FAIRY GIFTS

Edition and rights: Original English text from Project Gutenberg ebook #7277, marked public domain in the USA. The literary text below is reproduced without AI rewriting.

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It generally happens that people’s surroundings reflect more or less
accurately their minds and dispositions, so perhaps that is why the Flower
Fairy lived in a lovely palace, with the most delightful garden you can
imagine, full of flowers, and trees, and fountains, and fish-ponds, and
everything nice. For the Fairy herself was so kind and charming that
everybody loved her, and all the young princes and princesses who formed
her court, were as happy as the day was long, simply because they were
near her. They came to her when they were quite tiny, and never left her
until they were grown up and had to go away into the great world; and when
that time came she gave to each whatever gift he asked of her. But it is
chiefly of the Princess Sylvia that you are going to hear now. The Fairy
loved her with all her heart, for she was at once original and gentle, and
she had nearly reached the age at which the gifts were generally bestowed.
However, the Fairy had a great wish to know how the other princesses who
had grown up and left her, were prospering, and before the time came for
Sylvia to go herself, she resolved to send her to some of them. So one day
her chariot, drawn by butterflies, was made ready, and the Fairy said:
‘Sylvia, I am going to send you to the court of Iris; she will receive you
with pleasure for my sake as well as for your own. In two months you may
come back to me again, and I shall expect you to tell me what you think of
her.’

Sylvia was very unwilling to go away, but as the Fairy wished it she said
nothing—only when the two months were over she stepped joyfully into
the butterfly chariot, and could not get back quickly enough to the
Flower-Fairy, who, for her part, was equally delighted to see her again.

‘Now, child,’ said she, ‘tell me what impression you have received.’

‘You sent me, madam,’ answered Sylvia, ‘to the Court of Iris, on whom you
had bestowed the gift of beauty. She never tells anyone, however, that it
was your gift, though she often speaks of your kindness in general. It
seemed to me that her loveliness, which fairly dazzled me at first, had
absolutely deprived her of the use of any of her other gifts or graces. In
allowing herself to be seen, she appeared to think that she was doing all
that could possibly be required of her. But, unfortunately, while I was
still with her she became seriously ill, and though she presently
recovered, her beauty is entirely gone, so that she hates the very sight
of herself, and is in despair. She entreated me to tell you what had
happened, and to beg you, in pity, to give her beauty back to her. And,
indeed, she does need it terribly, for all the things in her that were
tolerable, and even agreeable, when she was so pretty, seem quite
different now she is ugly, and it is so long since she thought of using
her mind or her natural cleverness, that I really don’t think she has any
left now. She is quite aware of all this herself, so you may imagine how
unhappy she is, and how earnestly she begs for your aid.’

‘You have told me what I wanted to know,’ cried the Fairy, ‘but alas! I
cannot help her; my gifts can be given but once.’

Some time passed in all the usual delights of the Flower-Fairy’s palace,
and then she sent for Sylvia again, and told her she was to stay for a
little while with the Princess Daphne, and accordingly the butterflies
whisked her off, and set her down in quite a strange kingdom. But she had
only been there a very little time before a wandering butterfly brought a
message from her to the Fairy, begging that she might be sent for as soon
as possible, and before very long she was allowed to return.

‘Ah! madam,’ cried she, ‘what a place you sent me to that time!’

‘Why, what was the matter?’ asked the Fairy. ‘Daphne was one of the
princesses who asked for the gift of eloquence, if I remember rightly.’

‘And very ill the gift of eloquence becomes a woman,’ replied Sylvia, with
an air of conviction. ‘It is true that she speaks well, and her
expressions are well chosen; but then she never leaves off talking, and
though at first one may be amused, one ends by being wearied to death.
Above all things she loves any assembly for settling the affairs of her
kingdom, for on those occasions she can talk and talk without fear of
interruption; but, even then, the moment it is over she is ready to begin
again about anything or nothing, as the case may be. Oh! how glad I was to
come away I cannot tell you.’

The Fairy smiled at Sylvia’s unfeigned disgust at her late experience; but
after allowing her a little time to recover she sent her to the Court of
the Princess Cynthia, where she left her for three months. At the end of
that time Sylvia came back to her with all the joy and contentment that
one feels at being once more beside a dear friend. The Fairy, as usual,
was anxious to hear what she thought of Cynthia, who had always been
amiable, and to whom she had given the gift of pleasing.

‘I thought at first,’ said Sylvia, ‘that she must be the happiest Princess
in the world; she had a thousand lovers who vied with one another in their
efforts to please and gratify her. Indeed, I had nearly decided that I
would ask a similar gift.’

‘Have you altered your mind, then?’ interrupted the Fairy.

‘Yes, indeed, madam,’ replied Sylvia; ‘and I will tell you why. The longer
I stayed the more I saw that Cynthia was not really happy. In her desire
to please everyone she ceased to be sincere, and degenerated into a mere
coquette; and even her lovers felt that the charms and fascinations which
were exercised upon all who approached her without distinction were
valueless, so that in the end they ceased to care for them, and went away
disdainfully.’

‘I am pleased with you, child,’ said the Fairy; ‘enjoy yourself here for
awhile and presently you shall go to Phyllida.’

Sylvia was glad to have leisure to think, for she could not make up her
mind at all what she should ask for herself, and the time was drawing very
near. However, before very long the Fairy sent her to Phyllida, and waited
for her report with unabated interest.

‘I reached her court safely,’ said Sylvia, ‘and she received me with much
kindness, and immediately began to exercise upon me that brilliant wit
which you had bestowed upon her. I confess that I was fascinated by it,
and for a week thought that nothing could be more desirable; the time
passed like magic, so great was the charm of her society. But I ended by
ceasing to covet that gift more than any of the others I have seen, for,
like the gift of pleasing, it cannot really give satisfaction. By degrees
I wearied of what had so delighted me at first, especially as I perceived
more and more plainly that it is impossible to be constantly smart and
amusing without being frequently ill-natured, and too apt to turn all
things, even the most serious, into mere occasions for a brilliant jest.’

The Fairy in her heart agreed with Sylvia’s conclusions, and felt pleased
with herself for having brought her up so well.

But now the time was come for Sylvia to receive her gift, and all her
companions were assembled; the Fairy stood in the midst and in the usual
manner asked what she would take with her into the great world.

Sylvia paused for a moment, and then answered: ‘A quiet spirit.’ And the
Fairy granted her request.

This lovely gift makes life a constant happiness to its possessor, and to
all who are brought into contact with her. She has all the beauty of
gentleness and contentment in her sweet face; and if at times it seems
less lovely through some chance grief or disquietude, the hardest thing
that one ever hears said is:

‘Sylvia’s dear face is pale to-day. It grieves one to see her so.’

And when, on the contrary, she is gay and joyful, the sunshine of her
presence rejoices all who have the happiness of being near her.

By the Comte de Caylus.