When I was a child, my dear Aurora, I was very worried that I could not catch the conversation of the flowers. My professor of botany told me that they did not say anything, whether he was deaf or did not want to tell me the truth, but he insisted that the flowers did not say anything. I was absolutely sure of something else. I heard them shyly whispering, especially when the evening dew fell on them, but, unfortunately, they spoke too quietly so that I could disassemble their words, and then they were incredulous. When I walked through the garden near the flower beds or along the path past the haymaking, then in the air there was heard over all the space some sh-sh-i, this sound ran from one flower to another and as if wanted to say: “Let’s go, we’ll shut up!”
Near us is the child who listens to us. But I insisted: I tried to go so quietly that under my steps, not a single grass moved. They calmed down, and I moved closer and closer. Then, in order that
they did not notice me, I bent down and went under the shade of the trees. Finally I managed to overhear a lively conversation. It was necessary to concentrate all your attention, because it was such tender voices, so pleasant and delicate that the slightest fresh breeze, the buzzing of large butterflies or the flight of moths – completely concealed them.
I do not know what language they spoke. It was neither French nor Latin, which I was then taught, but I somehow understood it well. I even thought that I understand this language much better than any other that I have heard so far. One evening in one covered corner I lay down on the sand, and I managed to listen very clearly all the conversation that was going on around me. Throughout the garden there was a rumble, all the flowers spoke at once, and there was no need for special curiosity to learn more than one secret at a time.
I remained motionless – and that’s what conversation was going on in the field of red poppies. “Gracious sovereigns and sovereigns!” It’s time to end this stupidity. All plants are equally noble,
our family is not inferior to any other – and therefore let whoever wants, recognizes the primacy of the rose, as for me, then I repeat to you that it all bore me terribly, and I do not recognize anyone else’s right be considered better than me by origin and title. The daisies answered all this at once, that the orator, the field red poppy, was absolutely right.
One of the daisies, which was bigger and more beautiful than the others, asked for words. “I never understood,” she said, “why the rose society takes on such an important appearance.” Why, I ask you, is the rose better and more beautiful than me? Nature and art are equally cared for to multiply our petals and to enhance the brightness of our colors. On the contrary, we are much richer, because the best rose will have no more than two hundred petals, we have up to five hundred. As for the color, then we have purple and pure blue – just the kind that roses do not have. “And I,” said the big Cavalry Spur with a passion, “I’m Princess Delphinia, I have a blue azure on my crown, and my numerous relatives have all the pinkish shades.”
The imaginary queen of flowers can envy us much, but as for her vaunted smell. “Please do not tell me about this,” the red poppy field interrupted. – Bragging with a smell is getting on my nerves. What is smell? Explain to me, please. You may, for example, think that the rose smells bad, but I smell sweet. “We do not smell anything,” said the daisy, “and that, I hope, sets an example of good taste and taste.” Spirits are a sign of immodesty and vanity. A plant that respects itself does not make itself felt by the smell: it is enough for its beauty. “I do not share your opinion!” – cried the poppy, which smelled strongly – the perfume is a sign of health and intelligence. The words of a thick poppy were covered with laughter.