or two.--"no. Mother Ceres, I have seen nothing of your daughter. But my
ears, you must know, are made in such a way that all cries of distress and
affright, all over the world, are pretty sure to find their way to them:
and nine days ago, as I sat in my cave, making myself very miserable. I
heard the voice of a young girl, shrieking as if in great distress.
Something terrible has happened to the child, you may rest assured. As
well as I could judge, a dragon, or some other cruel monster, was carrying
her away."
"You kill me by saying so," cried Ceres, almost ready to faint. "Where was
the sound, and which way did it seem to go?"
"It passed very swiftly along," said Hecate, "and, at the same time, there
was a heavy rumbling of wheels towards the eastward. I can tell you
nothing more, except that, in my honest opinion, you will never see your
daughter again. The best advice I can give you is to take up your abode in
this cavern, where we will be the two most wretched women in the world."
"Not yet, dark Hecate." replied Ceres, "But do you first come with your
torch, and help me to seek for my lost child. And when there shall be no
more hope of finding her (if that black day is ordained to come), then, if
you will give me room to fling myself down, either on these withered
leaves or on the naked rock, I will show you what it is to be miserable.
But until I know that she has perished from the face of the earth, I will
not allow myself space even to grieve."
The dismal Hecate did not much like the idea of going abroad into the
sunny world. But then she reflected that the sorrow of the disconsolate
Ceres would be like a gloomy twilight round about them both, let the sun
shine ever so brightly, and that therefore she might enjoy her bad spirits
quite as well as if she were to stay in the cave. So she finally consented
to go, and they set out together, both carrying torches, although it was
broad daylight and clear sunshine. The torchlight seemed to make a gloom;
so that the people whom they met along the road could not very distinctly
see their figures; and, indeed, if they once caught a glimpse of Hecate,
with the wreath of snakes round her forehead, they generally thought it
prudent to run away, without waiting for a second glance.
As the pair traveled along in this woebegone manner, a thought struck
Ceres.
"There is one person." she exclaimed, "who must have seen my poor child,
and can doubtless tell what has become of her. Why did not I think of him
before? It is Phoebus."
"What," said Hecate, "the young man that always sits in the sunshine? Oh,
pray do not think of going near him. He is a gay, light, frivolous young
fellow, and will only smile in your face. And besides, there is such a
glare of the sun about him, that he will quite blind my poor eyes, which I
have almost wept away already."
"You have promised to be my companion," answered Ceres. "Come, let us make
haste, or the sunshine will be gone, and Phoebus along with it."
Accordingly, they went along in quest of Phoebus, both of them, sighing
grievously, and Hecate, to say the truth, making a great deal worse
lamentation than Ceres; for all the pleasure she had, you know, lay in
being miserable, and therefore she made the most of it. By and by, after a
pretty long journey, they arrived at the sunniest spot in the whole world.
There they beheld a beautiful young man, with long, curling ringlets,
which seemed to be made of golden sunbeams; his garments were like light
summer clouds; and the expression of his face was so exceedingly vivid,
that Hecate held her hands before her eyes, muttering that he ought to
wear a black veil. Phoebus (for this was the very person whom they were
seeking) had a lyre in his hands, and was making its chords tremble with
sweet music; at the same time singing a most exquisite song, which he had
recently composed. For besides a great many other accomplishments, this
young man was renowned for his admirable poetry.
As Ceres and her dismal companion approached him, Phoebus smiled on them
so cheerfully that Hecate's wreath of snakes gave a spiteful hiss, and
Hecate heartily wished herself back in her cave. But as for Ceres, she was
too earnest in her grief either to know or care whether Phoebus smiled or
frowned.
"Phoebus!" exclaimed she, "I am in great trouble, and have come to you for
assistance. Can you tell me what has become of my dear child Proserpina?"
"Proserpina! Proserpina, did you call her name?" answered Phoebus,
endeavoring to recollect; for there was such a continual flow of pleasant
ideas in his mind that he was apt to forget what had happened no longer
ago than yesterday. "Ah, yes, I remember her now. A very lovely child,
indeed. I am happy to tell you, my dear madam, that I did see the little
Proserpina not many days ago. You may make yourself perfectly easy about
her. She is safe, and in excellent hands."
"Oh, where is my dear child?" cried Ceres, clasping her hands and flinging
herself at his feet.
"Why," said Phoebus,--and as he spoke, he kept touching his lyre so as to
make a thread of music run in and out among his words,--"as the little
damsel was gathering flowers (and she has really a very exquisite taste
for flowers) she was suddenly snatched up by King Pluto, and carried off
to his dominions. I have never been in that part of the universe; but the
royal palace, I am told, is built in a very noble style of architecture,
and of the most splendid and costly materials. Gold, diamonds, pearls, and
all manner of precious stones will be your daughter's ordinary playthings.
I recommend to you, my dear lady, to give yourself no uneasiness.
Proserpina's sense of beauty will be duly gratified, and, even in spite of
the lack of sunshine, she will lead a very enviable life."
"Hush! Say not such a word!" answered Ceres indignantly. "What is there to
gratify her heart? What are all the splendors you speak of, without
affection? I must have her back again. Will you go with me, Phoebus, to
demand my daughter of this wicked Pluto?"
"Pray excuse me," replied Phoebus, with an elegant obeisance. "I certainly
wish you success, and regret that my own affairs are so immediately
pressing that I cannot have the pleasure of attending you. Besides, I am
not upon the best of terms with King Pluto. To tell you the truth, his
three-headed mastiff would never let me pass the gateway; for I should be
compelled to take a sheaf of sunbeams along with me, and those, you know,
are forbidden things in Pluto's kingdom."
"Ah, Phoebus," said Ceres, with bitter meaning in her words, "you have a
harp instead of a heart. Farewell."
"Will not you stay a moment," asked Phoebus, "and hear me turn the pretty
and touching story of Proserpina into extemporary verses?"
But Ceres shook her head, and hastened away, along with Hecate. Phoebus
(who, as I have told you, was an exquisite poet) forthwith began to make
an ode about the poor mother's grief; and, if we were to judge of his
sensibility by this beautiful production, he must have been endowed with a
very tender heart. But when a poet gets into the habit of using his
heartstrings to make chords for his lyre, he may thrum upon them as much
as he will, without any great pain to himself. Accordingly, though Phoebus
sang a very sad song, he was as merry all the while as were the sunbeams
amid which he dwelt.
Poor Mother Ceres had now found out what had become of her daughter, but
was not a whit happier than before. Her case, on the contrary, looked more
desperate than ever. As long as Proserpina was above ground there might
have been hopes of regaining her. But now that the poor child was shut up
within the iron gates of the king of the mines, at the threshold of which
lay the three-headed Cerberus, there seemed no possibility of her ever
making her escape. The dismal Hecate, who loved to take the darkest view
of things, told Ceres that she had better come with her to the cavern, and
spend the rest of her life in being miserable. Ceres answered that Hecate
was welcome to go back thither herself, but that, for her part, she would
wander about the earth in quest of the entrance to King Pluto's dominions.
And Hecate took her at her word, and hurried back to her beloved cave,
frightening a great many little children with a glimpse of her dog's face,
as she went.
Poor Mother Ceres! It is melancholy to think of her, pursuing her toilsome
way all alone, and holding up that never-dying torch, the flame of which
seemed an emblem of the grief and hope that burned together in her heart.
So much did she suffer, that, though her aspect had been quite youthful
when her troubles began, she grew to look like an elderly person in a very
brief time. She cared not how she was dressed, nor had she ever thought of
flinging away the wreath of withered poppies, which she put on the very
morning of Proserpina's disappearance. She roamed about in so wild a way,
and with her hair so dishevelled, that people took her for some distracted
creature, and never dreamed that this was Mother Ceres, who had the
oversight of every seed which the husbandman planted. Nowadays, however,
she gave herself no trouble about seed-time nor harvest, but left the
farmers to take care of their own affairs, and the crops to fade or
flourish, as the case might be. There was nothing, now, in which Ceres
seemed to feel an interest, unless when she saw children at play or
gathering flowers along the wayside. Then, indeed, she would stand and
gaze at them with tears in her eyes. The children, too, appeared to have a
sympathy with her grief, and would cluster themselves in a little group
about her knees, and look up wistfully in her face; and Ceres, after
giving them a kiss all around, would lead them to their homes, and advise
their mothers never to let them stray out of sight.
"For if you do," said she, "it may happen to you, as it has to me, that
the iron-hearted King Pluto will take a liking to your darlings, and
snatch them up in his chariot, and carry them away."
One day, during her pilgrimage in quest of the entrance to Pluto's
kingdom, she came to the palace of King Celeus, who reigned at Eleusis.
Ascending a lofty flight of steps, she entered the portal, and found the
royal household in very great alarm about the queen's baby. The infant, it
seems, was sickly (being troubled with its teeth, I suppose), and would
take no food, and was all the time moaning with pain. The queen--her name
was Metanira--was desirous of finding a nurse; and when she beheld a woman
of matronly aspect coming up the palace steps, she thought, in her own
mind that here was the very person whom she needed. So Queen Metanira ran
to the door, with the poor wailing baby in her arms, and besought Ceres to
take charge of it, or, at least, to tell her what would do it good."
"Will you trust the child entirely to me?" asked Ceres.
"Yes, and gladly too," answered the queen, "if you will devote all your
time to him. For I can see that you have been a mother."
"You are right," said Ceres. "I once had a child of my own. Well, I will
be the nurse of this poor, sickly boy. But beware, I warn you, that you do
not interfere with any kind of treatment which I may judge proper for him.
If you do so, the poor infant must suffer for his mother's folly."
Then she kissed the child, and it seemed to do him good, for he smiled and
nestled closely into her bosom.
So Mother Ceres set her torch in a corner (where it kept burning all the
while), and took up her abode in the palace of King Celeus, as nurse to
the little Prince Demophöon. She treated him as if he were her own child,
and allowed neither the king nor the queen to say whether he should be
bathed in warm or cold water, or what he should eat, or how often he
should take the air, or when he should be put to bed. You would hardly
believe me, if I were to tell how quickly the baby prince got rid of his
ailments, and grew fat, and rosy, and strong, and how he had two rows of
ivory teeth in less time than any other little fellow, before or since.
Instead of the palest, and wretchedest, and puniest imp in the world (as
his own mother confessed him to be when Ceres first took him in charge),
he was now a strapping baby, crowing, laughing, kicking up his heels, and
rolling from one end of the room to the other. All the good women of the
neighborhood crowded to the palace, and held up their hands, in
unutterable amazement, at the beauty and wholesomeness of this darling
little prince. Their wonder was the greater, because he was never seen to
taste any food,--not even so much as a cup of milk.
"Pray, nurse," the queen kept saying, "how is it that you make the child
thrive so?"
"I was a mother once," Ceres replied always; "and having nursed my own
child, I know what other children need."
But Queen Metanira, as was very natural, had a great curiosity to know
precisely what the nurse did to her child. One night, therefore, she hid
herself in the chamber where Ceres and the little prince were accustomed
to sleep. There was a fire in the chimney, and it had now crumbled into
great coals and embers, which lay glowing on the hearth, with a blaze
flickering up now and then, and flinging a warm and ruddy light upon the
walls. Ceres sat before the hearth with the child in her lap, and the
firelight making her shadow dance upon the ceiling overhead. She undressed
the little prince, and bathed him all over with some fragrant liquid out
of a vase. The next thing she did was to rake back the red embers, and
make a hollow place among them, just where the backlog had been. At last,
while the baby was crowing and clapping its fat little hands, and laughing
in the nurse's face (just as you may have seen your little brother or
sister do before going into its warm bath), Ceres suddenly laid him, all
naked as he was, in the hollow, among the red-hot embers. She then raked
the ashes over him, and turned quietly away.
You may imagine, if you can, how Queen Metanira shrieked, thinking nothing
less than that her dear child would be burned to a cinder. She burst forth
from her hiding-place, and running to the hearth, raked open the fire, and
snatched up poor little Prince Demophöon out of his bed of live coals, one
of which he was griping in each of his fists. He immediately set up a
grievous cry, as babies are apt to do when rudely startled out of a sound
sleep. To the queen's astonishment and joy, she could perceive no token of
the child's being injured by the hot fire in which he had lain. She now
turned to Mother Ceres, and asked her to explain the mystery.
"Foolish woman," answered Ceres, "did you not promise to intrust this poor
infant entirely to me? You little know the mischief you have done him. Had
you left him to my care, he would have grown up like a child of celestial
birth, endowed with superhuman strength and intelligence, and would have
lived forever. Do you imagine that earthly children are to become immortal
without being tempered to it in the fiercest heat of the fire? But you
have ruined your own son. For though he will be a strong man and a hero in
his day, yet, on account of your folly, he will grow old, and finally die,
like the sons of other women. The weak tenderness of his mother has cost
the poor boy an immortality. Farewell."
Saying these words, she kissed the little prince Demophöon, and sighed to
think what he had lost, and took her departure without heeding Queen
Metanira, who entreated her to remain, and cover up the child among the
hot embers as often as she pleased. Poor baby! He never slept so warmly
again.
While she dwelt in the king's palace, Mother Ceres had been so continually
occupied with taking care of the young prince, that her heart was a little
lightened of its grief for Proserpina. But now, having nothing else to
busy herself about, she became just as wretched as before. At length, in
her despair, she came to the dreadful resolution that not a stalk of
grain, nor a blade of grass, not a potato, nor a turnip, nor any other
vegetable that was good for man or beast to eat, should be suffered to
grow until her daughter were restored. She even forbade the flowers to
bloom, lest somebody's heart should be cheered by their beauty.
Now, as not so much as a head of asparagus ever presumed to poke itself
out of the ground, without the especial permission of Ceres, you may
conceive what a terrible calamity had here fallen upon the earth. The
husbandmen ploughed and planted as usual; but there lay the rich black
furrows, all as barren as a desert of sand. The pastures looked as brown
in the sweet month of June as ever they did in chill November. The rich
man's broad acres and the cottager's small garden-patch were equally
blighted. Every little girl's flower-bed showed nothing but dry stalks.
The old people shook their white heads, and said that the earth had grown
aged like themselves, and was no longer capable of wearing the warm smile
of summer on its face. It was really piteous to see the poor starving
cattle and sheep, how they followed behind Ceres, lowing and bleating, as
if their instinct taught them to expect help from her; and everybody that
was acquainted with her power besought her to have mercy on the human
race, and, at all events, to let the grass grow. But Mother Ceres, though
naturally of an affectionate disposition, was now inexorable.
"Never," said she. "If the earth is ever again to see any verdure, it must
first grow along the path which my daughter will tread in coming back to
me."
Finally, as there seemed to be no other remedy, our old friend Quicksilver
was sent post haste to King Pluto, in hopes that he might be persuaded to
undo the mischief he had done, and to set everything right again, by
giving up Proserpina. Quicksilver accordingly made the best of his way to
the great gate, took a flying leap right over the three-headed mastiff,
and stood at the door of the palace in an inconceivably short time. The
servants knew him both by his face and garb; for his short cloak and his
winged cap and shoes and his snaky staff had often been seen thereabouts
in times gone by. He requested to be shown immediately into the king's
presence; and Pluto, who heard his voice from the top of the stairs, and
who loved to recreate himself with Quicksilver's merry talk, called out to
him to come up. And while they settle their business together, we must
inquire what Proserpina has been doing ever since we saw her last.
The child had declared, as you may remember, that she would not taste a
mouthful of food as long as she should be compelled to remain in King
Pluto's palace. How she contrived to maintain her resolution, and at the
same time to keep herself tolerably plump and rosy, is more than I can
explain; but some young ladies, I am given to understand, possess the
faculty of living on air, and Proserpina seems to have possessed it too.
At any rate, it was now six months since she left the outside of the
earth; and not a morsel, so far as the attendants were able to testify,
had yet passed between her teeth. This was the more creditable to
Proserpina, inasmuch as King Pluto had caused her to be tempted day after
day, with all manner of sweetmeats, and richly preserved fruits, and
delicacies of every sort, such as young people are generally most fond of.
But her good mother had often told her of the hurtfulness of these things;
and for that reason alone, if there had been no other, she would have
resolutely refused to taste them.
All this time, being of a cheerful and active disposition, the little
damsel was not quite so unhappy as you may have supposed. The immense
palace had a thousand rooms, and was full of beautiful and wonderful
objects. There was a never-ceasing gloom, it is true, which half hid
itself among the innumerable pillars, gliding before the child as she
wandered among them, and treading stealthily behind her in the echo of her
footsteps. Neither was all the dazzle of the precious stones, which flamed
with their own light, worth one gleam of natural sunshine; nor could the
most brilliant of the many-colored gems which Proserpina had for
playthings vie with the simple beauty of the flowers she used to gather.
But still, wherever the girl went, among those gilded halls and chambers,
it seemed as if she carried nature and sunshine along with her, and as if
she scattered dewy blossoms on her right hand and on her left. After
Proserpina came, the palace was no longer the same abode of stately
artifice and dismal magnificence that it had before been. The inhabitants
all felt this, and King Pluto more than any of them.
"My own little Proserpina," he used to say, "I wish you could like me a
little better. We gloomy and cloudy-natured persons have often as warm
hearts at bottom as those of a more cheerful character. If you would only
stay with me of your own accord, it would make me happier than the
possession of a hundred such palaces as this."
"Ah," said Proserpina, "you should have tried to make me like you before
carrying me off. And the best thing you can do now is to let me go again.
Then I might remember you sometimes, and think that you were as kind as
you knew how to be. Perhaps, too, one day or other, I might come back, and
pay you a visit."
"No, no," answered Pluto, with his gloomy smile, "I will not trust you for
that. You are too fond of living in the broad daylight, and gathering
flowers. What an idle and childish taste that is! Are not these gems,
which I have ordered to be dug for you, and which are richer than any in
my crown,--are they not prettier than a violet?"
"Not half so pretty," said Proserpina, snatching the gems from Pluto's
hand, and flinging them to the other end of the hall. "Oh, my sweet
violets, shall I never see you again?"
And then she burst into tears. But young people's tears have very little
saltness or acidity in them, and do not inflame the eyes so much as those
of grown persons; so that it is not to be wondered at if, a few moments
afterwards, Proserpina was sporting through the hall almost as merrily as
she and the four sea-nymphs had sported along the edge of the surf wave,
King Pluto gazed after her, and wished that he, too was a child. And
little Proserpina, when she turned about, and beheld this great king
standing in his splendid hall, and looking so grand, and so melancholy,
and so lonesome, was smitten with a kind of pity. She ran back to him,
and, for the first time in all her life, put her small, soft hand in his.
"I love you a little," whispered she, looking up in his face.
"Do you, indeed, my dear child?" cried Pluto, bending his dark face down
to kiss her; but Proserpina shrank away from the kiss, for though his
features were noble, they were very dusky and grim. "Well, I have not
deserved it of you, after keeping you a prisoner for so many months, and
starving you, besides. Are you not terribly hungry? Is there nothing which
I can get you to eat?"
In asking this question, the king of the mines had a very cunning purpose;
for, you will recollect, if Proserpina tasted a morsel of food in his
dominions, she would never afterwards be at liberty to quit them.
"No, indeed," said Proserpina. "Your head cook is always baking, and
stewing, and roasting, and rolling out paste, and contriving one dish or
another, which he imagines may be to my liking. But he might just as well
save himself the trouble, poor, fat little man that he is. I have no
appetite for anything in the world, unless it were a slice of bread of my
mother's own baking, or a little fruit out of her garden."