THE GOLDEN BOOK
The two lads were lounging together over a book, half-buried in a heap
of dry corn, in an old granary—the quiet corner to which they had
climbed out of the way of their noisier companions on one of their
blandest holiday afternoons. They looked round: the western sun smote
through the broad chinks of the shutters. How like a picture! and it
was precisely the scene described in what they were reading, with just
that added poetic touch in the book which made it delightful and
select, and, in the actual place, the ray of sunlight transforming the
rough grain among the cool brown shadows into heaps of gold. What they
were intent on was, indeed, the book of books, the “golden” book of
that day, a gift to Flavian, as was shown by the purple writing on the
handsome yellow wrapper, following the title Flaviane!—it said,
Flaviane! lege Felicitur!
Flaviane! Vivas! Fioreas!
Flaviane! Vivas! Gaudeas!
It was perfumed with oil of sandal-wood, and decorated with carved and
gilt ivory bosses at the ends of the roller.
And the inside was something not less dainty and fine, full of the
archaisms and curious felicities in which that generation delighted,
quaint terms and images picked fresh from the early dramatists, the
lifelike phrases of some lost poet preserved by an old grammarian, racy
morsels of the vernacular and studied prettinesses:—all alike, mere
playthings for the genuine power and natural eloquence of the erudite
artist, unsuppressed by his erudition, which, however, made some people
angry, chiefly less well “got-up” people, and especially those who were
untidy from indolence.
No! it was certainly not that old-fashioned, unconscious ease of the
early literature, which could never come again; which, after all, had
had more in common with the “infinite patience” of Apuleius than with
the hack-work readiness of his detractors, who might so well have been
“self-conscious” of going slip-shod. And at least his success was
unmistakable as to the precise literary effect he had intended,
including a certain tincture of “neology” in expression—nonnihil
interdum elocutione novella parum signatum—in the language of Cornelius
Fronto, the contemporary prince of rhetoricians. What words he had
found for conveying, with a single touch, the sense of textures,
colours, incidents! “Like jewellers’ work! Like a myrrhine
vase!”—admirers said of his writing. “The golden fibre in the hair, the
gold thread-work in the gown marked her as the mistress”—aurum in comis
et in tunicis, ibi inflexum hic intextum, matronam profecto
confitebatur—he writes, with his “curious felicity,” of one of his
heroines. Aurum intextum: gold fibre:—well! there was something of that
kind in his own work. And then, in an age when people, from the emperor
Aurelius downwards, prided themselves unwisely on writing in Greek, he
had written for Latin people in their own tongue; though still, in
truth, with all the care of a learned language. Not less happily
inventive were the incidents recorded—story within story—stories with
the sudden, unlooked-for changes of dreams. He had his humorous touches
also. And what went to the ordinary boyish taste, in those somewhat
peculiar readers, what would have charmed boys more purely boyish, was
the adventure:—the bear loose in the house at night, the wolves
storming the farms in winter, the exploits of the robbers, their
charming caves, the delightful thrill one had at the question—“Don’t
you know that these roads are infested by robbers?”
The scene of the romance was laid in Thessaly, the original land of
witchcraft, and took one up and down its mountains, and into its old
weird towns, haunts of magic and incantation, where all the more
genuine appliances of the black art, left behind her by Medea when she
fled through that country, were still in use. In the city of Hypata,
indeed, nothing seemed to be its true self—“You might think that
through the murmuring of some cadaverous spell, all things had been
changed into forms not their own; that there was humanity in the
hardness of the stones you stumbled on; that the birds you heard
singing were feathered men; that the trees around the walls drew their
leaves from a like source. The statues seemed about to move, the walls
to speak, the dumb cattle to break out in prophecy; nay! the very sky
and the sunbeams, as if they might suddenly cry out.” Witches are there
who can draw down the moon, or at least the lunar virus—that white
fluid she sheds, to be found, so rarely, “on high, heathy places: which
is a poison. A touch of it will drive men mad.”
And in one very remote village lives the sorceress Pamphile, who turns
her neighbours into various animals. What true humour in the scene
where, after mounting the rickety stairs, Lucius, peeping curiously
through a chink in the door, is a spectator of the transformation of
the old witch herself into a bird, that she may take flight to the
object of her affections—into an owl! “First she stripped off every rag
she had. Then opening a certain chest she took from it many small
boxes, and removing the lid of one of them, rubbed herself over for a
long time, from head to foot, with an ointment it contained, and after
much low muttering to her lamp, began to jerk at last and shake her
limbs. And as her limbs moved to and fro, out burst the soft feathers:
stout wings came forth to view: the nose grew hard and hooked: her
nails were crooked into claws; and Pamphile was an owl. She uttered a
queasy screech; and, leaping little by little from the ground, making
trial of herself, fled presently, on full wing, out of doors.”
By clumsy imitation of this process, Lucius, the hero of the romance,
transforms himself, not as he had intended into a showy winged
creature, but into the animal which has given name to the book; for
throughout it there runs a vein of racy, homely satire on the love of
magic then prevalent, curiosity concerning which had led Lucius to
meddle with the old woman’s appliances. “Be you my Venus,” he says to
the pretty maid-servant who has introduced him to the view of Pamphile,
“and let me stand by you a winged Cupid!” and, freely applying the
magic ointment, sees himself transformed, “not into a bird, but into an
ass!”
Well! the proper remedy for his distress is a supper of roses, could
such be found, and many are his quaintly picturesque attempts to come
by them at that adverse season; as he contrives to do at last, when,
the grotesque procession of Isis passing by with a bear and other
strange animals in its train, the ass following along with the rest
suddenly crunches the chaplet of roses carried in the High-priest’s
hand.
Meantime, however, he must wait for the spring, with more than the
outside of an ass; “though I was not so much a fool, nor so truly an
ass,” he tells us, when he happens to be left alone with a daintily
spread table, “as to neglect this most delicious fare, and feed upon
coarse hay.” For, in truth, all through the book, there is an
unmistakably real feeling for asses, with bold touches like Swift’s,
and a genuine animal breadth. Lucius was the original ass, who peeping
slily from the window of his hiding-place forgot all about the big
shade he cast just above him, and gave occasion to the joke or proverb
about “the peeping ass and his shadow.”
But the marvellous, delight in which is one of the really serious
elements in most boys, passed at times, those young readers still
feeling its fascination, into what French writers call the macabre—that
species of almost insane pre-occupation with the materialities of our
mouldering flesh, that luxury of disgust in gazing on corruption, which
was connected, in this writer at least, with not a little obvious
coarseness. It was a strange notion of the gross lust of the actual
world, that Marius took from some of these episodes. “I am told,” they
read, “that when foreigners are interred, the old witches are in the
habit of out-racing the funeral procession, to ravage the corpse”—in
order to obtain certain cuttings and remnants from it, with which to
injure the living—“especially if the witch has happened to cast her eye
upon some goodly young man.” And the scene of the night-watching of a
dead body lest the witches should come to tear off the flesh with their
teeth, is worthy of Théophile Gautier.
But set as one of the episodes in the main narrative, a true gem amid
its mockeries, its coarse though genuine humanity, its burlesque
horrors, came the tale of Cupid and Psyche, full of brilliant,
life-like situations, speciosa locis, and abounding in lovely visible
imagery (one seemed to see and handle the golden hair, the fresh
flowers, the precious works of art in it!) yet full also of a gentle
idealism, so that you might take it, if you chose, for an allegory.
With a concentration of all his finer literary gifts, Apuleius had
gathered into it the floating star-matter of many a delightful old
story.—
The Story of Cupid and Psyche.
In a certain city lived a king and queen who had three daughters
exceeding fair. But the beauty of the elder sisters, though pleasant to
behold, yet passed not the measure of human praise, while such was the
loveliness of the youngest that men’s speech was too poor to commend it
worthily and could express it not at all. Many of the citizens and of
strangers, whom the fame of this excellent vision had gathered thither,
confounded by that matchless beauty, could but kiss the finger-tips of
their right hands at sight of her, as in adoration to the goddess Venus
herself. And soon a rumour passed through the country that she whom the
blue deep had borne, forbearing her divine dignity, was even then
moving among men, or that by some fresh germination from the stars, not
the sea now, but the earth, had put forth a new Venus, endued with the
flower of virginity.
This belief, with the fame of the maiden’s loveliness, went daily
further into distant lands, so that many people were drawn together to
behold that glorious model of the age. Men sailed no longer to Paphos,
to Cnidus or Cythera, to the presence of the goddess Venus: her sacred
rites were neglected, her images stood uncrowned, the cold ashes were
left to disfigure her forsaken altars. It was to a maiden that men’s
prayers were offered, to a human countenance they looked, in
propitiating so great a godhead: when the girl went forth in the
morning they strewed flowers on her way, and the victims proper to that
unseen goddess were presented as she passed along. This conveyance of
divine worship to a mortal kindled meantime the anger of the true
Venus. “Lo! now, the ancient parent of nature,” she cried, “the
fountain of all elements! Behold me, Venus, benign mother of the world,
sharing my honours with a mortal maiden, while my name, built up in
heaven, is profaned by the mean things of earth! Shall a perishable
woman bear my image about with her? In vain did the shepherd of Ida
prefer me! Yet shall she have little joy, whosoever she be, of her
usurped and unlawful loveliness!” Thereupon she called to her that
winged, bold boy, of evil ways, who wanders armed by night through
men’s houses, spoiling their marriages; and stirring yet more by her
speech his inborn wantonness, she led him to the city, and showed him
Psyche as she walked.
“I pray thee,” she said, “give thy mother a full revenge. Let this maid
become the slave of an unworthy love.” Then, embracing him closely, she
departed to the shore and took her throne upon the crest of the wave.
And lo! at her unuttered will, her ocean-servants are in waiting: the
daughters of Nereus are there singing their song, and Portunus, and
Salacia, and the tiny charioteer of the dolphin, with a host of Tritons
leaping through the billows. And one blows softly through his sounding
sea-shell, another spreads a silken web against the sun, a third
presents the mirror to the eyes of his mistress, while the others swim
side by side below, drawing her chariot. Such was the escort of Venus
as she went upon the sea.
Psyche meantime, aware of her loveliness, had no fruit thereof. All
people regarded and admired, but none sought her in marriage. It was
but as on the finished work of the craftsman that they gazed upon that
divine likeness. Her sisters, less fair than she, were happily wedded.
She, even as a widow, sitting at home, wept over her desolation, hating
in her heart the beauty in which all men were pleased.
And the king, supposing the gods were angry, inquired of the oracle of
Apollo, and Apollo answered him thus: “Let the damsel be placed on the
top of a certain mountain, adorned as for the bed of marriage and of
death. Look not for a son-in-law of mortal birth; but for that evil
serpent-thing, by reason of whom even the gods tremble and the shadows
of Styx are afraid.”
So the king returned home and made known the oracle to his wife. For
many days she lamented, but at last the fulfilment of the divine
precept is urgent upon her, and the company make ready to conduct the
maiden to her deadly bridal. And now the nuptial torch gathers dark
smoke and ashes: the pleasant sound of the pipe is changed into a cry:
the marriage hymn concludes in a sorrowful wailing: below her yellow
wedding-veil the bride shook away her tears; insomuch that the whole
city was afflicted together at the ill-luck of the stricken house.
But the mandate of the god impelled the hapless Psyche to her fate,
and, these solemnities being ended, the funeral of the living soul goes
forth, all the people following. Psyche, bitterly weeping, assists not
at her marriage but at her own obsequies, and while the parents
hesitate to accomplish a thing so unholy the daughter cries to them:
“Wherefore torment your luckless age by long weeping? This was the
prize of my extraordinary beauty! When all people celebrated us with
divine honours, and in one voice named the New Venus, it was then ye
should have wept for me as one dead. Now at last I understand that that
one name of Venus has been my ruin. Lead me and set me upon the
appointed place. I am in haste to submit to that well-omened marriage,
to behold that goodly spouse. Why delay the coming of him who was born
for the destruction of the whole world?”
She was silent, and with firm step went on the way. And they proceeded
to the appointed place on a steep mountain, and left there the maiden
alone, and took their way homewards dejectedly. The wretched parents,
in their close-shut house, yielded themselves to perpetual night; while
to Psyche, fearful and trembling and weeping sore upon the
mountain-top, comes the gentle Zephyrus. He lifts her mildly, and, with
vesture afloat on either side, bears her by his own soft breathing over
the windings of the hills, and sets her lightly among the flowers in
the bosom of a valley below.
Psyche, in those delicate grassy places, lying sweetly on her dewy bed,
rested from the agitation of her soul and arose in peace. And lo! a
grove of mighty trees, with a fount of water, clear as glass, in the
midst; and hard by the water, a dwelling-place, built not by human
hands but by some divine cunning. One recognised, even at the entering,
the delightful hostelry of a god. Golden pillars sustained the roof,
arched most curiously in cedar-wood and ivory. The walls were hidden
under wrought silver:—all tame and woodland creatures leaping forward
to the visitor’s gaze. Wonderful indeed was the craftsman, divine or
half-divine, who by the subtlety of his art had breathed so wild a soul
into the silver! The very pavement was distinct with pictures in goodly
stones. In the glow of its precious metal the house is its own
daylight, having no need of the sun. Well might it seem a place
fashioned for the conversation of gods with men!
Psyche, drawn forward by the delight of it, came near, and, her courage
growing, stood within the doorway. One by one, she admired the
beautiful things she saw; and, most wonderful of all! no lock, no
chain, nor living guardian protected that great treasure house. But as
she gazed there came a voice—a voice, as it were unclothed of bodily
vesture—“Mistress!” it said, “all these things are thine. Lie down, and
relieve thy weariness, and rise again for the bath when thou wilt. We
thy servants, whose voice thou hearest, will be beforehand with our
service, and a royal feast shall be ready.”
And Psyche understood that some divine care was providing, and,
refreshed with sleep and the Bath, sat down to the feast. Still she saw
no one: only she heard words falling here and there, and had voices
alone to serve her. And the feast being ended, one entered the chamber
and sang to her unseen, while another struck the chords of a harp,
invisible with him who played on it. Afterwards the sound of a company
singing together came to her, but still so that none were present to
sight; yet it appeared that a great multitude of singers was there.
And the hour of evening inviting her, she climbed into the bed; and as
the night was far advanced, behold a sound of a certain clemency
approaches her. Then, fearing for her maidenhood in so great solitude,
she trembled, and more than any evil she knew dreaded that she knew
not. And now the husband, that unknown husband, drew near, and ascended
the couch, and made her his wife; and lo! before the rise of dawn he
had departed hastily. And the attendant voices ministered to the needs
of the newly married. And so it happened with her for a long season.
And as nature has willed, this new thing, by continual use, became a
delight to her: the sound of the voice grew to be her solace in that
condition of loneliness and uncertainty.
One night the bridegroom spoke thus to his beloved, “O Psyche, most
pleasant bride! Fortune is grown stern with us, and threatens thee with
mortal peril. Thy sisters, troubled at the report of thy death and
seeking some trace of thee, will come to the mountain’s top. But if by
chance their cries reach thee, answer not, neither look forth at all,
lest thou bring sorrow upon me and destruction upon thyself.” Then
Psyche promised that she would do according to his will. But the
bridegroom was fled away again with the night. And all that day she
spent in tears, repeating that she was now dead indeed, shut up in that
golden prison, powerless to console her sisters sorrowing after her, or
to see their faces; and so went to rest weeping.
And after a while came the bridegroom again, and lay down beside her,
and embracing her as she wept, complained, “Was this thy promise, my
Psyche? What have I to hope from thee? Even in the arms of thy husband
thou ceasest not from pain. Do now as thou wilt. Indulge thine own
desire, though it seeks what will ruin thee. Yet wilt thou remember my
warning, repentant too late.” Then, protesting that she is like to die,
she obtains from him that he suffer her to see her sisters, and present
to them moreover what gifts she would of golden ornaments; but
therewith he ofttimes advised her never at any time, yielding to
pernicious counsel, to enquire concerning his bodily form, lest she
fall, through unholy curiosity, from so great a height of fortune, nor
feel ever his embrace again. “I would die a hundred times,” she said,
cheerful at last, “rather than be deprived of thy most sweet usage. I
love thee as my own soul, beyond comparison even with Love himself.
Only bid thy servant Zephyrus bring hither my sisters, as he brought
me. My honeycomb! My husband! Thy Psyche’s breath of life!” So he
promised; and after the embraces of the night, ere the light appeared,
vanished from the hands of his bride.
And the sisters, coming to the place where Psyche was abandoned, wept
loudly among the rocks, and called upon her by name, so that the sound
came down to her, and running out of the palace distraught, she cried,
“Wherefore afflict your souls with lamentation? I whom you mourn am
here.” Then, summoning Zephyrus, she reminded him of her husband’s
bidding; and he bare them down with a gentle blast. “Enter now,” she
said, “into my house, and relieve your sorrow in the company of Psyche
your sister.”
And Psyche displayed to them all the treasures of the golden house, and
its great family of ministering voices, nursing in them the malice
which was already at their hearts. And at last one of them asks
curiously who the lord of that celestial array may be, and what manner
of man her husband? And Psyche answered dissemblingly, “A young man,
handsome and mannerly, with a goodly beard. For the most part he hunts
upon the mountains.” And lest the secret should slip from her in the
way of further speech, loading her sisters with gold and gems, she
commanded Zephyrus to bear them away.
And they returned home, on fire with envy. “See now the injustice of
fortune!” cried one. “We, the elder children, are given like servants
to be the wives of strangers, while the youngest is possessed of so
great riches, who scarcely knows how to use them. You saw, Sister! what
a hoard of wealth lies in the house; what glittering gowns; what
splendour of precious gems, besides all that gold trodden under foot.
If she indeed hath, as she said, a bridegroom so goodly, then no one in
all the world is happier. And it may be that this husband, being of
divine nature, will make her too a goddess. Nay! so in truth it is. It
was even thus she bore herself. Already she looks aloft and breathes
divinity, who, though but a woman, has voices for her handmaidens, and
can command the winds.” “Think,” answered the other, “how arrogantly
she dealt with us, grudging us these trifling gifts out of all that
store, and when our company became a burden, causing us to be hissed
and driven away from her through the air! But I am no woman if she keep
her hold on this great fortune; and if the insult done us has touched
thee too, take we counsel together. Meanwhile let us hold our peace,
and know naught of her, alive or dead. For they are not truly happy of
whose happiness other folk are unaware.”
And the bridegroom, whom still she knows not, warns her thus a second
time, as he talks with her by night: “Seest thou what peril besets
thee? Those cunning wolves have made ready for thee their snares, of
which the sum is that they persuade thee to search into the fashion of
my countenance, the seeing of which, as I have told thee often, will be
the seeing of it no more for ever. But do thou neither listen nor make
answer to aught regarding thy husband. Besides, we have sown also the
seed of our race. Even now this bosom grows with a child to be born to
us, a child, if thou but keep our secret, of divine quality; if thou
profane it, subject to death.” And Psyche was glad at the tidings,
rejoicing in that solace of a divine seed, and in the glory of that
pledge of love to be, and the dignity of the name of mother. Anxiously
she notes the increase of the days, the waning months. And again, as he
tarries briefly beside her, the bridegroom repeats his warning:
“Even now the sword is drawn with which thy sisters seek thy life. Have
pity on thyself, sweet wife, and upon our child, and see not those evil
women again.” But the sisters make their way into the palace once more,
crying to her in wily tones, “O Psyche! and thou too wilt be a mother!
How great will be the joy at home! Happy indeed shall we be to have the
nursing of the golden child. Truly if he be answerable to the beauty of
his parents, it will be a birth of Cupid himself.”
So, little by little, they stole upon the heart of their sister. She,
meanwhile, bids the lyre to sound for their delight, and the playing is
heard: she bids the pipes to move, the quire to sing, and the music and
the singing come invisibly, soothing the mind of the listener with
sweetest modulation. Yet not even thereby was their malice put to
sleep: once more they seek to know what manner of husband she has, and
whence that seed. And Psyche, simple over-much, forgetful of her first
story, answers, “My husband comes from a far country, trading for great
sums. He is already of middle age, with whitening locks.” And therewith
she dismisses them again.
And returning home upon the soft breath of Zephyrus one cried to the
other, “What shall be said of so ugly a lie? He who was a young man
with goodly beard is now in middle life. It must be that she told a
false tale: else is she in very truth ignorant what manner of man he
is. Howsoever it be, let us destroy her quickly. For if she indeed
knows not, be sure that her bridegroom is one of the gods: it is a god
she bears in her womb. And let that be far from us! If she be called
mother of a god, then will life be more than I can bear.”
So, full of rage against her, they returned to Psyche, and said to her
craftily, “Thou livest in an ignorant bliss, all incurious of thy real
danger. It is a deadly serpent, as we certainly know, that comes to
sleep at thy side. Remember the words of the oracle, which declared
thee destined to a cruel beast. There are those who have seen it at
nightfall, coming back from its feeding. In no long time, they say, it
will end its blandishments. It but waits for the babe to be formed in
thee, that it may devour thee by so much the richer. If indeed the
solitude of this musical place, or it may be the loathsome commerce of
a hidden love, delight thee, we at least in sisterly piety have done
our part.” And at last the unhappy Psyche, simple and frail of soul,
carried away by the terror of their words, losing memory of her
husband’s precepts and her own promise, brought upon herself a great
calamity. Trembling and turning pale, she answers them, “And they who
tell those things, it may be, speak the truth. For in very deed never
have I seen the face of my husband, nor know I at all what manner of
man he is. Always he frights me diligently from the sight of him,
threatening some great evil should I too curiously look upon his face.
Do ye, if ye can help your sister in her great peril, stand by her
now.”
Her sisters answered her, “The way of safety we have well considered,
and will teach thee. Take a sharp knife, and hide it in that part of
the couch where thou art wont to lie: take also a lamp filled with oil,
and set it privily behind the curtain. And when he shall have drawn up
his coils into the accustomed place, and thou hearest him breathe in
sleep, slip then from his side and discover the lamp, and, knife in
hand, put forth thy strength, and strike off the serpent’s head.” And
so they departed in haste.
And Psyche left alone (alone but for the furies which beset her) is
tossed up and down in her distress, like a wave of the sea; and though
her will is firm, yet, in the moment of putting hand to the deed, she
falters, and is torn asunder by various apprehension of the great
calamity upon her. She hastens and anon delays, now full of distrust,
and now of angry courage: under one bodily form she loathes the monster
and loves the bridegroom. But twilight ushers in the night; and at
length in haste she makes ready for the terrible deed. Darkness came,
and the bridegroom; and he first, after some faint essay of love, falls
into a deep sleep.
And she, erewhile of no strength, the hard purpose of destiny assisting
her, is confirmed in force. With lamp plucked forth, knife in hand, she
put by her sex; and lo! as the secrets of the bed became manifest, the
sweetest and most gentle of all creatures, Love himself, reclined
there, in his own proper loveliness! At sight of him the very flame of
the lamp kindled more gladly! But Psyche was afraid at the vision, and,
faint of soul, trembled back upon her knees, and would have hidden the
steel in her own bosom. But the knife slipped from her hand; and now,
undone, yet ofttimes looking upon the beauty of that divine
countenance, she lives again. She sees the locks of that golden head,
pleasant with the unction of the gods, shed down in graceful
entanglement behind and before, about the ruddy cheeks and white
throat. The pinions of the winged god, yet fresh with the dew, are
spotless upon his shoulders, the delicate plumage wavering over them as
they lie at rest. Smooth he was, and, touched with light, worthy of
Venus his mother. At the foot of the couch lay his bow and arrows, the
instruments of his power, propitious to men.
And Psyche, gazing hungrily thereon, draws an arrow from the quiver,
and trying the point upon her thumb, tremulous still, drave in the
barb, so that a drop of blood came forth. Thus fell she, by her own
act, and unaware, into the love of Love. Falling upon the bridegroom,
with indrawn breath, in a hurry of kisses from eager and open lips, she
shuddered as she thought how brief that sleep might be. And it chanced
that a drop of burning oil fell from the lamp upon the god’s shoulder.
Ah! maladroit minister of love, thus to wound him from whom all fire
comes; though ’twas a lover, I trow, first devised thee, to have the
fruit of his desire even in the darkness! At the touch of the fire the
god started up, and beholding the overthrow of her faith, quietly took
flight from her embraces.
And Psyche, as he rose upon the wing, laid hold on him with her two
hands, hanging upon him in his passage through the air, till she sinks
to the earth through weariness. And as she lay there, the divine lover,
tarrying still, lighted upon a cypress tree which grew near, and, from
the top of it, spake thus to her, in great emotion. “Foolish one!
unmindful of the command of Venus, my mother, who had devoted thee to
one of base degree, I fled to thee in his stead. Now know I that this
was vainly done. Into mine own flesh pierced mine arrow, and I made
thee my wife, only that I might seem a monster beside thee—that thou
shouldst seek to wound the head wherein lay the eyes so full of love to
thee! Again and again, I thought to put thee on thy guard concerning
these things, and warned thee in loving-kindness. Now I would but
punish thee by my flight hence.” And therewith he winged his way into
the deep sky.
Psyche, prostrate upon the earth, and following far as sight might
reach the flight of the bridegroom, wept and lamented; and when the
breadth of space had parted him wholly from her, cast herself down from
the bank of a river which was nigh. But the stream, turning gentle in
honour of the god, put her forth again unhurt upon its margin. And as
it happened, Pan, the rustic god, was sitting just then by the
waterside, embracing, in the body of a reed, the goddess Canna;
teaching her to respond to him in all varieties of slender sound. Hard
by, his flock of goats browsed at will. And the shaggy god called her,
wounded and outworn, kindly to him and said, “I am but a rustic
herdsman, pretty maiden, yet wise, by favour of my great age and long
experience; and if I guess truly by those faltering steps, by thy
sorrowful eyes and continual sighing, thou labourest with excess of
love. Listen then to me, and seek not death again, in the stream or
otherwise. Put aside thy woe, and turn thy prayers to Cupid. He is in
truth a delicate youth: win him by the delicacy of thy service.”
So the shepherd-god spoke, and Psyche, answering nothing, but with a
reverence to his serviceable deity, went on her way. And while she, in
her search after Cupid, wandered through many lands, he was lying in
the chamber of his mother, heart-sick. And the white bird which floats
over the waves plunged in haste into the sea, and approaching Venus, as
she bathed, made known to her that her son lies afflicted with some
grievous hurt, doubtful of life. And Venus cried, angrily, “My son,
then, has a mistress! And it is Psyche, who witched away my beauty and
was the rival of my godhead, whom he loves!”
Therewith she issued from the sea, and returning to her golden chamber,
found there the lad, sick, as she had heard, and cried from the
doorway, “Well done, truly! to trample thy mother’s precepts under
foot, to spare my enemy that cross of an unworthy love; nay, unite her
to thyself, child as thou art, that I might have a daughter-in-law who
hates me! I will make thee repent of thy sport, and the savour of thy
marriage bitter. There is one who shall chasten this body of thine, put
out thy torch and unstring thy bow. Not till she has plucked forth that
hair, into which so oft these hands have smoothed the golden light, and
sheared away thy wings, shall I feel the injury done me avenged.” And
with this she hastened in anger from the doors.
And Ceres and Juno met her, and sought to know the meaning of her
troubled countenance. “Ye come in season,” she cried; “I pray you, find
for me Psyche. It must needs be that ye have heard the disgrace of my
house.” And they, ignorant of what was done, would have soothed her
anger, saying, “What fault, Mistress, hath thy son committed, that thou
wouldst destroy the girl he loves? Knowest thou not that he is now of
age? Because he wears his years so lightly must he seem to thee ever
but a child? Wilt thou for ever thus pry into the pastimes of thy son,
always accusing his wantonness, and blaming in him those delicate wiles
which are all thine own?” Thus, in secret fear of the boy’s bow, did
they seek to please him with their gracious patronage. But Venus, angry
at their light taking of her wrongs, turned her back upon them, and
with hasty steps made her way once more to the sea.
Meanwhile Psyche, tost in soul, wandering hither and thither, rested
not night or day in the pursuit of her husband, desiring, if she might
not soothe his anger by the endearments of a wife, at the least to
propitiate him with the prayers of a handmaid. And seeing a certain
temple on the top of a high mountain, she said, “Who knows whether
yonder place be not the abode of my lord?” Thither, therefore, she
turned her steps, hastening now the more because desire and hope
pressed her on, weary as she was with the labours of the way, and so,
painfully measuring out the highest ridges of the mountain, drew near
to the sacred couches. She sees ears of wheat, in heaps or twisted into
chaplets; ears of barley also, with sickles and all the instruments of
harvest, lying there in disorder, thrown at random from the hands of
the labourers in the great heat. These she curiously sets apart, one by
one, duly ordering them; for she said within herself, “I may not
neglect the shrines, nor the holy service, of any god there be, but
must rather win by supplication the kindly mercy of them all.”
And Ceres found her bending sadly upon her task, and cried aloud,
“Alas, Psyche! Venus, in the furiousness of her anger, tracks thy
footsteps through the world, seeking for thee to pay her the utmost
penalty; and thou, thinking of anything rather than thine own safety,
hast taken on thee the care of what belongs to me!” Then Psyche fell
down at her feet, and sweeping the floor with her hair, washing the
footsteps of the goddess in her tears, besought her mercy, with many
prayers:—“By the gladdening rites of harvest, by the lighted lamps and
mystic marches of the Marriage and mysterious Invention of thy daughter
Proserpine, and by all beside that the holy place of Attica veils in
silence, minister, I pray thee, to the sorrowful heart of Psyche!
Suffer me to hide myself but for a few days among the heaps of corn,
till time have softened the anger of the goddess, and my strength,
out-worn in my long travail, be recovered by a little rest.”
But Ceres answered her, “Truly thy tears move me, and I would fain help
thee; only I dare not incur the ill-will of my kinswoman. Depart hence
as quickly as may be.” And Psyche, repelled against hope, afflicted now
with twofold sorrow, making her way back again, beheld among the
half-lighted woods of the valley below a sanctuary builded with cunning
art. And that she might lose no way of hope, howsoever doubtful, she
drew near to the sacred doors. She sees there gifts of price, and
garments fixed upon the door-posts and to the branches of the trees,
wrought with letters of gold which told the name of the goddess to whom
they were dedicated, with thanksgiving for that she had done. So, with
bent knee and hands laid about the glowing altar, she prayed saying,
“Sister and spouse of Jupiter! be thou to these my desperate fortune’s
Juno the Auspicious! I know that thou dost willingly help those in
travail with child; deliver me from the peril that is upon me.” And as
she prayed thus, Juno in the majesty of her godhead, was straightway
present, and answered, “Would that I might incline favourably to thee;
but against the will of Venus, whom I have ever loved as a daughter, I
may not, for very shame, grant thy prayer.”
And Psyche, dismayed by this new shipwreck of her hope, communed thus
with herself, “Whither, from the midst of the snares that beset me,
shall I take my way once more? In what dark solitude shall I hide me
from the all-seeing eye of Venus? What if I put on at length a man’s
courage, and yielding myself unto her as my mistress, soften by a
humility not yet too late the fierceness of her purpose? Who knows but
that I may find him also whom my soul seeketh after, in the abode of
his mother?”
And Venus, renouncing all earthly aid in her search, prepared to return
to heaven. She ordered the chariot to be made ready, wrought for her by
Vulcan as a marriage-gift, with a cunning of hand which had left his
work so much the richer by the weight of gold it lost under his tool.
From the multitude which housed about the bed-chamber of their
mistress, white doves came forth, and with joyful motions bent their
painted necks beneath the yoke. Behind it, with playful riot, the
sparrows sped onward, and other birds sweet of song, making known by
their soft notes the approach of the goddess. Eagle and cruel hawk
alarmed not the quireful family of Venus. And the clouds broke away, as
the uttermost ether opened to receive her, daughter and goddess, with
great joy.
And Venus passed straightway to the house of Jupiter to beg from him
the service of Mercury, the god of speech. And Jupiter refused not her
prayer. And Venus and Mercury descended from heaven together; and as
they went, the former said to the latter, “Thou knowest, my brother of
Arcady, that never at any time have I done anything without thy help;
for how long time, moreover, I have sought a certain maiden in vain.
And now naught remains but that, by thy heraldry, I proclaim a reward
for whomsoever shall find her. Do thou my bidding quickly.” And
therewith she conveyed to him a little scrip, in the which was written
the name of Psyche, with other things; and so returned home.
And Mercury failed not in his office; but departing into all lands,
proclaimed that whosoever delivered up to Venus the fugitive girl,
should receive from herself seven kisses—one thereof full of the inmost
honey of her throat. With that the doubt of Psyche was ended. And now,
as she came near to the doors of Venus, one of the household, whose
name was Use-and-Wont, ran out to her, crying, “Hast thou learned,
Wicked Maid! now at last! that thou hast a mistress?” And seizing her
roughly by the hair, drew her into the presence of Venus. And when
Venus saw her, she cried out, saying, “Thou hast deigned then to make
thy salutations to thy mother-in-law. Now will I in turn treat thee as
becometh a dutiful daughter-in-law!”
And she took barley and millet and poppy-seed, every kind of grain and
seed, and mixed them together, and laughed, and said to her: “Methinks
so plain a maiden can earn lovers only by industrious ministry: now
will I also make trial of thy service. Sort me this heap of seed, the
one kind from the others, grain by grain; and get thy task done before
the evening.” And Psyche, stunned by the cruelty of her bidding, was
silent, and moved not her hand to the inextricable heap. And there came
forth a little ant, which had understanding of the difficulty of her
task, and took pity upon the consort of the god of Love; and he ran
deftly hither and thither, and called together the whole army of his
fellows. “Have pity,” he cried, “nimble scholars of the Earth, Mother
of all things!—have pity upon the wife of Love, and hasten to help her
in her perilous effort.” Then, one upon the other, the hosts of the
insect people hurried together; and they sorted asunder the whole heap
of seed, separating every grain after its kind, and so departed quickly
out of sight.
And at nightfall Venus returned, and seeing that task finished with so
wonderful diligence, she cried, “The work is not thine, thou naughty
maid, but his in whose eyes thou hast found favour.” And calling her
again in the morning, “See now the grove,” she said, “beyond yonder
torrent. Certain sheep feed there, whose fleeces shine with gold. Fetch
me straightway a lock of that precious stuff, having gotten it as thou
mayst.”
And Psyche went forth willingly, not to obey the command of Venus, but
even to seek a rest from her labour in the depths of the river. But
from the river, the green reed, lowly mother of music, spake to her: “O
Psyche! pollute not these waters by self-destruction, nor approach that
terrible flock; for, as the heat groweth, they wax fierce. Lie down
under yon plane-tree, till the quiet of the river’s breath have soothed
them. Thereafter thou mayst shake down the fleecy gold from the trees
of the grove, for it holdeth by the leaves.”
And Psyche, instructed thus by the simple reed, in the humanity of its
heart, filled her bosom with the soft golden stuff, and returned to
Venus. But the goddess smiled bitterly, and said to her, “Well know I
who was the author of this thing also. I will make further trial of thy
discretion, and the boldness of thy heart. Seest thou the utmost peak
of yonder steep mountain? The dark stream which flows down thence
waters the Stygian fields, and swells the flood of Cocytus. Bring me
now, in this little urn, a draught from its innermost source.” And
therewith she put into her hands a vessel of wrought crystal.
And Psyche set forth in haste on her way to the mountain, looking there
at last to find the end of her hapless life. But when she came to the
region which borders on the cliff that was showed to her, she
understood the deadly nature of her task. From a great rock, steep and
slippery, a horrible river of water poured forth, falling straightway
by a channel exceeding narrow into the unseen gulf below. And lo!
creeping from the rocks on either hand, angry serpents, with their long
necks and sleepless eyes. The very waters found a voice and bade her
depart, in smothered cries of, Depart hence! and What doest thou here?
Look around thee! and Destruction is upon thee! And then sense left
her, in the immensity of her peril, as one changed to stone.
Yet not even then did the distress of this innocent soul escape the
steady eye of a gentle providence. For the bird of Jupiter spread his
wings and took flight to her, and asked her, “Didst thou think, simple
one, even thou! that thou couldst steal one drop of that relentless
stream, the holy river of Styx, terrible even to the gods? But give me
thine urn.” And the bird took the urn, and filled it at the source, and
returned to her quickly from among the teeth of the serpents, bringing
with him of the waters, all unwilling—nay! warning him to depart away
and not molest them.
And she, receiving the urn with great joy, ran back quickly that she
might deliver it to Venus, and yet again satisfied not the angry
goddess. “My child!” she said, “in this one thing further must thou
serve me. Take now this tiny casket, and get thee down even unto hell,
and deliver it to Proserpine. Tell her that Venus would have of her
beauty so much at least as may suffice for but one day’s use, that
beauty she possessed erewhile being foreworn and spoiled, through her
tendance upon the sick-bed of her son; and be not slow in returning.”
And Psyche perceived there the last ebbing of her fortune—that she was
now thrust openly upon death, who must go down, of her own motion, to
Hades and the Shades. And straightway she climbed to the top of an
exceeding high tower, thinking within herself, “I will cast myself down
thence: so shall I descend most quickly into the kingdom of the dead.”
And the tower again, broke forth into speech: “Wretched Maid! Wretched
Maid! Wilt thou destroy thyself? If the breath quit thy body, then wilt
thou indeed go down into Hades, but by no means return hither. Listen
to me. Among the pathless wilds not far from this place lies a certain
mountain, and therein one of hell’s vent-holes. Through the breach a
rough way lies open, following which thou wilt come, by straight
course, to the castle of Orcus. And thou must not go empty-handed. Take
in each hand a morsel of barley-bread, soaked in hydromel; and in thy
mouth two pieces of money. And when thou shalt be now well onward in
the way of death, then wilt thou overtake a lame ass laden with wood,
and a lame driver, who will pray thee reach him certain cords to fasten
the burden which is falling from the ass: but be thou cautious to pass
on in silence. And soon as thou comest to the river of the dead,
Charon, in that crazy bark he hath, will put thee over upon the further
side. There is greed even among the dead: and thou shalt deliver to
him, for the ferrying, one of those two pieces of money, in such wise
that he take it with his hand from between thy lips. And as thou
passest over the stream, a dead old man, rising on the water, will put
up to thee his mouldering hands, and pray thee draw him into the
ferry-boat. But beware thou yield not to unlawful pity.
“When thou shalt be come over, and art upon the causeway, certain aged
women, spinning, will cry to thee to lend thy hand to their work; and
beware again that thou take no part therein; for this also is the snare
of Venus, whereby she would cause thee to cast away one at least of
those cakes thou bearest in thy hands. And think not that a slight
matter; for the loss of either one of them will be to thee the losing
of the light of day. For a watch-dog exceeding fierce lies ever before
the threshold of that lonely house of Proserpine. Close his mouth with
one of thy cakes; so shalt thou pass by him, and enter straightway into
the presence of Proserpine herself. Then do thou deliver thy message,
and taking what she shall give thee, return back again; offering to the
watch-dog the other cake, and to the ferryman that other piece of money
thou hast in thy mouth. After this manner mayst thou return again
beneath the stars. But withal, I charge thee, think not to look into,
nor open, the casket thou bearest, with that treasure of the beauty of
the divine countenance hidden therein.”
So spake the stones of the tower; and Psyche delayed not, but
proceeding diligently after the manner enjoined, entered into the house
of Proserpine, at whose feet she sat down humbly, and would neither the
delicate couch nor that divine food the goddess offered her, but did
straightway the business of Venus. And Proserpine filled the casket
secretly and shut the lid, and delivered it to Psyche, who fled
therewith from Hades with new strength. But coming back into the light
of day, even as she hasted now to the ending of her service, she was
seized by a rash curiosity. “Lo! now,” she said within herself, “my
simpleness! who bearing in my hands the divine loveliness, heed not to
touch myself with a particle at least therefrom, that I may please the
more, by the favour of it, my fair one, my beloved.” Even as she spoke,
she lifted the lid; and behold! within, neither beauty, nor anything
beside, save sleep only, the sleep of the dead, which took hold upon
her, filling all her members with its drowsy vapour, so that she lay
down in the way and moved not, as in the slumber of death.
And Cupid being healed of his wound, because he would endure no longer
the absence of her he loved, gliding through the narrow window of the
chamber wherein he was holden, his pinions being now repaired by a
little rest, fled forth swiftly upon them, and coming to the place
where Psyche was, shook that sleep away from her, and set him in his
prison again, awaking her with the innocent point of his arrow. “Lo!
thine old error again,” he said, “which had like once more to have
destroyed thee! But do thou now what is lacking of the command of my
mother: the rest shall be my care.” With these words, the lover rose
upon the air; and being consumed inwardly with the greatness of his
love, penetrated with vehement wing into the highest place of heaven,
to lay his cause before the father of the gods. And the father of gods
took his hand in his, and kissed his face and said to him, “At no time,
my son, hast thou regarded me with due honour. Often hast thou vexed my
bosom, wherein lies the disposition of the stars, with those busy darts
of thine. Nevertheless, because thou hast grown up between these mine
hands, I will accomplish thy desire.” And straightway he bade Mercury
call the gods together; and, the council-chamber being filled, sitting
upon a high throne, “Ye gods,” he said, “all ye whose names are in the
white book of the Muses, ye know yonder lad. It seems good to me that
his youthful heats should by some means be restrained. And that all
occasion may be taken from him, I would even confine him in the bonds
of marriage. He has chosen and embraced a mortal maiden. Let him have
fruit of his love, and possess her for ever.”
Thereupon he bade Mercury produce Psyche in heaven; and holding out to
her his ambrosial cup, “Take it,” he said, “and live for ever; nor
shall Cupid ever depart from thee.” And the gods sat down together to
the marriage-feast.
On the first couch lay the bridegroom, and Psyche in his bosom. His
rustic serving-boy bare the wine to Jupiter; and Bacchus to the rest.
The Seasons crimsoned all things with their roses. Apollo sang to the
lyre, while a little Pan prattled on his reeds, and Venus danced very
sweetly to the soft music. Thus, with due rites, did Psyche pass into
the power of Cupid; and from them was born the daughter whom men call
Voluptas.