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.