Madame Guizot

Decoration

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.

"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."

At this moment the eyes of the angel sparkled with a flame so dazzling, that Narzim could not endure its brightness. He prostrated himself on the ground, and on rising, beheld neither the angel nor his dungeon, nor the wretch who shared his chains. His eyes opened; he awoke; daylight was shining into his cottage; Elima and Missour still reposed there. Narzim had lost nothing; he felt his heart expand with joy. It flowed into it as from an inexhaustible fountain, which the words of the angel had unsealed. There was strength in his soul, and it seemed to communicate itself to his limbs. He appeared to himself to have passed over the days of his childhood, to such an extent did a new vigour animate his whole being. The virtue he had just contemplated presented itself to him, with all his duties; and in the fulfilment of these duties he perceived the seeds of happiness.

"Mother," said he to Missour, as soon as she had opened her eyes to the dawning day, "I complained of misery without thinking that I had not yet purchased happiness. Solely occupied in sharing the sports of Elima, I have too far prolonged my childhood, and your tenderness for me has too long forgotten the years which, as they pass, ought to bring with them the time for labour. Look at the arms of Narzim, they are strong, and shall cultivate for you our field of rice."

His mother smiled, and placed in his hands the instruments of labour. Narzim learned to use them, and use increased his strength. Missour was no longer overpowered by fatigue, nor was the end of her days overshadowed by that despair which an exhausted body sheds over a sick mind. Joy again returned to the lips of Elima, and to the eyes of Narzim. Sometimes he raised them towards heaven, as he had done at the moment when he first learned how much he loved virtue: then his soul became filled with a holy and sweet confidence, and with a deep sense of gratitude towards that great Being who has placed in the heart of man the germ of a happiness of which nothing can deprive him, but his own will.

THE END.

WYMAN AND SONS, PRINTERS, GREAT QUEEN STREET, LONDON.