a clear and sound judgment, endeavoured to persuade her that it
was absurd to be afraid; since these animals come every year, and
never do anything more than pass up the tubes, and take away the
dust which, in some way or other, seemed to supply them with food.
Morgeline would listen to nothing. The reasonings of the other
princess were soon troubled by a frightful noise, made by the
monster, when he had reached the upper end of the tube. Similar
cries proceeded from the neighbouring houses at the same moment,
and seemed to unite in the most dreadful discord, as if to deafen
the inhabitants of the country for a quarter of a league round. It
appeared to be the habit of these animals to march in troops, and to
spread themselves nearly all at once over the same district, for the
purpose of seeking food.
However, Tantaffaire, still courageous, asserted that Morgeline,
who did not know where to hide herself, ought to make an effort to
overcome her fears; that she ought to be compelled to remain and
see the monster again when he descended from the tube, in order to
convince herself that there was nothing dangerous about him. "If we
allow her to run away," she argued, "she will be again frightened at
another time. Let us force her to examine, and then she will be at
rest for the future."
The princess Tantaffaire reasoned very well, but all at once there
came out from behind the wainscoting a little creature, which could
scarcely be perceived, so rapid was its flight; it seemed to be of a
dark-grey colour, and nearly as large and as formidable as a sparrow.
"Let us fly!" exclaimed the princess Tantaffaire; "run, Morgeline!"
and she herself fled with the utmost precipitation.
"But what is the matter?" said the servants, who had not observed
anything, and who were occupied in cutting some bread and pouring out
something to drink for the first monster, who had descended from the
chimney, twice as black as he was before, and who was making horrible
efforts to get rid of the soot which he had swallowed.
"What, Mademoiselle Tantaffaire, are _you_ now afraid of the
chimney-sweep?"
"No! no!" she cried, "no! but there is a mouse."
At that moment the fairy who presided over the house, entered,
accompanied by a beautiful yellow cat, which, smelling the mouse,
hunted for it and caught it.
The fairy turned towards poor Tantaffaire:
"You see, Mademoiselle, that it does not require the power of a
fairy, nor even that of an ordinary woman, to free oneself from the
terrible object which made you run away. I have only had to bring in
a cat, a feeble animal, which the Savoyard who terrified Morgeline
could strangle with the greatest ease: nevertheless, you had the
sense not to be afraid of the latter; you reasoned very correctly
while encouraging your little friend; but when it became necessary
to apply to yourself the principles you so well laid down, you have
altogether failed; nor have you even had the strength of mind to
conceal, so far as not to infect others, a childish fear, with which
you have been reproached from your infancy."
The fairy said a great deal more to the same effect, for the fairies,
who have the power of doing so many things with their wands, have
also the power of saying still more; but it will be sufficient for
you to know, that during this lecture, Tantaffaire seemed very much
ashamed, and that it is asserted, that she succeeded, in the end, in
overcoming in herself, those fears which she considered so blamable
and ridiculous in others.
And now, perhaps, you will ask me what there is so extraordinary
in my tale? What! do we still meet with reasoning princesses who
are afraid of these little creatures, a thousand times smaller than
themselves, which neither bite, nor pinch, nor scratch, and which run
so rapidly, that they can scarcely be perceived?
* * * * *
"Mamma," said Clementia, "I saw immediately that it was a
chimney-sweep, and then a mouse that was meant;" and after a moment's
reflection, she added, "One ought not, certainly, to be afraid
of either chimney-sweeps or mice; but I do not think it was so
ridiculous in the princess Tantaffaire, to have been more afraid of a
mouse than of a chimney-sweep."
"Why so, my dear?"
"Why, mamma, because we know very well that the chimney-sweep is a
man."
"And I think no one can be ignorant that a mouse is a mouse."
"No; but we know why the sweep comes, and what he wants to do;
whereas this little creature, which runs nobody knows how, and nobody
knows from where, and which goes and returns hardly giving one time
to see it.... In fact, mamma, many persons who are grown up are
afraid of mice, but no one is afraid of a chimney-sweep."
"And yet they are perfectly aware," said Madame de Laumont, "that the
one does no more harm than the other."
"Oh! mamma, as if one was afraid of nothing but what does harm. When
we are in the country, and the wind whistles through the corridors of
the château, when I hear it moan in the night through the crevices
of the door or of the window, I know that it can do me no harm, and
yet I am so frightened, that I cover my head with the sheet, and pull
the clothes as tightly round me, as if I had to protect myself from
some great danger. When it thunders, I am quite aware that the peal
which we hear, can do no harm, since this noise is only the echo of
the sound, which has already passed, and yet you know, mamma, that
at those two terrific claps of thunder which we had last year in the
country, if you had not absolutely forbidden me, I could not have
helped running about and screaming, as people do when they are very
much afraid."
"And, when I forbade you, that prevented you from doing so; I am sure
that if I were to forbid your rolling yourself up in your sheets,
when you hear the wind whistle, it would prevent you from doing that
also?"
"Oh! yes, certainly, mamma."
"Very well, then I forbid your doing so. Do you consider that that
will prevent you from being afraid?"
Clementia reflected a moment, and then told her mother that she did
not suppose it would.
"What do you think about," asked her mother, "when the wind whistles,
and you roll yourself up in your sheets?"
"I do not think about anything, mamma, I assure you; I am afraid,
that is all."
"And when you hear it without tightening your sheets, since I have
forbidden you to do so, what will you think about then?"
"I shall think, mamma, of what you have forbidden me," said
Clementia. Then, after a moment's reflection, she added, "I think,
perhaps, that this idea might prevent me from being afraid; for I
remember, when it thundered so loudly last year, that at the second
peal I thought of your having forbidden me to cry out at the first; I
thought of restraining myself, and consequently thought less of being
afraid."
"This is what always happens, my child. The best means of overcoming
fear, is to think of something which may divert our thoughts from it.
Those who are afraid of mice, are quite capable of being afraid of
chimney-sweeps, if, when one made his appearance, they did not think
he came to sweep the chimney, and that it is desirable that chimneys
should be swept, in order to prevent their catching fire; in fact, if
they did not think of many things which prevent them from dwelling
upon the impression which his disagreeable appearance might make upon
them. If mice were as useful to every one as sweeps are, no one would
be afraid of them."
"Do you think so, mamma?"
"You know well enough, for instance, that if it were the custom to
make ragouts of them, Catherine, who runs away the moment she sees
one, would, instead of doing so, think only of catching it, and would
be no more afraid of it than she is of the eel, which twists about in
her hand like a serpent, and which you think it would be impossible
for you to touch. In the same way she would think only of the ragout
she was going to prepare, and not of her absurd fears."
"But, mamma, one cannot always conjure up an idea which will enable
us to overcome fear."
"Nothing is easier. You see that by a simple prohibition, I have
given you sufficient means to diminish your fear of the thunder, and
of the wind; as to those things which I do not forbid, you have only
to forbid them yourself."
"One cannot always find something to forbid oneself."
"Always, my child, when we are disposed to yield to fear, for we
are led to do many things which we ought to think of forbidding
ourselves, and when we do not yield to them, we soon lose the habit
of doing so. Do you remember the habit you had two years ago, of
looking, before you went to bed, both under your own bed and mine,
and of examining all the closets and doors of the apartment? When I
compelled you to go to bed without all these precautions, were you
any longer tormented by fear?"
"Oh! dear, no, mamma; the following day I thought no more about it;
but I am quite sure, however, that if I had missed of my own accord,
I should have fancied that that was the very time when there would be
some one concealed."
"Because you were not then convinced that it was unreasonable, and
that you ought not to yield to it. The idea of resisting a bad habit,
by reasoning against it, would have diverted your mind, as much as my
prohibition, from the fear which had induced you to form it."
"In fact, mamma, those who are afraid of nothing, must, I should
suppose, be thus fearless, because they never think about fear,
otherwise I could not comprehend them."
"And those who are afraid of everything, are so because they are in
the habit of thinking about what may frighten them. Do you suppose
that the soldiers in a battle, if they allowed themselves to think of
all the balls which might reach them, would have sufficient courage
to stand their ground for a minute? Instead of this, they think only
of what they have to do, of repelling the enemy, of gaining ground
upon him, or of distinguishing themselves, in order to gain reward.
It is thus they forget the bullets and press forward; it is thus
also that you, who are so afraid of a little pain, do not, when you
romp with your brother, regard the blows you may receive, because
you think only of those you wish to give. Think of anything but that
which may cause fear. In this, my child, lies the whole secret of
courage."
In the evening, Clementia, having occasion to pass through some of
her mother's apartments, and afterwards through a long corridor,
wanted to take a light. Her mother asked her whether she did not
know the way well enough to do without it. Clementia did, but she
felt timid; her mother perceived this, and Clementia acknowledged
it. After having reasoned with her respecting the kind of danger she
might encounter, "Come, let us make a trial," she said, "go very
slowly, examine well whether you are afraid, and of what you are
afraid, so that you may give me an account of what you have felt; if
you feel too much afraid, come back."
Clementia hesitated; her mother's pleasantries, by making her laugh,
diminished a little her fear. At the first emotion of terror which
she experienced, she stopped, according to her mother's advice,
in order to ascertain what had caused it; she felt that it had no
reasonable foundation, and continued her way: she stopped again
at the entrance of the dark corridor, to consider whether she
should retrace her steps; but she thought she was not sufficiently
frightened to return, and when she entered the corridor, she found
she was not so much afraid as she had at first expected to be,
because indeed there was no cause for fear. Having reached the spot
to which she was going, she returned with much less difficulty,
and agreed with her mother that her fear had been less than usual.
Repeated experiments rendered her quite courageous against the night,
the mice, and all other imaginary dangers. As to real dangers, every
one knows that we ought not to expose ourselves to them without
necessity, and she learned, by her own experience, that in these
cases, it is not of the danger we think. She had occasion to attend
upon a person, of whom she was very fond, through a contagious
disease, and every one was astonished that she had no fear on her
own account. It was because her mind was so much occupied with the
illness which she was attending, that she had no fear of that to
which she exposed herself.
THE DREAM;
AN EASTERN TALE.
Narzim was a pious child, filled with filial love, and ever obedient
to his mother Missour, a poor widow who lived with him, in a little
hut, in the environs of the mighty Delhi. With them also lived the
young Elima, the daughter of Missour's sister. Elima had large black
eyes, a mild expression, and a sweet smile. Narzim would sometimes
say to her, "Elima, you shall be my wife, and we will not leave
Missour: when her sight, which daily becomes weaker, has altogether
gone, we will lead her under the palm-trees, and the pleasure of
hearing you will make her forget, for a few moments, that she is no
longer able to see. I shall be strong then; I will cultivate our
fields of rice, and the sweet voice of Elima will render my labour
light." Elima smiled, and rejoiced at the thought of never leaving
Missour.
Their union was their only happiness. Missour's husband had been
killed by robbers, who had ravaged his field, and since that time
Missour had been able to cultivate only a portion of it, hardly
sufficient for herself and family. Often the remembrance of her
husband's death, of his last looks, and of his last words, would
occasion her inexpressible anguish. In those moments, when she was
overwhelmed with fatigue, misery embittered her heart; and, ready to
murmur against the Author of her being, she would say, "Has Brama
then created us for the purpose of rendering us unhappy?" Then she
would shed torrents of bitter tears. Narzim and Elima beheld her
weep, and wept also: without being able to understand the whole
amount of her grief, they felt it; it surrounded them with a dark
cloud, filling their hearts with sadness; at those times their
childish sports were suspended, and even their voices died away upon
their lips, for they could only have uttered words of sorrow. Elima
no longer dared to smile; Narzim remained motionless, while the
vivacity of his age which boiled within him made him rebel against
the grief with which he felt himself overwhelmed, and he repeated to
Brama the words he had heard his mother Missour utter, "Why hast thou
created us to render us unhappy?"
One evening he fell asleep in the midst of these sad and culpable
thoughts. Scarcely had slumber sealed his eyelids, when a soothing
balm seemed to flow through his veins, and calm the agitation of his
soul. A celestial form appeared before him: it was that of a young
and handsome man; his eyes were as soft as those of Elima, and his
hair fell in ringlets round his neck, like that of Narzim. White
and glittering wings sustained him in the air, where his light and
pliant limbs seemed to float, like the folds of his garments. Narzim
recognised in him one of the angels[C] commissioned to execute the
will of the great Brama.
[C] In the East these angels are denominated _Deptas_.
"Narzim," said the angel, in accents so sweet, as almost to conceal
the reproach which they conveyed, "you think that you were created to
be unhappy."
"Mighty Depta," replied Narzim, "from the moment of my birth,
misfortune has constantly been my lot: without the affection of
Missour and of Elima, I should know no happiness on earth, and even
this happiness is embittered by their misfortunes."
"Narzim," replied the angel, "it is the will of Brama that you should
be happy; but such is the condition of mortals, that happiness cannot
be attained without some sacrifices. The great Brama will render them
for you as light as possible, he only requires you to renounce one
of the blessings you possess; and in the place of this single one,
all the happiness of the earth shall be yours. Come, you are about to
enjoy riches and pleasure."
With these words, he took him in his arms, and raised him into the
air; at least so it seemed to Narzim in his dream. It also appeared
to him, that in proportion as he withdrew from the earth, his heart
became torn with anguish, while the air resounded with his cries.
"Let me return to Missour and Elima," he said. "What will they think
of my absence? what will become of them?"
"The happiness of seeing them," said the genius, "is the sacrifice
which is demanded from you. You must renounce them for ever."
"Without them," replied Narzim, "what happiness can I enjoy?
Pleasures and riches would only be a torment to me."
"You will forget them," said the angel. "A breath will erase from
your mind every trace of their remembrance."
"Stop!" exclaimed Narzim, turning away his face, for already
he thought he felt the icy breath which was to destroy all his
tenderness for the objects of his affection. "Stop! it is far better
to suffer with them than to forget them."
At these words, the angel opened his arms, and Narzim felt as if he
were descending gently towards the earth. "You have refused happiness
at the price at which it was offered to you," said the angel, as he
flew away; "but Brama is good; when you can no longer endure your
misfortunes, call to me, and I shall be ever at hand to aid you."
He disappeared, and Narzim imagined in his dream that years passed
rapidly before him; he seemed to have arrived at manhood, and to have
acquired a friend. This friend said to him, "We will dwell in the
same cottage. Missour shall be my mother; Elima shall be my sister.
We will cultivate together the field of rice; the labour of our
hands will render their subsistence more abundant." Afterwards it
appeared to him that he went one day to the city of Delhi, to sell a
little rice, a portion of the surplus of their crop; and that on his
return he found neither his friend nor Elima. Missour, dying with
grief, informed him that his friend, assisted by two men as wicked as
himself, had carried her away by force; that she had never ceased to
call her dear Narzim to her aid; that for a long time she had heard
her cries; and that for herself, overwhelmed by the loss of Elima,
and by the ill-treatment she had received in endeavouring to defend
her, she felt that she was on the point of death. And indeed Missour
expired shortly after she had said these words. Such, at least, was
the dream of Narzim.
He fell into the deepest despair. "For them," he said, "I have
refused both riches and pleasures, and, behold, they are both torn
from me."
"Come, then," said the angel, suddenly presenting himself before
him, "the sacrifice shall this time be very light. The faint hope
of recovering Elima, is all that Brama desires you to abandon, in
exchange for the delights that he will heap upon you."
"May I still preserve this hope then?" exclaimed Narzim.
"Brama," said the angel, "has given me no commands to take it from
you, but I can do nothing to restore Elima to you."
"Mighty Depta, I will hasten to seek Elima through the whole world.
The hope which you leave me is a blessing, which I cannot exchange
for any other."
"Go! and when you are still more unhappy, call upon me. Brama has
commanded me never to refuse you my aid."
Narzim sold his little inheritance and departed, seeking everywhere
for his lost Elima, sometimes believing himself on the point of
discovering her, at others despairing of ever beholding her again;
and though often ready to sink overcome by grief, fatigue, and
hunger, he never felt tempted to call upon the Depta, who would have
required him to renounce the hope of finding her.
It seemed to him in his dream, that one evening, having sunk down
at the gates of a large city, no longer able to struggle with his
misfortunes, he awaited death, and did not desire to live. The angel
presented himself before him, surrounded with a great light.
"Narzim," said he, "you may live, you may revive to joy and health;
Elima, even, may be restored to you. Listen only to this man, and
learn from him what sacrifice Brama demands for so many benefits."
Narzim turned round, and by the light that emanated from the body
of the angel, he saw beside him a man richly clad, but pale and
trembling, and with looks gloomy and terrified.
"Hearken," said the man, hurriedly. "A shameful crime has just
been committed; I am the author of it; I have been discovered; I
am pursued, and shall soon be taken; the condemnation, which I
cannot escape, will deprive me of my honours and of my wealth; you,
poor unfortunate, have nothing to lose; a slight but ignominious
punishment will be the only chastisement that you have to fear; take
this dress, which will be recognised, give me yours, declare yourself
the culprit, and you shall enjoy for the remainder of your days, the
wealth which will be insured to you by the necessity I have for your
secrecy."
Narzim remained silent.
"Quick! the moments are precious: you hesitate, miserable wretch, who
have not two hours to breathe the air of the living? Can you value
their esteem?"
"Let me die," said Narzim, "unknown to men; I aspire not to their
esteem, but I could not live an object of their contempt."
The angel disappeared, and darkness again enveloped Narzim. The
culprit was still beside him, endeavouring to force upon him the
exchange, which was to load him with the appearance of crime: but the
presence of the angel had restored all his strength to the son of
Missour; he defended himself. The vigilant eyes which had discovered
the crime, had pierced the darkness, even to the very spot where
the criminal had taken refuge; he was seized; and Narzim, freed and
restored to misery, did not regret the disgrace which would have
enriched him.
However, his ideas became confused, as often happens during sleep;
and without being able to follow the thread of his destiny, he found
himself plunged into new and deeper misfortunes. Accused of a murder
which he had not committed, he had been thrown into a dungeon, and
was on the point of suffering the punishment of the crime. Mute,
overwhelmed with the deepest despair, he saw the angel appear before
him.
"What do you now require of me?" he said; "What sacrifice can I offer
to Brama? There is nothing left to me. I have no longer anything to
relinquish in exchange for the happiness which he would offer me."
The celestial messenger, without replying, looked at him with an
anxious and tender expression.
"You are mistaken," said a voice which seemed to proceed from the
depths of his own thoughts, without striking upon his ears; "there
still remains one sacrifice for you to make, by which you may be
saved. Behold, sleeping near you that man formerly so powerful; if
he sleeps, it is because misery has suspended his faculties; he has
attempted the life of his sovereign, nothing can save him; neither
his former power, nor his gold, nor his jewels, with which, even
in his prison, he has surrounded himself, can seduce in his favour
guards who would pay with their lives a moment of weakness, or even
of negligence; but you, an obscure criminal, scarcely known to those
who are about to punish you, take possession of his treasures; you
can do so without difficulty; they will open for you the gates of
your prison, they will cover your flight until you reach a place of
safety. Lose not a moment; you can yet purchase your life by the
sacrifice of your virtue."
Narzim raised his eyes towards the angel, and still beheld the same
expression of tenderness and compassion, and felt that such words
could not have come from a messenger of heaven. He looked at the
riches spread out before him; they dazzled not his eyes, and he felt
that it would be easier to walk to the scaffold, than to lay a hand
on what did not belong to him. He again raised his eyes towards the
angel: he raised them filled with an expression of noble joy, for
Narzim had just discovered how much he loved virtue. The angel read
his thoughts.
"Well, Narzim," he said, with a smile almost divine, "at this moment
do you consider yourself created solely for misery?"
"Mighty Depta," said the son of Missour, with a transport such as he
had never before experienced, "at this moment Narzim feels that he is
happy."
"You see," said the angel, "that even in the deepest distress, there
still remain to you possessions so precious, that you cannot make up
your mind to part with them. Cease, then, to complain, and never
again dare to say that beings capable of loving virtue are created
solely for misery."