remain; but a hundred and a hundred of God's years
would elapse before a new earth grew up around it, and a
living race was again produced. Such is the garden of the
hundred-leaved rose. But it also possesses extraordinary
petals. I have often sat a day at a time under them, and
the petals would comfort me, and sing songs sweeter than
even the slender throat of a Vila singing ever uttered. But
from the petals there is no danger; pluck them, and
next morning they will sprout forth handsomer than ever.
But up to the present time I have not injured them, but
have noticed in the night, how they fell and raised themselves
again; and I easily understood how the stars and
the moon go round, for all came up in the sky just like the
petals of the hundred-leaved rose. Come, then; let us ask
the wondrous plant, and then make peace together. The
first petal is yours, the second mine, the third belongs to
neither of us, and so on till we pluck all the petals: let him
who pulls off the last petal be ruler on the earth, but not for
ever, for that would be a disgrace to a hero, but for one of
God's hours, a hundred terrestrial years; and when the
hour passes, let that one rule again to whom that luck does
not fall the first time, whether it be I or you, so that we may
arrange to succeed each other in a friendly manner without
dispute and dangerous discord. But the beginning is difficult;
let us have no suspicion, either I as to you, or you as
to me, but let all be of goodwill, and without trickery; let
us ask the hundred-leaved rose, with whom there is no unrighteousness.
The man agreed to what Kurent said; one
hero trusted the other. They went off to the garden, and
asked the hundred-leaved rose. The man pulled a petal,
Kurent pulled one, and the third petal remained unowned.
`I am yours,' `you are mine,' `each is his own;' `I am
yours,' `you are mine,' `each is his own;' so said both
heroes, as they pulled the mysterious petals. But it was
not the will of the hundred-leaved rose that one autocrat
should rule the earth. There were still three petals, the
first belonging to the man, the second to Kurent, and the
third to neither, and this was the only one remaining on the
hundred-leaved rose. Kurent and the man saw that it was
not destined for either to rule or to humble himself; they
parted in grief, and roamed through the wide world, each
afraid of the other, so that they did not venture even to go
to sleep at night. An hour of God, a hundred terrestrial
years, elapsed, and then both heroes met again. For the
second time they consulted the hundred-leaved rose, and it
arranged it so, that Kurent was to humble himself, and the
man, who pulled off the last petal, was to rule. The hero
humbled himself to him, but the man did not know how to
rule, but allowed himself to be deluded, and lay down on a
plain to rest and sleep. Thus he lay for a whole hour of
God, a hundred terrestrial years, and the wild beasts came
up and made game of him: foxes littered in his ear, and
predaceous kites nested in his thick hair. The man was a
great simpleton, but also a mighty hero, as tall, as a plain,
the end of which you cannot see, is long, and as shaggy as
a wooded mountain. But the hour of God had elapsed,
and Kurent came to the sleeper, and woke him up in no
agreeable fashion. The man saw that he had slept through
his term of rule, and that it was his, according to the agreement,
to serve during an hour of God, a hundred terrestrial
years. Kurent began to rule, but he didn't go to sleep, but
made use of his rule, and exercised his power to the full.
He invited the man to dinner, and treated him in a courteous
and friendly manner, that he might soon forget his
servitude. Kurent kept this in view, and drew him a cup of
wine straight from his own vineyard. The simpleton was
tricked, and drank it up; but it tasted sour to him, so he
grumbled: `Bad drink at a bad host's!' Kurent did not
get angry at this, but drew him a second cup of old red
wine: `Drink, and don't find fault with what is God's.' The
second time the man was tricked and drank it up. It did not
taste sour to him, but he said: `Wondrous drink at a wondrous
host's!' Kurent drew him a third cup, of wonderful
wine, which the first plant, the first planted, yielded, of the
first autumn in the first created year. The third time the
man was tricked, but for ever. After drinking it up, he
threw his arms round Kurent's neck, and cried out: `Oh,
good drink at a good host's! Treat me with this wine, and
rule both my body and soul, not only for one hour of God,
but from henceforth for evermore.' Kurent was delighted,
and plied the man with sweet wine, and the man drank, and
cried without ceasing, that he had no need of freedom so
long as there was wine to be had with Kurent. Kurent
laughed at him, seeing how the man's powers had decayed
through wine, and that nobody could any more contend
with him for the sovereignty of the earth.