"That you have not always thought yourself happy is evident," said I; "you bear the marks of heavy sufferings."—"True; but my mind is tranquil now, though it has been long in finding repose."—"Since it is so, then, let us try to cure the past; but can I hope for success when I know not the disease?"—"Alas! must I own my folly?" cried she, her eyes filling with tears. "You are not happy!" exclaimed I. "I am," replied she, gathering more firmness; nor would I change my present happiness for the state I once envied. I have no secret; my misfortune is the history of my whole life. My sufferings were so continual until I entered this abode that they have gradually undermined, my health. With joy did I feel myself wasting away, for I had no prospect of happiness in life. This guilty joy has been punished, for now that I desire to live, I have scarcely a hope of it left."
I soothed her apprehensions with the promise of speedy recovery; but whilst uttering the consolatory words a sad presentiment came over me, warning me that Death had marked its victim.
I continued to attend the young Nun, and she appeared not insensible to the interest I took in her fate. One day she returned of her own accord to the subject I longed to be enlightened upon. "My sorrow," said she, "would appear of so strange a nature, that I have always felt reluctant to confide it. No one can be a perfect judge of the feelings of another, and our confidants soon become accusers."—"Fear not," cried I, "can I doubt the reality of your grief, when I behold its effects upon your person?"—"Ah! real it has been, but not the less unreasonable."—"Let us even suppose it so. Does that prevent sympathy?"—"I have feared so; but if to cure the effect of my sorrows it is necessary you should know their cause, some time hence, when we are a little better acquainted, I will confide it to you."
I renewed my visits still oftener at the convent, and the remedies I prescribed appeared to do my patient some good. In short, one morning, finding her seated alone in the same bower where I had first seen her, I renewed the subject, and she related to me the following history.
OURIKA.
I was brought over from Senegal by the Governor, the Chevalier de B., when about two years old. He took compassion on me one day as he stood witnessing the embarkation of some slaves on board a negro transport ship then going to sail. I had lost my mother, and I was carried on board the vessel, in spite of my violent screams and resistance. He bought me, and on his return to France shortly after gave me to his aunt, the wife of the Marshal de B. She was the most amiable woman of her time, and united an elevated and highly refined mind to the most exemplary virtue. To save me from slavery, and choose for me such a benefactress as Madame de B., was twice bestowing life upon me. Such was my ingratitude towards Providence, that I was not made happy by it. But is happiness always the result of the development of our faculties? I think not. How often does the knowledge we acquire teach us to regret our days of ignorance! Nor does the fable tell us that Galatea received the gift of happiness with that of life.