took ship early in the morning, finding a vessel that was sailing
thither, and came to his own home again. His father noticed at once
that the youth was wearing a sprig of myrtle and a scarf embroidered
with the doves of Venus, and he chid him sharply.
"There are plenty of fair maids here, in thy own land," said he;
"choose one of them and be happy with her, but woo not the priestess
of Venus, or harm will come of it."
Leander made no answer to his father's admonition, but in his heart he
knew that no other maiden could ever after content him, and that he
must see Hero again, though he died for it.
After his father's admonition he dared not be seen crossing the strait
by day, but when night fell he wandered by the sea, looking longingly
across the dark water; then, far and faint, like a star through the
clear night, he caught the glimmer of Hero's lamp.
"Alas!" cried Leander, "there lies the haven. Ah, would that I might
steer safely home."
Then with sudden resolution he flung his outer garment from him and
plunging into the water oared his way with mighty strokes towards the
glimmer of the light, and Hero, combing her long locks in the
moonlight and thinking of her lover, was ware that he stood before
her, and could hardly believe it was his very self.
So once more they had joy of one another's love until the daybreak
appeared in the sky, and then Leander said farewell with many kisses
and swam safely home again, and no man the wiser.
The days passed on and the youth's father was pleased at his restored
cheerfulness, and thought that Hero must be forgotten, for he never
crossed as he had been wont to Sestos.
The summer passed, and one day there swept down from the hills the
first of the autumn storms.
Poor Hero, as she set her light in the turret, looked out across the
tossing, white-capped waves and sighed as she thought that no swimmer
could cross a sea like that. But Leander flinched not, for he plunged,
buffeting the angry waves with a good heart, and ever as he rose upon
their crests looking out for Hero's light. The fury of the sea could
not master him, but the autumn chill struck home to his bones. Long
he battled with the rising billows, but the storm waxed fiercer and
the farther shore seemed no nearer. Fainter and fainter grew the
swimmer, but still he struggled on. When he looked from a crest of the
waves his lodestar was gone; a black cloud had hidden the turret lamp.
Then at last his heart failed him, and flinging up his arms he sank to
his watery grave.
Long did Hero wait that night, hoping and fearing by turns; and when
her lover did not come she wept bitter tears. But far worse pain was
to come. For on the next day came to her tower the father of Leander.
"Is my son here?" he asked, briefly and sternly.
Hero trembling answered, "No, fair sir."
"Is it true that he hath many times swum across the sea and visited
thee?"
The maiden hanging her head and blushing deeply answered, "Yea."
"Then without doubt my son is drowned, and by thy fault," said the
grief-stricken father, "for this morning were his garments found near
the water's edge, but of him there was no sign."
Even while he spoke there came from the quay a cry of sorrow and
lamentation, and clambering swiftly down the cliff those two saw, laid
upon the shore by tender hands, the strong and beautiful body of the
dead Leander, whom they both had loved beyond all other living things
upon the earth.
PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE
(_After William Morris_)
BY F. STORR
In ancient times there lived in Cyprus a sculptor named Pygmalion. He
had won for himself fame and wealth by his cunning as a worker in
marble, and his carven images of gods and goddesses, of heroes and
heroines, were to be seen in every temple of the island and in all the
palaces of the great. Many an island maiden cast on him admiring eyes,
and would beseech him to immortalize her features in marble when he
was engaged in sculpturing a naiad for a public fountain, or an oread
for the shrine of the Great Huntress. Yet, though rich and famous and
admired of women, Pygmalion was sad and dissatisfied. The nobles
applauded and feasted him, but regarded him as an artisan of low birth
and would not admit him to their friendship. The fairest maidens of
Crete seemed to him plain and common when he compared them with the
godlike forms that his chisel had wrought, and, still more, with the
perfect woman whom his imagination pictured but even his hand had not
the skill to realize.
So it chanced one day that, after wandering listlessly about the
streets, watching the bales of Tyrian purple piled on the quays, and
listening to the chaffering of the dark-eyed merchants, he hied him
home heavy-hearted, and turned mechanically for relief to the daily
work by which he earned his bread.
He had begun rough-hewing a block of Parian marble, uncertain at
starting what he should make of it; but as he worked on, the veins in
the marble suggested to him a woman's form, and in careless mood he
exclaimed, "Grant, Lady Venus, that this statue may be a fulfilment of
my dream, an express image, a reflection on earth of thy celestial
beauty. Only grant my prayer and I vow that the maid shall be
dedicated to thee, and serve thee in thy myrtle grove." So he prayed
carelessly, but the goddess was by and heard his prayer, and so guided
his hand that he wrought more surely and deftly than he had ever
wrought before. As the white chips flew beneath his touch, a strange
joy thrilled his heart, and withal, a dim sense of trouble, as though
he were pursuing his own shadow, a phantom of his brain that still
eluded his grasp.
So he worked on hour after hour through the day, and all night he
dreamt of his work. So absorbed was he that for a whole month he
forgot his morning plunge in the river, forgot his stroll through the
woods at sunset, forgot even to water the flowers in his garden close.
And yet, so exquisitely delicate were the added touches and the
smoothing of the marble, that you could have covered with a
penny-piece all that had fallen in the month from his chisel.
And still he seemed no nearer to his goal; so one morning, after a
restless night, he arose and said to himself, "Pygmalion, thou art
mad; some witch hath laid her spell upon thee. Rouse thyself while it
is yet time; break the wicked spell; live as thou didst before, and
seek not to attain that perfect beauty that is laid up in the heavens
beyond mortal ken."
With that he took his bow and quiver, passed through the town and out
of the gates to the high woodlands beyond, to see if he had quite
forgotten his old woodcraft.
It was a fine summer morning, and the scent of the fields was wafted
to him on the west wind. All around him as he passed was astir with
life. The tall poplars rippled and quivered in the sunlight; the bees
were busy in the clover; the swallows darted overhead, and the swish
of the mower's scythe kept time with him as he strode on.
At last he sat him down fordone. "The sun," he mused, "like me, has
already passed his zenith and is hurrying to his rest. All nature is
stirring, and each living thing is pursuing the daily round, its
appointed task. Why am I alone a dreamer of dreams, the idler of an
empty day?"
With that he turned, and, goaded on by a wild desire, he knew not for
what, found himself before he was aware at his own door.
One moment he lingered at the threshold and said, "Ah! what should I
do if _she_ were gone?" As he uttered the words he turned red at his
own madness to dream that the goddess might have wrought a miracle and
spirited her away to the myrtle grove, and yet again he turned deadly
pale at the very thought of such a marvel. So, sighing, he passed into
the house, but paused again before he summoned courage to enter his
chamber where the statue stood.
Nothing was changed. He caught up his chisel and tenderly essayed to
perfect the marvel of the face that he had wrought. But to touch it
now seemed to him a profanation, and flinging down the idle chisel he
cried, "Alas! why have I made thee that thou should'st mock me thus?
I know that there are many like unto thee, whose beauty is a snare to
draw men into the net; but these the gods made to punish lust. Thee I
made with a pure heart to worship and adore, and thou wilt not speak
one little word to me."
So saying, he drew back and gazed on the image through his tears. In
truth it was of wondrous beauty, and could you have seen it, you would
have said that it lacked little to be a living maid. Her unbound hair
half hid the tender curve of her breast; one hand was outstretched as
if to greet a lover, and the other held a full-blown rose. There was
no smile on the parted lips, and in the wistful eyes there was a look,
not of love, but as of one to whom love's mystery and magic were
already half revealed.
Thus he stood agaze, ashamed of his infatuate folly, yet with an
infinite longing, stronger and stranger than he had ever felt before.
There happened to be passing in the street some sturdy slaves who were
bearing bales to the wharf. He hailed them and offered them a rich
reward if they would help him to move the ponderous statue and set it
in an empty niche beside his bed. When they had departed he searched
his coffers to find gems and jewels wherewith to deck his lady of
marble, but those he possessed seemed all too poor; so he took with
him all his store of gold and bought from the merchants a necklace of
pearls, and anklets and bracelets set with rare and precious stones.
These he hung upon the cold marble and cast him down like a pilgrim at
a shrine, praying his saint to accept his poor offering. So he prayed
on till, outworn with passion, he slept at her feet. With the first
dawn he awoke and passed into his garden to pick fresh flowers to lay
upon her shrine. Then he brought an altar that he had wrought of
chased gold for a great lord's hearth, and lit thereon a fire of cedar
and sandal-wood, and, as the smoke of cassia and frankincense arose,
he prayed and said, "Thou cold and mute image, not till I die shall I
know whether the gods have sent a lying spirit to make me their sport,
but this I know, that in life I shall love none but thee alone.
Therefore, if thou canst not give me love for love, in pity take my
life and let me rest at last."
Thus he prayed, and the image neither spake nor moved, but the sweet
grave eyes his hands had wrought gazed down, as if touched with ruth
and tenderness, on his bended head. So all day he worshiped at the
shrine; but on the morrow, as the incense-smoke was curling round her
head, he heard in the street the sound of minstrelsy, and as if
fascinated by the sweet music, he left his prayer half said and went
forth and beheld a gay train of men and maidens who bore on a car of
gold an image of the Queen of Love that he himself had wrought in the
old forgotten days, now draped for her solemn festival in a saffron
robe broidered with mystic characters of gold.
So he donned a festal chlamys and joined the glad procession, who led
the goddess back to her temple, stripped her reverently of her weeds,
and laid at her shrine their offerings of golden grain and honeycomb.
By midday the crowd of worshipers had all departed, and he was left
alone in the dim-lit temple. He drew near the shrine where stood his
masterpiece--how feeble and faulty now it seemed--and casting incense
on the altar flame, he prayed with stammering lips to his goddess:
"Queen of Heaven, who didst help me of yore, help me yet again. Have
I not prayed, have I not wept, have I not done thee true service? I
have no words to tell thee my need, but thou knowest all my heart's
desire. Hear me, O Queen!"
And, as he prayed, suddenly the thin flame on the altar quivered like
a live thing, and leapt up till it almost touched the temple dome,
sinking once more into a feeble flicker.
At this marvel his heart bounded wildly; but as the flame died down he
said to himself, "Is not this another brain-sick phantom?" and with
sad steps and slow he left the temple to seek his loveless home.
As he stood before the door in the broad light of day he seemed like
one awaking from a dream, yet the bliss it had brought still lingered
on, like the after-glow on an Alpine height, and he blessed the
goddess even for his dream. So he entered his chamber, wrapped in
memories both sad and sweet, and paused with downcast eyes before they
sought again his marble maid. Then he looked up, and lo, the niche was
bare! and he cried aloud, bewildered and amazed. A soft, low voice
breathed his name. He turned, and there between him and the setting
sun stood his marble maid, clad in life and new beauty. The lineaments
were the same--the brow, the lips, the tresses unconfined; but she
came appareled in a more precious habit, for over all the goddess had
shed the purple light of love, and had clothed her in the shining
garment that he had seen that morning laid up in her temple.
Speechless he stood in wonder and amazement, and once again her silver
voice rang out clear:
"Wilt thou not come to me,
O dear companion of my new-found life,
For I am called thy lover and thy wife."
Still he moved not, and spake no word. Then she reached her hand to
him, and looked at him with pleading eyes. The spell that bound him
was broken; he caught the outstretched hands and drew her to him, felt
the sweet breath he had sought so long in vain, felt the warm life
within her heaving breast, and clasped in his arms his living love.
And, as they stood there, cheek touching cheek, he heard her say, "Why
art thou silent, O my love? Dost think, perchance, that this too is a
dream? Nay, if thou lov'st me still, I will never leave thee nor
forsake thee. Come with me into thy garden close, and there will I
tell thee all the comfortable words that the Queen of Love spoke to
me, and thou shalt tell me all thy hopes and fears, thy yearning for a
beauty not of earth, thy sleepless nights, and all thy pain."
So they passed into the garden close, and there beneath the whispering
trees, by the soft moonlight, those happy lovers told each other the
story of their love. What were the words they said I cannot tell
again. This happened long ago, when the world was young, and they
spoke in a tongue that few if any now can understand. Yet a poet of
our own age has understood and translated for us the last word that
the Queen of Heavenly Love spoke to her servant Pygmalion:
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS
BY H. P. MASKELL
It was the banqueting-hall of the palace at Ægina. The young prince
Phocus had invited his comrades to join him in a hunting party, and
now, after dinner, they were gathered round the fire amusing
themselves with stories of the chase. Meanwhile Cephalus, gray-headed
and stricken in years, more weary than the others, sat silent and
apart.
The prince, noticing his moody look, rose and made room for him to
join the circle. "May I ask," he inquired, "from what tree the javelin
thou art holding was cut? I have been a hunter all my life, yet its
texture puzzles me. A wild oak would have been brown in color, a
cornel-wood shaft would show the knots. Never yet have I seen so taper
and shapely a javelin."
One of the youths interposed: "Ah! but as a weapon it is even more
wonderful than for its beauty. Whatever it is aimed at it strikes.
Chance does not guide its course when thrown; and it flies back of its
own accord, stained with the blood of the quarry."
Then Phocus became more curious still to know its history. Who was the
giver of so precious a present?
Cephalus at length consented to tell the story, tears starting to his
eyes at the sorrow revived in his heart by the memories it recalled.
"Long as I live," he exclaimed with a sigh, "this weapon will cause me
to weep, for it proved the ruin of myself and my dear wife Procris.
Fairer and sweeter was she than even her sister Orithyia, whom Boreas
carried off. Her father Erechtheus bestowed her upon me, and for love
she chose me for her own. I was considered a lucky man in possessing
her, and so I was. In all Greece you could not have found a happier
pair of lovers, and the gods themselves were jealous of our bliss--too
great for mortals. Before the second month was ended after our
marriage feast, Aurora, the goddess of the Dawn, beheld me in the
early morn as I was planting nets to trap the deer from the heights of
Hymettus, and I followed her against my will. She cast her spell on
me, and held me by the witchery of her great eyes and rosy fingers.
Fair she is, with a beauty not of earth, but she seemed to me less
fair than Procris. Procris was ever in my thoughts, and in my dreams I
breathed the name of Procris. Then the goddess cried angrily, 'You may
keep your Procris. The day will come when you will wish you had never
possessed her!'
"Diana had bestowed on Procris, who loved the hunt, Lælaps, the hound
whom no wild beast can outrun, and this javelin which nothing can
escape, as a token of our reconciliation. These she gave to me.
"Would you like to know the fate of this other present--the dog? When
Oedipus had solved that riddle which none other could guess, and the
Sphinx who invented it lay a mangled corpse, Themis left her not
unavenged. Another plague was sent against Thebes, and a savage
monster devoured both the peasants and their cattle. We, the youth of
the district, came together and inclosed the fields with nets, but the
monster with a light bound leaped over them and escaped. The dogs were
loosed, and they followed, but it escaped them as easily as a winged
bird. My dog Lælaps--a tempest for speed--was straining at the leash.
Eagerly the bystanders begged me to unloose him. Scarcely had I done
so when he was lost to our sight. A spear flies not more swiftly, nor
pellets from a sling, nor arrows from a Cretan bow. I watched from the
hill-top this marvelous chase. At one time the wild beast seemed
caught, at another to have clean escaped as it dodged and doubled, so
that its enemy could not run full tilt at it. I was now thinking to
use my javelin; and while fitting my fingers to the thongs, turned my
eyes one moment from the quarry. When I looked again, I beheld a still
more wonderful sight. There were two marble statues in the middle of
the plain; you would fancy one was flying and the other barking in
pursuit. No doubt some god desired that both should remain unconquered
in this test of speed."
"But why should you complain of the javelin?" interrupted Phocus.
"What fault is there in it?"
"O Son of Æacus," replied Cephalus, "my sorrows have yet to be told.
For years I was blest in my wife, and she was happy in her husband.
None, not even Jupiter himself, could have come between us, nor could
Venus have drawn me from my love.
"When the sun was just gilding the hill-tops I was wont to go into the
woods to hunt. I wanted no servants, nor horses, nor even keen-scented
hounds with me; my sure javelin was enough for me. When I was sated
with the slaughter of wild beasts I would betake myself to some cool
shady spot, and enjoy the breeze coming gently over the cool valleys,
and so refreshing in the noontide heat. While I awaited the rising of
the breeze, I would sing a sort of refrain: 'Come, gentle Aura, kindly
Aura; come to my breast; with thy cool sweetness refresh me, parched
by the heat!' Perhaps, as cruel fate might have prompted me, I added
other words, such as 'Sweet Aura, thou art my delight! Thou dost love
and refresh me; thou makest me to seek woods and lonely haunts, and
thy breath is pleasant on my face.' Some busybody must have heard me;
and, imagining that I was in love with some nymph named Aura, carried
the story to my wife.
"Love is only too ready to believe the worst. When Procris heard the
tale she fell down fainting with sudden grief. Then coming to, she
bemoaned her wretched fate, and wept for my faithlessness. She
believed that this Aura was a maiden and a rival. Yet, hoping she
might be deceived, she would not pass sentence unless she beheld my
treachery with her own eyes.
"Next morning, at sunrise, I went out as usual to the woods, and being
successful in the chase, lay down to rest myself, murmuring, 'Come to
me, sweetest Aura.' Methought I heard a faint far-distant moan, but I
heeded not and said again, 'Come, Aura, come!' A rustling of leaves
startled me, and, thinking it was a wild beast, I let fly my javelin.
"Alas! it was Procris. Crying, 'Ah, wretched me!' she received the
dart in her breast. I ran to the sound of her voice. To my distraction
I found her dying, her garments stained with blood, and drawing her
own gift, that too-sure javelin, out of her wound. I lifted up her
body, dearer to me than my own, in my guilty arms, and bound up the
cruel wounds with strips torn from my garments; and I tried vainly to
stanch the blood, begging her not to die and leave me desolate.
"With gasping breath and broken utterance she whispered in my ear: 'I
beseech thee, by the gods above, and by our marriage vows, and by my
love even now enduring though I die, not to let that light-of-love,
Aura, possess the heart that once was mine!' Then, at last, I saw the
mistake of the name, and that her fears were about a shadow. I
reassured her. But what availed it? She was sinking, and her little
strength faded away with her life-blood. So long as she could look at
anything, she gazed on me, and breathed out with a smile her unhappy
life. But I like to fancy she died free from care, and with a look of
content.
"I still cherish her memory. No mortal maid has since possessed my
heart. So have I grown old in the service of Diana, looking to the day
which cannot now be long distant when we can meet and renew our love
in the Elysian fields."
ECHO AND NARCISSUS
BY THOMAS BULFINCH
Echo was a beautiful nymph, fond of the woods and hills, where she
devoted herself to woodland sports. She was a favorite of Diana, and
attended her in the chase. But Echo had one failing; she was fond of
talking, and whether in chat or argument, would have the last word.
One day Juno was seeking her husband, who, she had reason to fear, was
amusing himself among the nymphs. Echo by her talk contrived to detain
the goddess till the nymphs made their escape. When Juno discovered
it, she passed sentence upon Echo in these words: "You shall forfeit
the use of that tongue with which you have cheated me, except for that
one purpose you are so fond of--_reply_. You shall still have the last
word, but no power to speak first."
This nymph saw Narcissus, a beautiful youth, as he pursued the chase
upon the mountains. She loved him, and followed his footsteps. O, how
she longed to address him in the softest accents, and win him to
converse! but it was not in her power. She waited with impatience for
him to speak first, and had her answer ready. One day the youth, being
separated from his companions, shouted aloud, "Who's here?" Echo
replied, "Here." Narcissus looked around, but seeing no one, called
out, "Come." Echo answered, "Come." As no one came, Narcissus called
again, "Why do you shun me?" Echo asked the same question. "Let us
join one another," said the youth. The maid answered with all her
heart in the same words, and hastened to the spot, ready to throw her
arms about his neck. He started back, exclaiming, "Hands off! I would
rather die than you should have me!" "Have me," said she; but it was
all in vain. He left her, and she went to hide her blushes in the
recesses of the woods. From that time forth she lived in caves and
among the mountain cliffs. Her form faded with grief, till at last all
her flesh shrank away. Her bones were changed into rocks, and there
was nothing left of her but her voice. With that she is still ready to
reply to any one who calls her, and keeps up her old habit of having
the last word.
Narcissus' cruelty in this case was not the only instance. He shunned
all the rest of the nymphs, as he had done poor Echo. One day a
maiden, who had in vain endeavored to attract him, uttered a prayer
that he might some time or other feel what it was to love and meet no
return of affection. The avenging goddess heard and granted the
prayer.