Part 28

"I shall be exceedingly grieved, but I cannot prevent it."

Armand at each word sobbed violently, and raised his eyes and clasped hands towards his father. Some one whispered to M. Bernard, "Here is the commissary of police passing by." Armand heard him, and uttering a loud scream, he tore himself from the hands of M. Bernard, and ran to take refuge with his father, round whom he clung with all his strength, exclaiming, "Oh, papa, do not let the commissary take me away; have pity on me!... Do not let me go to prison!"

"What right have I to prevent him, my son? or in what respect is it my duty to do so? Have you not renounced my protection?"

"Oh, restore it to me! restore it to me! I will obey you, I will do everything you wish."

"Do you promise me this? Do you really desire that I should resume my authority?"

"Oh! yes! yes! Punish me in any way you please, but do not let me go to prison."

"Follow me," said M. de Saint-Marsin; and turning to M. Bernard, he said, "M. Bernard, I trust this matter may be arranged without the intervention of the magistrate; have the goodness to wait here for me a few minutes."

When he entered the house, he said to Armand, "My dear son, I do not wish to take advantage of a moment of trouble; think well of what you are going to do: have you made up your mind to obey me, and are you now convinced that I have a right to exact obedience? I will not conceal from you, that if M. Bernard takes any proceedings, it will in all probability be against me, and that after having compelled me to pay the damages, I shall be ordered to prevent you from committing similar acts for the future. Will you believe, then, that you are bound to submit to my authority, or will you wait for the magistrate to order you to do so?"

"Oh! no, no, papa!" said Armand, confused, and kissing his father's hand, which he covered with tears. "Forgive me, I entreat you."

"My dear child," said his father, "I have nothing to forgive you: in granting you your liberty, I knew very well that you would abuse it. I knew that by allowing you to follow your own judgment, I exposed you to the danger of committing many faults; but it is for this reason that you ought to feel the necessity of sometimes submitting to my judgment."

Armand was unable to express his gratitude for so much indulgence and kindness. M. de Saint-Marsin returned to M. Bernard, and told him he would have an estimate made of the amount of damage done, which fortunately was not so great as M. Bernard had at first represented. Nevertheless it was considerable, and Armand, who happened to be in his father's study on the day when they came to demand payment, did not dare to raise his eyes, so much was he ashamed of what he had done.

"You now understand, my son," said M. de Saint-Marsin, "that parents have a right to prevent the follies of their children, since they have to pay for them; but it is not only for such faults as they have to pay for, that they are responsible, but for all the faults of their children, when they have the power of preventing them."

"To whom are they responsible, papa?"

"To God and to the world. To God, who requires that men should be good, reasonable, and as much as possible enlightened, but who does not require that children should become all this, by their own unaided efforts. He has, therefore, intrusted their education and instruction to their parents, and for this purpose has given them the authority necessary for compelling them to receive instruction, and to endeavour to become virtuous. On the other hand, as the world also demands that children should be so brought up, as to become worthy members of society, when they conduct themselves ill, when they manifest vicious propensities, it is the parents who are reproached: they ought therefore to possess the means and authority of correcting and controlling their actions, until they attain sufficient strength and reason to be rendered responsible for themselves."

Armand felt the truth of these arguments. He still occasionally found obedience troublesome, but he no longer obstinately clung to his own ideas, for he perceived that there are many things which cannot possibly be thoroughly understood by a boy of thirteen.

THE SECRET OF COURAGE.

While rummaging one day in her mamma's drawers, Clementia found a tale, which had been written by one of Madame de Laumont's friends, for the purpose of throwing ridicule on the absurd fears of her daughter, as well as upon a scene to which those fears had given occasion. She asked her mother's permission to read it, this Madame de Laumont granted, and she read as follows:--

THE FORMIDABLE MONSTERS.[B]

[B] This tale is not from my own pen, it was given to me by a friend, who composed it on a scene which actually took place.

In the time of the fairies, when every story commenced with _There was once upon a time_, many wonderful things were to be seen. The learned men who have discovered that the bones of animals found at Montmartre, do not belong to any species existing at present, ought to endeavour to ascertain whether they may not have belonged to some animals of that period. I am going to speak of two of the most singular that then existed, and to relate the terror caused by their apparition, in a fairy castle, where dwelt the princess Tantaffaire and the princess Morgeline.

One day in the beginning of December, an animal, almost as large and strong as a man, was observed to enter the castle, walking on his hind legs, and enveloped in a covering which resembled the skin of a rhinoceros. His skull alone was covered with a species of hair, of a deep black, and the fore part of his head presented a skin nearly of the same colour as the rest of his body. He had large black and white eyes, which rolled incessantly, and which appeared to possess an extraordinary degree of vivacity, while to the two jaws of his wide mouth were attached teeth, as white as those of the elephant, and which seemed disposed to devour everything they could seize upon. The strangely-articulated growling which escaped him, seemed to indicate that he wanted something in the house, whereupon the servants eagerly chased him from room to room, until he reached the one occupied by the two princesses of whom I have spoken. In this room there was a long tube, which extended as far as the upper terraces, which were frequently visited by the cats. As soon as the monster perceived this tube, which had become blackened by the dust and smoke from the fire usually lighted in it, he took off one of the thick skins which covered the upper part of his body, and disclosed in one of his large paws, a new claw, flat and sharp, and suddenly darting into the tube, he showered after him, a black powder as offensive as the vapours of the infernal regions.

The princess Morgeline, at this unexpected sight, could not help uttering the most fearful cries. Every one tried in vain to calm her; every one pointed out to her, that the creature had not injured any one; she was not to be quieted until she had seen him disappear by the chimney, for I had forgotten to tell you that this smoky tube was precisely what at the present day is called a _chimney_.

The princess Tantaffaire, who was older than Morgeline, and possessed 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."