Iris

In the spring of his childhood Anselm ran through the green garden. One flower among his mother’s flowers was called the iris, which he was particularly fond of. He held his cheek to its tall, light green leaves, groped his fingers to its sharp points, sniffed the great wonderful flower and looked into it for a long time. Long rows of yellow fingers stood up from the pale bluish flower ground, between them a clear path ran away and down into the chalice and the distant blue mystery of the blossom. He loved them very much and looked for a long time and saw the fine yellow limbs now standing like a golden fence in the king’s garden, now as a double corridor of beautiful dream trees that no wind moves, and between them the mysterious path ran brightly and criss-crossed with glassy veins inside. The curve expanded enormously, backwards the path between the golden trees lost itself infinitely deep into unimaginable gullies, above it the violet curve arched regally and cast magical thin shadows over the silent waiting wonder. Anselm knew that this was the flower’s mouth was that behind the magnificent yellow plants in the blue throat her heart and her thoughts lived and that her breath and her dreams went in and out of this lovely, light, glassy veined path.

And next to the large blossom stood smaller ones that had not yet opened, they stood on firm, juicy stems in a small goblet made of brownish green skin, from them the young blossom rose quietly and powerfully, tightly wrapped in light green and purple, above but looked out, tightly and delicately, at the young, deep violet with a fine point. Even on these tightly rolled, young flower petals, veins and hundreds of drawings could be seen.

In the morning, when he came back from the house and from sleep and dream and strange worlds, the garden stood untouched and always new and waited for him, and where yesterday a hard blue flower tip had stared tightly rolled out of a green bowl, there now hung thin and blue like the air of a young leaf, like a tongue and like a lip, groping for its shape and curvature, of which it had long dreamed, and at the bottom, where it was still in a silent struggle with its shell, one already suspected fine yellow growths, clear veined pathways and distant, fragrant abyss of the soul. Maybe at noon, maybe in the evening it was open, arched a blue silk tent over a golden dream forest, and her first dreams, thoughts and songs came quietly breathing out of the magical abyss.

One day came when there were blue bluebells in the grass. There came a day when suddenly there was a new sound and smell in the garden, and above a reddish one The first tea rose hung soft and red-gold on the sunlit leaves. There came a day when there were no more irises. They had gone, no more gold-fenced path led delicately down into fragrant secrets, alien, rigid leaves stood, pointed and cool. But red berries were ripe in the bushes, and new, unheard-of butterflies flew freely and playfully over the star flowers, reddish brown ones with mother-of-pearl backs and whirring, glass-winged hawkers.

Anselm talked to the butterflies and to the pebbles, he had the beetle and the lizard as a friend, birds told him bird stories, ferns secretly showed him the brown seeds collected under the roof of the giant leaves, broken glass green and crystals caught the sunbeam and became palaces, Gardens and a sparkling treasury. If the lilies were gone, the capuchins would bloom, if the tea roses withered, the blackberries turned brown, everything shifted, was always there and always gone, disappeared and came back in time, and also the anxious, strange days when the wind was blowing cold in the fir tree and in the whole garden the withered leaves so pale and dead rattled, brought another song, an experience, a story, until everything sank again, snow fell in front of the windows and palm forests grew on the panes, angels with silver bells flew through the evening and the hallway and floor smelled of dried fruit. Friendship and trust never went out in this good world, and when suddenly snowdrops shone again next to the black ivy leaves and the first birds flew high through new blue heights, it was as if everything had been there forever. Until one day, never expected and yet always exactly as it had to be and always immediately desired, a first bluish flower tip peeked out of the iris stems again.

Everything was beautiful, Anselm welcomed everything, friends and familiar, but the greatest moment of magic and grace for the boy each year was the first bearded iris. In her goblet, in the earliest childhood dream, he had read the Book of Miracles for the first time, her scent and waving multiple blue had been a call and key to creation. So the iris went with him through all the years of his innocence, becoming new, more mysterious and touching every new summer. Other flowers also had a mouth, other flowers also sent out scents and thoughts, others also lured bees and beetles into their small, sweet chambers. But The blue lily had become more dear and important to the boy than any other flower; it became a parable and example of everything worth thinking about and wonderful. When he looked into her goblet and, deeply, followed this bright, dreamy path with his thoughts, between the strange yellow bushes towards the twilight interior of the flowers, then his soul looked into the gate, where the apparition becomes a riddle and the sight becomes an inkling. Even at night he sometimes dreamed of this goblet of flowers, saw it opened in an enormous size like the gate of a heavenly palace, rode horses, flew in on swans, and with it the whole world flew and rode and glided softly, drawn by magic, into and down the lovely gullet, where every expectation had to be fulfilled and every hunch had to become truth.

Every appearance on earth is a parable, and every parable is an open gate through which the soul, when it is ready, can go into the interior of the world, where you and I and day and night are all one. The open gate stands in the way of every person here and there in his life, every one of them the thought that everything visible is a parable and that behind the parable the spirit and eternal life dwell. Few, of course, go through the gate and give the beautiful glow for the anticipated reality of the interior.

Thus his flower goblet appeared to the boy Anselm as the open, silent question, to which his soul pressed toward a blissful answer in a well-flowing premonition. Then again the lovely variety of things pulled him away, in conversations and games about grass and stones, roots, bush, animals and all the friendliness of his world. Often he sank deep into contemplation of himself, he sat surrendered to the peculiarities of his body, with closed eyes, while swallowing, singing, breathing, felt strange impulses, feelings and ideas in his mouth and throat, felt the path and there too according to the gates where soul can go to soul. He observed with admiration the significant color figures that often appeared to him from purple dark when eyes closed, spots and semicircles of blue and deep red, glassy light lines in between. Sometimes Anselm felt the fine, hundredfold connections between eye and ear, smell and touch, with joyful and frightened movements, felt for beautiful fleeting moments tones, sounds, letters and immediately related to red, blue, hard and soft, or wondered at smelling an herb or a peeled green bark, how strangely close smell and taste were together and often merged and became one.

All children feel this way, if not all with the same strength and tenderness, and for many this is all gone and like never before, even before they learned to read the first letter. The secret of childhood stays close to others for a long time, and they take a remnant and reverberation of it with them to their white hair and the late, tired days. All children, as long as they are still in the secret, are constantly occupied in their soul with the only important thing, with themselves and with the puzzling connection of their own person with the world around them. With the years of maturity, seekers and sages return to these occupations, but most people forget and leave this inner world of the truly important at an early age and wander for life in the colorful madness of worries, wishes and goals, none of which is in theirs Innermost, none of which leads them back to their innermost being and home.

Anselm’s children’s summers and autumns came gently and went unheard, again and again snowbells bloomed and faded, violets, gold lacquer, lily, evergreen and rose, beautiful and rich as ever. He lived with him, the flower and the bird spoke to him, the tree and the fountain listened to him, and he took his first written letter and his first friendship sorrow with him in the old fashion over to the garden, to his mother, to the colored stones in the bed.

But once there came a spring that sounded and smelled not like all the earlier ones that the blackbird sang, and it was not the old song, the blue iris bloomed, and no dreams and fairy tales wandered off and on on the gold-fenced path of their chalice. The strawberries laughed, hidden from their green shadows, and the butterflies staggered gleaming over the tall cones, and everything was no longer as it always was, and other things were the boy’s business, and he had a lot of arguments with his mother. He himself didn’t know what it was and why something hurt him and why something was bothering him all the time. He only saw that the world was changed and that the friendships of the past fell away from him and left him alone.

So went a year, and then another, and Anselm was no longer a child, and the colored stones around the bed were boring, and the flowers were mute, and he had stuck the beetles on needles in a box, and his soul had it long, hard detour and the old joys dried up and withered.

The young person impetuously entered the life that now seemed to be just beginning. The world of parables was blown away and forgotten, new wishes and ways lured him away. His childhood still hung like a scent in his blue eyes and soft hair, but he did not love it when he was reminded of it, and cut his hair short and showed as much boldness and knowledge in his eyes as he could. In a moody way, he stormed through them anxious, waiting years, good pupil soon and friend, now alone and shy, once buried in books until late at night, once wild and loud at the first youthful feasts. He had had to leave his home country and only rarely saw her again on short visits, when he came home to his mother changed, grown and finely dressed. He brought friends with him, brought books, always different, and when he walked through the old garden, the garden was small and was silent before his distracted gaze. Never again did he read stories in the colorful veins of the stones and leaves, never again saw God and eternity live in the mystery of the blue iris.

Anselm was a schoolboy, was a student, he returned home with a red and then a yellow cap, with a fuzz on his lip and a young beard. He brought with him books in foreign languages ​​and once a dog, and in a leather folder on his chest he carried now secret poems, now copies of ancient wisdom, now portraits and letters of pretty girls. He returned and had been far in foreign lands and had lived on great ships at sea. He returned and was a young scholar, wearing a black hat and dark gloves, and the old neighbors donned their hats in front of him and called him Professor, although he was not yet one. He came back wearing black clothes and left slender and serious after the slow carriage on which his old mother lay in the decorated coffin. And then he rarely came back.

In the big city, where Anselm now taught the students and was considered a famous scholar, there he went, walked, sat and stood just like other people in the world, in fine coats and hats, serious or friendly, with eager and sometimes somewhat tired eyes , and was a gentleman and a researcher as he had wanted to be. Now he felt the same as he had at the end of his childhood. He suddenly felt many years had slipped behind him and stood strangely alone and unsatisfied in the middle of the world he had always sought. It was not really lucky to be a professor, it was not full pleasure to be greeted deeply by citizens and students. Everything was like withered and dusty, and happiness was far in the future again, and the way there looked hot and dusty and ordinary.

During this time Anselm came to the house of a friend a lot, whose sister attracted him. It was no longer easy for him to pursue a pretty face, that too had changed, and he felt that happiness must come for him in a special way and that it could not lie behind every window. He liked his friend’s sister very much, and he often thought he knew that he truly loved her. But she was a special girl every step and every word of her was colored and shaped in its own way, and it was not always easy to walk with her and find the same step with her. When Anselm sometimes paced up and down in his lonely apartment in the evening and thoughtfully listened to his own step through the empty rooms, then he argued a lot with himself about his girlfriend. She was older than he would have liked his wife to be. She was very peculiar, and it would be difficult to live beside her and pursue his learned ambition, for she didn’t want to hear from him. Nor was she very strong or healthy, and especially could not endure company and parties. She preferred to live with flowers and songs and a book about her, in lonely silence, waiting for someone to come to her and letting the world go its way. Sometimes she was so tender and sensitive that anything strange hurt her and made her cry easily. Then again she shone quietly and delicately in a lonely happiness, and whoever saw it felt how difficult it was to give something to this beautiful, strange woman and to mean something to her. Anselm often believed that she loved him, often it seemed to him that she loved no one, was just gentle and friendly with everyone, and wanted nothing from the world but to be left alone. But he wanted something different from life, and if he were to have a wife, there would have to be life and sound and hospitality in the house. To give something to this beautiful strange woman and to mean something to her. Anselm often believed that she loved him, often it seemed to him that she loved no one, was just gentle and friendly with everyone, and wanted nothing from the world but to be left alone. But he wanted something different from life, and if he were to have a wife, there would have to be life and sound and hospitality in the house. To give something to this beautiful strange woman and to mean something to her. Anselm often believed that she loved him, often it seemed to him that she loved no one, was just gentle and friendly with everyone, and wanted nothing from the world but to be left alone. But he wanted something different from life, and if he were to have a wife, there would have to be life and sound and hospitality in the house.

“Iris,” he said to her, “dear Iris, if only the world were arranged differently! If there was nothing but your beautiful, gentle world with flowers, thoughts and music, then I would want nothing more than to be with you all my life, to hear your stories and to live with you in your thoughts. Your name alone does me good, Iris is a wonderful name, I don’t even know what it reminds me of. ”

“You know,” she said, “that the blue and yellow irises are called that.”

“Yes,” he exclaimed with an uneasy feeling, “I know that, and that is very nice. But whenever I say your name, he also wants to remind me of something, I don’t know what, as if it were linked to very deep, distant, important memories, and yet I neither know nor find what it could be . ”

Iris smiled at him, who stood perplexed and rubbed his forehead with his hand.

“I feel like this every time,” she said to Anselm in her voice as light as a bird, “when I smell a flower. Then every time my heart thinks that the scent is a souvenir of something extremely beautiful and precious, which was once mine before and which I have lost. It’s the same with music, and sometimes with poetry – something suddenly flashes, for a moment, as if you were one would suddenly see lost home lying beneath you in the valley, and is immediately gone and forgotten. Dear Anselm, I believe that we are on earth for this purpose, for this meditation, searching and listening to lost distant tones, and behind them lies our true home. ”

“How nice you say that,” flattered Anselm, and he felt an almost painful movement in his own chest, as if a hidden compass was inevitably pointing to its distant goal. But this goal was completely different from what he wanted to give it to his life, and that hurt, and was it worthy of him to gamble away his life in dreams after pretty fairy tales?

Meanwhile, one day came when Herr Anselm had returned from a lonely journey and found himself received so cold and oppressively by his bare scholarly apartment that he ran to his friends and was disposed to ask the beautiful Iris for her hand.

“Iris,” he said to her, “I don’t like to go on living like this. You have always been my good friend, I have to tell you everything. I have to have a wife, otherwise my life will feel empty and meaningless. And who should I wish for as a woman but you, you love flower? Do you want Iris? You should have as many flowers as you can find, you should have the most beautiful garden. Would you like to come to me? ”

Iris looked long and calm into his eyes, she smiled and did not blush and answered him in a firm voice:

“Anselm, I am not surprised at your question. I love you, although I never thought of becoming your wife. But look, my friend, I make great demands of whoever I am to be wife of. I make bigger demands than most women make. You offered me flowers and you mean well by them. But I can also live without flowers, and also without music, I could do without all this and much more if it had to be. But one thing I can and will never do without: I can never live for even one day in such a way that the music in my heart is not the main thing for me. If I am to live with a man, it must be one whose inner music goes well with mine, and that his own music should be pure and that it should sound good to mine, must be his only desire. Can you do that Friend? You will probably not gain any further fame or honor, your house will be quiet, and the wrinkles that I have known on your forehead for many years must all be removed. Oh, Anselm, it won’t work. See, you are so that you always have to study new wrinkles in your forehead and always have to worry about new things, and what I am thinking and what I am, you love that and think it is pretty, but it is for you as for most just a fine toy. Oh, listen to me: everything that is a toy to you now is life itself to me and should be it to you too, and everything that you turn to effort and care is a toy for me, is not worth it for my purposes, that one lives for it. – I will not change any more, Anselm, because I live according to a law that is in me. But will you be able to be different? And you would have to be completely different so that I could be your wife. ”

Anselm was shocked to say nothing about her will, which he had meant weak and playful. He was silent and heedlessly crushed a flower that he had taken from the table in his excited hand.

Then Iris gently took the flower from his hand – it struck his heart like a serious reproach – and suddenly smiled brightly and lovingly, as if she had hopelessly found a way out of the dark.

“I have a thought,” she said softly, blushing as she did so. “You will find him strange, he will seem a whim to you. But he’s not a whim. Do you want to listen to him? And do you want to accept him, that he should decide about you and me? ”

Without understanding her, Anselm looked at his girlfriend, worry on her pale features. Her smile forced him to take confidence and say yes.

“I want to give you a task,” said Iris and quickly got very serious again.

“Do that, it is your right,” the friend surrendered.

“I’m serious,” she said, “and my last word. Do you want to accept it as it comes from my soul and not market and haggle on it, even if you do not understand it immediately? ”

Anselm promised. Then she said, getting up and shaking hands with him:

“You have told me several times that every time you say my name you feel reminded of something you have forgotten, something that was once important and sacred to you. That’s a sign, Anselm, and that’s what has drawn you to me over the years. I too believe that you have lost important and sacred things in your soul and have forgotten what must first be awake again before you can find happiness and achieve what is determined for you. – Farewell, Anselm! I give you my hand and ask you: go and see that you can find what you are reminded of by my name in your memory. On the day you found it again, I want to go with you as your wife wherever you want and have no more wishes than yours. ”

Confused, the confused Anselm wanted to interrupt her and scold her at this demand, but she reminded him of his promise with a clear look and he was silent. With downcast eyes he took her hand, drew it to his lips and went out.

There were a number of tasks he had undertaken and solved in his life, but none had been as strange, important, and daunting as these. He walked around days and days and thought about it tiredly, and again and again the hour came when, desperate and angry, he scolded this whole task in a crazy womanly mood and threw it aside in his thoughts. But then something contradicted deep inside him, a very subtle, secret pain, a very gentle, barely audible warning. That fine voice, which was in his own heart, agreed with Iris and made the same request as she.

This task alone was too difficult for the learned man. He was supposed to remember something he had long since forgotten, he was supposed to find a single golden thread from the cobweb of sunken years, he was supposed to grab something with his hands and offer to his beloved what was nothing but a blown bird’s call, a hint of lust or mourning while listening to music that was thinner, more fleeting, and more disembodied than a thought, more vain than a nightly dream, more indefinite than a morning mist.

Sometimes, when he had given up all of this in a despairing mood and given up in a bad mood, then something suddenly wafted into him like a breath from distant gardens, he whispered the name Iris to himself, ten times or more, softly and playing like one Checks tone on a tensioned string. “Iris,” he whispered, “Iris,” and with a fine pain he felt something move inside him, like in an old abandoned house a door opens for no reason and a shop creaks. He scrutinized his memories, which he had believed to be well organized, and in doing so he made strange and dismaying discoveries. His treasure trove of memories was infinitely smaller than he would have ever thought. Whole years were missing and stood empty like blank pages when he thought back. He found that he was having great difficulty visualizing his mother’s picture again. He had completely forgotten the name of a girl whom he had followed with burning advertisements as a youth for a year. A dog occurred to him which he once bought on a whim as a student and who lived and lived with him for a while. It took him days to come up with the dog’s name again.

The poor man saw painfully, with growing sadness and fear, how dissolute and empty his life lay behind him, no longer belonging to him, alien to him and unrelated to him, like something that one had once learned by heart and of which one is now with difficulty brings together dreary fragments. He began to write; year after year he wanted to write down his most important experiences so that he could have them firmly in his hands again. But where were his most important Adventures? That he had become a professor? That he had once been a doctor, once a pupil, once a student? Or that once, in a lost time, he had liked this girl or that for a while? He looked up frighteningly: was that life? Was that all? And he hit his forehead and laughed violently.

Meanwhile time was running, never had it run so quickly and relentlessly! A year was up and it seemed to him that he was standing exactly in the same place as in the hour when he left Iris. But he had changed a lot during this time, what everyone but himself saw and knew. He had gotten both older and younger. He had almost become a stranger to his acquaintances; he was found absent-minded, moody and strange; he had the reputation of a strange owl, for whom it was a pity, but he had remained a bachelor too long. It happened that he forgot his duties and that his students waited in vain for him. It happened that he crept thoughtfully through a street, following the houses, and wiped the dust from the cornices with the neglected coat tucking away. Some said he had started drinking.

Long ago, on the hopeless foray behind the scents and drifted tracks, a new meaning had come to him, but of which he himself knew nothing. It had happened to him more and more often that behind what he had previously called memories lay other memories, as on an old painted wall, sometimes older, once overpainted, slumbered behind the old pictures. He wanted to think about something, like the name of a city in which he had spent days as a traveler, or the birthday of a friend or something, and by digging through and rummaging through a small piece of the past like rubble, suddenly something else occurred to him. A breath fell over him, like an April morning wind or like a September foggy day, he smelled a scent, he tasted a taste, he felt dark, delicate feelings somewhere, on his skin, in his eyes, in his heart, and slowly he realized: it must have been a day, blue, warm, or cool, gray, or some other day , and the essence of that day must have got caught up in it and stuck with it as a dark memory. He couldn’t find the spring or winter day, which he clearly smelled and felt, in the real past, there were no names or numbers, maybe it was student days, maybe it was still in the cradle, but the scent was and the essence of that day must have got caught up in it and stuck with it as a dark memory. He couldn’t find the spring or winter day, which he clearly smelled and felt, in the real past, there were no names or numbers, maybe it was student days, maybe it was still in the cradle, but the scent was and the essence of that day must have got caught up in it and stuck with it as a dark memory. He could not find the spring or winter day, which he clearly smelled and felt, in the real past, there were no names or numbers, maybe it was student days, maybe it was still in the cradle, but the scent was there, and he felt something alive within himself, of which he did not know and which he could not name or determine. Sometimes it seemed to him that these memories could also reach back to life in the pasts of a previous existence, although he smiled at them.

Anselm found a lot on his perplexed wanderings through the gullies of memory. He found many things that touched and seized him, and many things that frightened and frightened, but he did not find one thing that the name Iris meant for him.

Once, in the agony of not being able to find anything, he went back to his old home, saw the forests and alleys, the walkways and fences again, stood in the old garden of his childhood and felt the waves flood over his heart, the past embraced him like a dream. He came back from there sad and quiet. He let himself be called sick and sent away anyone who wanted to see him.

One came to him anyway. It was his friend he hadn’t seen since his advertisement for Iris. He came and saw Anselm sitting neglected in his joyless hermitage.

“Get up,” he said to him, “and come with me. Iris wants to see you. ”

Anselm jumped up.

“Iris! What about her? – O I know, I know! ”

“Yes,” said the friend, “come with me! She wants to die, she has been sick for a long time. ”

They went to Iris, who was lying on a couch, light and narrow as a child, and smiled brightly from enlarged eyes. She gave Anselm her light, white child’s hand, which lay like a flower in his, and her face was transfigured.

“Anselm,” she said, “are you angry with me? I have given you a difficult task and I see you have remained loyal to it. Keep searching and walking this path until you reach your goal! You meant to leave because of me, but you are leaving because of you. Do you know that?”

“I suspected it,” said Anselm, “and now I know. It’s a long way, Iris, and I would have gone back long ago, but I can’t find a way back. I don’t know what will become of me. ”

She looked into his sad eyes and smiled light and comforting, he bent over her thin hand and wept for a long time, until her hand was wet with his tears.

“What should become of you,” she said in a voice that was only like a reminder, “you don’t have to ask what should become of you. You searched a lot in your life. You searched for honor and happiness and knowledge, and you searched for me, your little Iris. All of these were just pretty pictures, and they left you just as I have to leave you now. It was the same for me too. I have always looked, and they have always been beautiful, dear pictures, and always again they fell off and were withered. I don’t know any more pictures now, I’m not looking for anything anymore, I’ve returned home and only have one small step to take, then I’ll be home. You too will come there, Anselm, and then you will no longer have any wrinkles on your forehead. ”

She was so pale that Anselm called out in despair: “Oh, wait a minute, Iris, don’t go away yet! Leave me a sign that I won’t lose you completely! ”

She nodded and reached into a glass next to her and gave him a freshly bloomed blue iris.

“Take my flower, the iris, and don’t forget me. Find me, look for the iris, then you will come to me. ”

Weeping, Anselm held the flower in his hands and weeping said goodbye. When the friend sent him a message, he came back and helped decorate her coffin with flowers and bring it to earth.

Then his life collapsed behind him, it didn’t seem possible to spin that thread away. He gave up everything, left town and office and disappeared in the world. Here and there he was seen, in his homeland he appeared and leaned over the fence of the old garden, but when people asked about him and wanted to take care of him, he was gone and gone.

The iris remained dear to him. He often bent down over one wherever he saw it, and when he was long Sinking his gaze into her goblet, from the bluish ground it seemed to waft scent and intuition of everything that was and will be towards him, until he went on sadly because the fulfillment never came. It was as if he was listening to a half-open door and hearing the loveliest secret breathing behind it, and when he thought that now and now everything must give itself and be fulfilled, the door had slammed and the wind of the world was blowing coolly over his Lonliness.

In his dreams his mother spoke to him, whose figure and face he now felt more clearly and closely than in many years. And Iris spoke to him, and when he woke something reverberated to him on which he lingered all day. He was without place, he ran strangely through the country, slept in houses, slept in the woods, ate bread or ate berries, drank wine or drank dew from the leaves of the bushes, he knew nothing about it. To many he was a fool, to many he was a magician, many feared him, many laughed at him, many loved him. He learned what he could never do, to be with children and take part in their strange games, to talk with a broken branch and a stone. Winter and summer ran past him, he looked into flower cups and into brook and lake.

“Pictures,” he sometimes said to himself, “all just pictures.”

But within himself he felt a being that was not an image, which he followed, and the being in him could speak at times, and his voice was that of Iris and that of his mother, and it was comfort and hope.

Miracles happened to him and they did not surprise him. And so he once walked through a wintry ground in the snow and ice had grown on his beard. And in the snow there was an iris plant, pointed and slender, which was sprouting a beautiful, lonely blossom, and he bent down to her and smiled, for now he recognized what the iris had always and always reminded him of. He recognized his childhood dream again, and saw the light blue path between golden rods leading lightly veined into the mystery and heart of the flower and knew that there was what he was looking for, there was the being that is no longer an image.

And again warnings met him, dreams led him, and he came to a hut, there were children who gave him milk, and he played with them, and they told him stories and told him that a miracle had happened in the forest near the charcoal burners . You can see the ghost gate standing open, which only opens every thousand years. He listened and nodded to the dear picture and went on, a bird sang in front of him in the alder bushes, it had a rare, sweet voice, like the voice of the dead Iris. He followed, he flew and hopped on, across the stream and far into the woods.

When the bird was silent and could no longer be heard or seen, Anselm stopped and looked around. He was standing in a deep valley in the forest, a body of water ran softly under broad green leaves, otherwise everything was quiet and waiting. In his chest, however, the bird sang on in the beloved voice, and drove him on until he stood in front of a rock wall that was overgrown with moss, and in the middle of it there was a gap that led narrow and narrow into the interior of the mountain.

An old man was sitting in front of the crack, who rose when he saw Anselm approaching and called out: “Back, you man, back! This is the ghost gate. Nobody has come back yet who went in there. ”

Anselm looked up and into the rock gate, there he saw a blue path lose itself deep in the mountain, and golden pillars stood close on both sides, and the path sank down inwardly as in the calyx of an enormous flower.

The bird sang brightly in his chest, and Anselm strode past the guard into the gap and through the golden pillars into the blue secret of the interior. It was Iris, into whose heart he penetrated, and it was the iris in his mother’s garden, into whose blue goblet he stepped floating, and when he walked quietly towards the golden twilight, all memory and all knowledge were with him at once, he felt his hand, and it was small and soft, voices of love sounded close and familiar in his ear, and they sounded like that, and the golden pillars shone as everything had shone and shone for him in the springs of childhood.

And his dream was there again, which he dreamed as a little boy, that he stepped down into the goblet, and behind him the whole world of images walked and glided with it and sank into the mystery that lies behind all images.

Anselm began to sing softly, and his path sank softly down towards home.