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SERIOUS DISPUTE
IN RELATION TO THE VIOLET:
BETWEEN
THE FLOWER FAIRY
AND
AN ACADEMY WHICH PREFERS TO
REMAIN ANONYMOUS.
I.
READING IN THE FOREST.
The Flower Fairy had
fixed her residence on earth, partly to avoid a place which recalled unpleasant
remembrances, and partly, that she might more closely watch the behavior of
their ladyships, the flowers.
Every day brought some
new vexation—some fresh cause of dissatisfaction.
The rose had been the child of her preference – her
favorite daughter, – and the life which she beheld her leading, filled the soul
of the fairy with the deepest grief.
Neither had she much reason to
congratulate herself on the condition of the Lily, the Tulip, of Bleuette and
Coquelicot, of the Pansy, and of many other flowers, whose adventures are given
in the course of this work.
The certainty of her approaching
revenge could not prevent the anguish of her maternal heart.
Among the flowers, some were
unhappy, because they had preserved faithfully their original characters; and
others were so, because they had endeavored to change them.
It was in this latter way that the violet was
hastening to its ruin. That very day the fairy had seen her in a splendid
carriage, glistening is silk, and gold, and jewels.
The violet had renounced her life of retirement.
The Flower Fairy, to relieve the sadness which this
sight occasioned, left the town by the country-road. She was attired as the wife
of a judge; and took with her a little chubby-faced domestic, who carried her
parasol and her hood.
At the entrance to a small wood she dismissed her
servant, and went under the trees, to enjoy quietly the cool air, and the
pleasure of solitary reading.
The book which she held was a complete history of
flowers.
The fairy was much interested in what she read, for
she found there copious themes for ridicule, in the false statements that have
been gravely made respecting flowers and their origin.
She was occupied, at the time, with the history of
the violet.
“The Violet,” said the author of the book referred
to, “is the daughter of Atlas. This young nymph was chased by Apollo, and was
about to fall into the power of that Don Juan, when the gods, in compassion,
changed her to a violet.
“Such is the method usually employed by the gods to
defeat the gallant projects of Apollo. The fertile imagination of Jupiter might
occasionally, one would think, invent something new.”
The fairy dropped her book, and sat up on the
grass, that she might laugh more at her ease. The fact is, that when standing,
she was compelled to hold her sides.
“These authors,” said she, “are certainly very
ridiculous people. Where the deuce did they find out that the Violet is the
daughter of Atlas, and a nymph by profession? In fact, her father’s name was
simply Jerome, and she herself, under the name of Marcella, carried on the trade
of seamstress in a country town.
“I cannot, with propriety,” added the fairy,
“longer allow such errors to be credited. It is time the facts were made known.”
So she returned home to draw up the following memoir, which she addressed to the
Academy: –
II.
A MEMOIR ON THE ORIGIN OF THE VIOLET.
“Gentlemen of the
Academy: –
“If there be a single science which deserves the fixed attention of
mankind, and especially of the learned, it is undeniably that which pertains to
the origin of flowers.
“At the present time this science is obscured by
the mists of ignorance. A multitude of false notions have gone abroad. If
precautionary steps be not early taken, the evil will soon be past remedy.
“It is the duty of a body so respectable, so
illustrious, so enlightened as that which I now have the honor to address, to
make popular, to spread abroad, and to give their own sanction to the great
truths of history, of politics, of philosophy, and the other sciences. With
confidence, then, do I address the Academy, convinced beforehand, that it will
accord to my corrections all that consideration which they so fully deserve.
“May I be allowed, before entering on the immediate
subject of my memoir, to submit to this learned body some general reflections,
which seem to me indispensable, in order to” – * * *
III.
INTERRUPTION.
We must take the liberty to suppress these general
reflections. As the method adopted by the fairy might at length produce on the
reader an impression by no means agreeable, we shall substitute for this part
of the memoir, which contains a minute history of the violet, a narrative,
simple and animated. We at first thought of using for this purpose, the language
of the gods, commonly called poetry. But not having at hand our rhyming
dictionary, we must be content with plain prose.
IV.
MARCELLA.
It was a day of festival. All the young girls of the
borough were issuing from their homes in handsome deshabille.
Some went to walk in the fields: others were
attracted by the sound of the tambourine, which stuck up the merry signal of the
dance.
To laugh, to play, to amuse themselves, and to show
off their charms, seemed to be the object of all.
One alone remained, shut up at home. It was
Marcella, the gardener Jerome’s pretty daughter.
“Come along with us, Marcella,” cried her
companions, as they passed. “The air is perfumed with the odor of the wild plum,
and the skies are blue. Go with us to the May dance.”
Marcella gently shook her head; or if some young
man attempted to throw her a bouquet, she put to the shutters, and worked faster
than before.
How neat and bright every thing looks in Marcella’s
cottage. One could almost think that she has imparted her own virgin graces to
every object around her. Mark the bed, with its white-fringed counterpane, – the
walnut cupboard, – the straw-seated chair, – the spinning-wheel that was her
mother’s – the narrow looking-glass hung by the wall, – the basin of holy water,
– and the virgin’s image, that watches over her while she sleeps.
If Marcella pursued her toil on a festival-day, it
was neither from avarice, nor from caprice. Her needle was busy for the poor.
Accordingly, as that goes and comes quickly, so is she nimble and cheerful.
To-morrow morning old Jacqueline will have an excellent, large, warm gown, to
protect from the cold winds her wasted, feeble limbs.
Marcella, as she plies her needle, sings her
favorite song: –
“I wish I were a little flower.
“Were I a little flower, I’d choose a spot, retired
among the moss.
“Some spot retired, upon the streamlet’s side.
“There would I live, hidden in the grass, and
looking at the sky.”
This song had several other couplets, but these
were Marcella’s favorites.
Towards evening she went into her garden, which was
full of beautiful trees and flowers, of murmuring waters, and tall, tufted
grass.
This garden was cultivated by her father Jerome,
the aged gardener of the castle; and it was his own and his daughter’s sole
amusement: and a pleasure it was to see how harmoniously the flowers were wedded
to the shrubs; what graceful shapes the branches assumed; and how gently the
grass bent under the footstep.
The Flower Fairy was very fond
of father Jerome. She went often to his garden to see him at this work, as he
spaded the mould, pruned his trees, and trimmed his flowers. It was a pleasure
to her to wipe away, occasionally, with the tip of her wing, the sweat that
stood upon the old man’s forehead.
On this very day she had come to see father
Jerome’s garden. At the time when his daughter entered the garden, the fairy was
earnestly contemplating the calyx of a Queen Margaret.*
*Reine-Marguerite,
– China aster.
She then took a notion to look into the depths of
Marcella’s heart. Calyx for calyx, the hearts of the maiden and the flower were
equally pure.
Echo at length brought into the midst of that
solitude, the sound of the tambourine – the merry shouts of the young girls,
with all the melodies, perfumes, and aspirations, that belong to the close of a
fine day in spring.
Marcella was sitting on the grass, and thinking
only how happy old Jacqueline would be made on the morrow.
At the sight of so much innocence and candor, the
Flower Fairy was tenderly affected.
“Poor child of humble birth,” said she; “pure as
the snow of the glacier, – good as nature herself, thy sole instructress, – fair
as innocence, – and diffusing the fragrance of chastity and modesty; – who will
save thee from the temptations of the wealthy and bad? Who will keep thee from
the snares into which so many of they companions have fallen?”
Unconscious of the soliloquy of which she had been
the theme, Marcella, as she looked at the sky, changed her wonted strain:
“I wish I were a little flower.
“Were I a little flower, I’d choose a spot, retired
among the moss.
“Some spot retired, upon the streamlet’s side.
“There would I live, hidden in the grass, and
looking at the sky.”
The Flower Fairy resolved to gratify this prayer,
and stretched her wand over Marcella.
On the instant, she disappeared under a veil of
leaves. In the place where she had been, was seen a flower whose petals were
covered with pearly dew-drops. You would have thought them tears in an eye of
blue.
It was Marcella, who thus bade her father adieu.
The Violet is the daughter of the humble.
Devotedness, candor, purity, and modesty are the elements from which the fairy
composed the perfume of the flower.
V.
THE ANSWER OF THE ACADEMY TO THE FOREGOING
MEMOIR.
[EXTRACT FROM THE MINUTES OF
DEBATE.]
“On the –– day of ––, A.D. ––, the Academy of ––,
having assembled in its usual place of meeting, listened to the conclusions of
the report presented by the distinguished poet, Jacobus, in regard to the origin
of the Violet.
“These conclusions are as follows: –
“ ’1. That little confidence can be placed in
contributions made to science by a class of beings, whose very existence is so
questionable as that of the fairies.
“ ’2. That when the source is
apocryphal, the communications which proceed from it, must, of necessity, be
apocryphal also.
“ ’3. That the concurrent testimony of past ages
shows, that all the flowers are essentially mythologic in their origin.’
“Consequently, –
“The Academy pronounces its opinion, that, more
than ever, it considers the Violet to be the daughter of Atlas.
“It also affirms, on its soul and on
its conscience, before God and before man, that the daughter of Atlas was by
birth a nymph, and that the gods, to save her from the persecution of Apollo,
changed her to the Violet.”
VI.
A WORD ASIDE.
It is undeniable that the poet Jacobus is entirely
wrong, and that the explanation of the Flower Fairy is the only good and true
one.
But this is only one proof of more of the stupidity
of learned societies in general, and of academies in particular.
VII.
THE VIOLET, A WOMAN.
With us, then, and with all enlightened minds, it is
a conceded fact, that the Flower Fairy is in the right.
Those who have followed, with the heed which
becomes a master so grave and important, the thread of our narrative, have not
forgotten, that mention was made, at the outset, of the appearance of the violet
in a splendid carriage, with all the accompaniments of dress and luxury.
What can have become of her pristine modesty? How
has a daughter of the common people become a great lady?
Oh, Marcella! How couldst thou so disappoint us,
when reappearing upon the earth in they former shape?
Of all the changes which the Flower Fairy has
witnessed, thine is the one which has touched her most sensibly.
But we must not be too hasty in condemning
Marcella.
That has happened to her which has happened to so
many of her companions, who are without experience.
She is young – she is handsome – she is a woman.
She hears two voices, which are ever chanting within her.
One of them says: “Stay here in the mead – by the
side of the grass-plot – on the banks of the stream, where heaven gave you
birth. Happiness dwells only in retirement.”
The other murmurs in your ear: “Beauty and youth
are two gifts from heaven. Wo to the one who would bury them. The stream
preserves no image; the grass-plot retains no perfume. Happiness is to be found
only in society.”
For a long time the soul wavers undecided, as it
listens to these voices. At length one of the two becomes imperceptible. The
other still sounds the praises of fame, and splendor, and worldly pleasure – and
gains at last a willing ear.
Then she plunges into the whirl of festivities and
spectacles; and she is flattered and courted the more, as her real character
presents a lively contrast to the life which she is leading.
For a little while she may imagine herself happy.
But soon comes the disenchantment; and with it
weariness, disgust, and contempt.
In the midst of all this outward gayety, she
thinks, with regret, of her former happiness – and of her present life, with the
bitterness of remorse.
Have you never happened to witness, amid the
excitement of the ball-room, a shade of sadness that came, in an instant, over
some young and brilliant face – and lovely eyes, that sought concealment for
their tears?
Would you know the cause of this sadness – the
source of these tears?
She mourns the innocent pleasures of youth; she
remembers the quiet happiness of unnoticed retirement.
VIII.
THE FAIRY’S TEAR.
The lights which shone from the castle in which
Marcella resides, have been, for some time, extinguished; the stars begin to
grow dim; and the nightingale at the water-side is about to finish her melodious
cavatina. It is the hour at which the Flower Fairy prepares to close the eyes of
the marvels of Peru.
She comes with a light step, that she may not
disturb the sleep which is beginning to steal over them. All of a sudden, she
stops.
An unusual sound is heard. Groans, sobs, and
occasionally the faint echo of some plaintive song, reach her ear.
The fairy listens, turning towards the part from
which the sound proceeds. Is it the wind sighing in that clump of aspens, or the
rill, which weeps as it leaves the protection of its native rocks?
There is not a breath of air to ruffle the topmost
leaf; while the thick moss hushes all the murmur of the rill.
It is a woman weeping. The fairy recognizes her.
It is Marcella, who has left her couch of silk and
of down, to visit the plain.
Sleep has forsaken her lids, or brings to her
nothing but dismal dreams. She is afflicted, and her eyes overflow.
She thinks of the time when she was a violet, and
used to awake all enraptured under the fresh kisses of the dew.
She sings as formerly, – “I wish I were a little
flower.”
There are some sounds which reach the heart –
accents which never deceive us.
As she listened to Marcella, the fairy, who was
flying over her head, was greatly moved. She wept to behold one so handsome and
so unhappy.
One of her tears fell on Marcella’s burning brow.
In an instant her metamorphosis was effected.
The fairy had a second time granted the prayer of
the song.
On the following day search was everywhere made for
Marcella; but no one could give any account of her.
In the place, however, where she used every night
to sit, there was found a superb violet, concealed by grass.
Its beauty did not intrude upon the eye; the flower
was betrayed by its fragrance.
To restore Marcella to her former state, but one
thing was needed: –
That
one thing was – repentance. |
