hurried off to make inquiries all through the neighborhood. But nobody
told her anything that could enable the poor mother to guess what had
become of Proserpina. A fisherman, it is true, had noticed her little
footprints in the sand, as he went homeward along the beach with a
basket of fish; a rustic had seen the child stooping to gather flowers;
several persons had heard either the rattling of chariot-wheels, or the
rumbling of distant thunder; and one old woman, while plucking vervain
and catnip, had heard a scream, but supposed it to be some childish
nonsense, and therefore did not take the trouble to look up. The stupid
people! It took them such a tedious while to tell the nothing that they
knew, that it was dark night before Mother Ceres found out that she must
seek her daughter elsewhere. So she lighted a torch, and set forth
resolving never to come back until Proserpina was discovered.
In her haste and trouble of mind, she quite forgot her car and the
winged dragons; or, it may be, she thought that she could follow up the
search more thoroughly on foot. At all events, this was the way in which
she began her sorrowful journey, holding her torch before her, and
looking carefully at every object along the path. And as it happened,
she had not gone far before she found one of the magnificent flowers
which grew on the shrub that Proserpina had pulled up.
"Ha!" thought Mother Ceres, examining it by torchlight. "Here is
mischief in this flower! The earth did not produce it by any help of
mine, nor of its own accord. It is the work of enchantment, and is
therefore poisonous; and perhaps it has poisoned my poor child."
But she put the poisonous flower in her bosom, not knowing whether she
might ever find any other memorial of Proserpina.
All night long, at the door of every cottage and farm-house, Ceres
knocked, and called up the weary laborers to inquire if they had seen
her child; and they stood, gaping and half asleep, at the threshold, and
answered her pityingly, and besought her to come in and rest. At the
portal of every palace, too, she made so loud a summons that the menials
hurried to throw open the gate, thinking that it must be some great king
or queen, who would demand a banquet for supper and a stately chamber to
repose in. And when they saw only a sad and anxious woman, with a torch
in her hand and a wreath of withered poppies on her head, they spoke
rudely, and sometimes threatened to set the dogs upon her. But nobody
had seen Proserpina, nor could give Mother Ceres the least hint which
way to seek her. Thus passed the night; and still she continued her
search without sitting down to rest, or stopping to take food, or even
remembering to put out the torch; although first the rosy dawn, and then
the glad light of the morning sun, made its red flame look thin and
pale. But I wonder what sort of stuff this torch was made of; for it
burned dimly through the day, and, at night, was as bright as ever, and
never was extinguished by the rain or wind, in all the weary days and
nights while Ceres was seeking for Proserpina.
It was not merely of human beings that she asked tidings of her
daughter. In the woods and by the streams, she met creatures of another
nature, who used, in those old times, to haunt the pleasant and solitary
places, and were very sociable with persons who understood their
language and customs, as Mother Ceres did. Sometimes, for instance, she
tapped with her finger against the knotted trunk of a majestic oak; and
immediately its rude bark would cleave asunder, and forth would step a
beautiful maiden, who was the hamadryad of the oak, dwelling inside of
it, and sharing its long life, and rejoicing when its green leaves
sported with the breeze. But not one of these leafy damsels had seen
Proserpina. Then, going a little farther, Ceres would, perhaps, come to
a fountain, gushing out of a pebbly hollow in the earth, and would
dabble with her hand in the water. Behold, up through its sandy and
pebbly bed, along with the fountain's gush, a young woman with dripping
hair would arise, and stand gazing at Mother Ceres, half out of the
water, and undulating up and down with its ever-restless motion. But
when the mother asked whether her poor lost child had stopped to drink
out of the fountain, the naiad, with weeping eyes (for these
water-nymphs had tears to spare for everybody's grief), would answer,
"No!" in a murmuring voice, which was just like the murmur of the
stream.
Often, likewise, she encountered fauns, who looked like sunburnt country
people, except that they had hairy ears, and little horns upon their
foreheads, and the hinder legs of goats, on which they gambolled merrily
about the woods and fields. They were a frolicsome kind of creature, but
grew as sad as their cheerful dispositions would allow when Ceres
inquired for her daughter, and they had no good news to tell. But
sometimes she came suddenly upon a rude gang of satyrs, who had faces
like monkeys and horses' tails behind them, and who were generally
dancing in a very boisterous manner, with shouts of noisy laughter. When
she stopped to question them, they would only laugh the louder, and make
new merriment out of the lone woman's distress. How unkind of those ugly
satyrs! And once, while crossing a solitary sheep-pasture, she saw a
personage named Pan, seated at the foot of a tall rock, and making music
on a shepherd's flute. He, too, had horns, and hairy ears, and goat's
feet; but, being acquainted with Mother Ceres, he answered her question
as civilly as he knew how, and invited her to taste some milk and honey
out of a wooden bowl. But neither could Pan tell her what had become of
Proserpina, any better than the rest of these wild people.
And thus Mother Ceres went wandering about for nine long days and
nights, finding no trace of Proserpina, unless it were now and then a
withered flower; and these she picked up and put in her bosom, because
she fancied that they might have fallen from her poor child's hand. All
day she travelled onward through the hot sun; and at night, again, the
flame of the torch would redden and gleam along the pathway, and she
continued her search by its light, without ever sitting down to rest.
On the tenth day, she chanced to espy the mouth of a cavern, within
which (though it was bright noon everywhere else) there would have been
only a dusky twilight; but it so happened that a torch was burning
there. It flickered, and struggled with the duskiness, but could not
half light up the gloomy cavern with all its melancholy glimmer. Ceres
was resolved to leave no spot without a search; so she peeped into the
entrance of the cave, and lighted it up a little more, by holding her
own torch before her. In so doing, she caught a glimpse of what seemed
to be a woman, sitting on the brown leaves of the last autumn, a great
heap of which had been swept into the cave by the wind. This woman (if
woman it were) was by no means so beautiful as many of her sex; for her
head, they tell me, was shaped very much like a dog's, and, by way of
ornament, she wore a wreath of snakes around it. But Mother Ceres, the
moment she saw her, knew that this was an odd kind of a person, who put
all her enjoyment in being miserable, and never would have a word to say
to other people, unless they were as melancholy and wretched as she
herself delighted to be.
"I am wretched enough now," thought poor Ceres, "to talk with this
melancholy Hecate, were she ten times sadder than ever she was yet."
So she stepped into the cave, and sat down on the withered leaves by the
dog-headed woman's side. In all the world, since her daughter's loss,
she had found no other companion.
"O Hecate," said she, "if ever you lose a daughter, you will know what
sorrow is. Tell me, for pity's sake, have you seen my poor child
Proserpina pass by the mouth of your cavern?"
"No," answered Hecate, in a cracked voice, and sighing betwixt every
word 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 travelled along in this woe-begone 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 heart-strings 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 round, would lead them
to their homes, and advise their mothers never to let them stray out of
sight.
"For if they 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 Demophoon. 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 always replied; "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
fire-light 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 Demophoon out of his
bed of live coals, one of which he was gripping 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 super-human 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 Demophoon, 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.