The Butterfly
A butterfly once lived on a small island. It dreamed of travelling the world to learn wisdom. “But I, who am so weak,” it would say to itself, “how could I ever cross the thousands of kilometres that separate me from Africa, Russia or Japan?” Its fellows often mocked it for its peculiar aspirations. Its father would tell it: “You are only a butterfly — go gather nectar and grow plump like your friends! Look how thin you are!” One day it saw an artist take an old book of paintings down from his attic. Unable to bear staying where it was, it had the idea of hiding inside the book. “Artists travel a great deal,” it thought; “I shall leave with him.” It folded its wings and slipped between the pages. That evening, while it was hidden there, the artist leafed through the book. Afraid of being noticed, the stowaway spread its wings as wide as a page and clung to the binding. “What an admirable painting!” the artist exclaimed.
The butterfly, once mocked by its comrades, was now admired by all for its peerless beauty. It forgot its plans to travel; pride had turned it away from its noble aspirations. But word of the book began to spread, and its owner had to lock it away in a chest. Alas, from eating to excess in the finest restaurants and at all the banquets to which he was invited, the painter fell ill. The butterfly thus remained a prisoner for a long while in the darkness of the chest. It struggled, cried out, wept — but in vain: the lid stayed shut and the darkness was total. It remained shut away so long that it nearly died of despair. This became the occasion for it to reconsider its plans: “Ambition and narcissism deceived me!” it said. “What have I gained from being admired by people? If I get out of here, I shall take to the road again.”
At last the painter recovered. He took the book out of the chest and opened it. But there — wonder of wonders — a transparent page came loose: the butterfly flew off. It was about to leave through the window when the man called out: “Wait! Why are you leaving?” The butterfly told him its story. The painter then said: “What will you do without your colours?” The insect replied: “With my colours, I filled but a single page. With my transparency, it is all the pages that fill me!”
The Maple
I was walking in the forest, beneath the boughs of a fine tree.
— Hello, great tree, I said to it.
— Why call me “tree”? it replied. Have you no more precise name for me?
— Forgive me, I said; you are surely a maple.
— Is that all?
— You are an Acer rubrum, I said, proud to know the Latin name that classified it so precisely.
— Have you decided to belittle me today?
— That is the whole extent of my knowledge, alas. What should I call you?
— And what name could you give to a being that will not be the same tomorrow, nor even the same from one moment to the next? Are we not both “the contemplator” who beholds “the contemplated”?
The next day I passed again beneath its boughs and said:
— Hello, “me”.
— Hello, “us”, it answered.
The day after, it passed beneath my boughs.
The Submarine
A woman loved travel beyond measure. She lived by the sea and spent her time gazing at the horizon, thinking of her next voyage. Alas, the day she had visited every country in the world, her mood turned very gloomy. She shut herself away at home with her souvenir photographs and began to waste away. As she was about to die of sorrow, a white-haired explorer heard of her and came to find her:
— I know an extraordinary island where you have never been, but it is very hard to reach. Will you undertake this voyage with me?
The woman leapt from her sofa:
— When do we leave?
— Right now.
In the village there was a very pretty harbour, bordered with flowers. Seen from the sea, the pleasure boats with their colourful sails concentrated a rich palette of paint upon the white walls of the village.
— We must take this submarine, the explorer explained.
— Let us go, the traveller replied without hesitation!
— But I must warn you that the voyage will be long.
— Do not worry, I have all the time in the world. In travel, everything is good: the arrival as much as the journey.
The submarine was white, the food was white, and the explorer’s hair was white. After a few days, she asked the explorer how many days of travel remained. To which the man replied, frowning his white brows:
— We had an agreement!
— I only wanted to know whether…
The captain cut her off:
— Bear your hardship with patience!
The poor woman kept silent for another three days, then went to find the captain. As soon as he saw her, he frowned. She turned around and went back to her white cabin. The days passed. She could bear it no longer — eating white food in a white submarine, accompanied by a white-haired explorer. A month passed, then two, then three.
Just when she had given up ever arriving, and had calmed her inner storm, the captain came to her and cried out enthusiastically:
— We have arrived!
The traveller rose calmly from her bed and followed him. The hatch opened. Those boats with their many-coloured sails, those flowering gardens — it was the harbour of her own village! But now she saw the colours so vivid, and life so full of colour! She turned to the explorer, who had put on a yellow-and-red beret, and said:
— You have taken me farther than I ever hoped!
The Caravan Driver
There was once a caravan driver who roamed the desert. He often stopped at oases. The people, sensitive to his noble character, often urged him to settle among them, sometimes even offering him a dwelling and land. One day someone challenged him:
— What is the point of roaming the earth? What goal do you pursue?
— I want to see the foot of the horizon, he replied. When I have reached it, I shall settle.
The people burst out laughing. And one of them said scornfully:
— Do you not know that the earth is round?
The caravan driver bore the affront without being moved. After a moment, he simply asked:
— And you — what goal do you pursue?
A young man told him, with insolent assurance:
— We seek prosperity. We help to enrich society and so make people happy.
A scholar of the village interrupted him:
— Do not listen to this young fool: if people grow rich but quarrel, no material good will bring them happiness. What matters is knowledge, and we scholars aim to attain certainty.
At that, the caravan driver said to them:
— Certainty, you say? But do you not know that the heart is round?
The Lighthouse
A young man had a grandfather who was very wise and very loving. When the grandfather returned to his Lord, the young man was deeply grieved. Time passed, and relations within his family deteriorated, for the one who used to soothe quarrels with his gentle, warm words was no longer there.
One day he came to the conclusion that the most important thing in life was to learn wisdom. But, no longer having his grandfather to teach him, he set out in search of an instructor. He travelled the land for a long time without anyone seeming able to guide him. At last he heard of an old woman who kept a lighthouse on a small island. Without delay, he went to the nearest harbour and found a fisherman to take him there. “But you should know,” the fisherman told him, “that on this island, and nearby, there is always a violent wind and the voyage is dangerous. So it will cost you dearly. What is more, I do not know whether the lighthouse keeper is still alive.” The young man gathered his last savings and paid the fisherman.
Indeed, the voyage was very perilous, but they finally reached the island. Our traveller hurried to find the old woman. She was very much alive and going calmly about her work around her house. “Hello, young man,” she called warmly. “Hello, dear madam,” he replied. “I have come to learn wisdom.” The woman looked deep into his eyes. “At your service,” he declared. After supper, she handed him an oil lamp and said: “I want you to carry this lamp to the lighthouse at the other end of the island, and light it.” The young man set off. But the wind was so strong that his lamp went out halfway. So he returned to the house to light it again. The first night, despite ten attempts, he could not reach the lighthouse. And the woman said to him: “If you do not light the lighthouse, you put lives in danger.” The next day, he fell ill from the cold wind. A few days later, he tried his luck again, without success. After a month, he finally reached the lighthouse while keeping the flame alive, and lit the fire.
He continued thus for several months, setting out each night to face the storm and light the way for the ships. One morning he finally asked the old woman: “Why did you build your house so far from the lighthouse?” She kept a long silence, then said: “It is time for you to leave. But before that, I will tell you one thing. When you are in the city, be even more attentive to your lamp.” — “What lamp?” he asked. “We have no need of a lamp in the city.” — “You wanted to learn wisdom — well, it is now that your work begins. In the storm of feelings and convictions, you must preserve two things: the light of consciousness and the warmth of love.”