the very next day, the West Wind, [Footnote: The winds, four in
number, were the sons of Aeolus, god of the storm and of winds. Their
names were Boreas, the north wind; Zephyrus, the west wind; Auster,
the south wind, and Eurus, the east wind.] who had brought Psyche to
this retreat, brought her two sisters and set them down at her door.
Joyfully Psyche led them in, and she commanded her invisible servants
to serve them with the finest foods and entertain them with the most
exquisite music. After the meal was over, the happy girl conducted
them about the palace and pointed out to them all its treasures. She
was not proud or boastful; she only wanted to show them how kind and
thoughtful her husband was. But the sights that met their eyes filled
them with envy, and when Psyche left the room to make some further
plans for their comfort, one said to the other:
"Is it not unendurable that this girl, who was left unsought in our
father's house for years, should be living in such splendor? I shall
hate the sight of my own palace when I return."
"Yes," sighed the other, "all the polished oaken furnishings of which
I was so proud will be worthless in my eyes after seeing Psyche's
magnificent ivory and gold. And she is our younger sister!"
"Do you notice," said the elder sister, "that while she says much
about what her husband does for her, she says nothing at all about
him? But wait--here she comes--say nothing, and I will question her."
Happy, innocent Psyche, never doubting that her sisters were as
pleased at her good fortune as she would have been at theirs, came to
lead them to another room, but her sister detained her.
"Stay," she said, "we have something to ask of you. About all the
splendors of your palace you have talked; you have told us at great
length about your husband's goodness to you. But not a word about his
looks or his age or his occupation have you said. See, sister! She
blushes! Shy girl, she has been unwilling to speak of him until we
spoke first."
"No doubt," said the other sister, "she has saved until the last her
description of him, since he is the best part of her life here."
Poor Psyche knew not what to say. How should she confess that, after
these many months, she had never seen her husband; that she knew not
at all what manner of man he was?
"Why, he's a young man," she replied hesitatingly, "a very young man,
and he spends much of his time hunting on the mountains."
"Has he blue eyes or brown?" asked the elder sister.
"I--why--O, blue eyes," said Psyche.
"And his hair," inquired the second sister, "is it straight or
curling, black or fair?"
"It's--it's straight and--and brown," faltered poor Psyche, who had
never before uttered a lie.
"Now, see here, my child," said the elder sister, "I can tell from
your answers that you've never seen this precious husband of yours. Is
not that the case?"
Psyche nodded, the tears running down her cheeks.
"But he's so good to me," she whispered. "And I promised I wouldn't
try to see him."
"Good to you! You deluded innocent, of course he's good to you! What
did the oracle say? It's plain to be seen that the prophecy has come
true and that you are wedded to some fearful monster, who is kind to
you now that he may kill and devour you by-and-by."
At length, for they were older than Psyche, and she had always been
accustomed to taking their advice, they convinced her that her only
safety lay in discovering at once what sort of a monster had her in
its possession.
"Now mind," they counseled her, "this very night conceal a lamp and a
dagger where you can reach them easily, and as soon as he is asleep,
steal upon him. You shall see what you shall see. And if he's the
distorted monster we think him, plunge the knife into his heart."
Poor, timid Psyche! Left to herself, she scarce knew what to do. She
kindled the lamp, then extinguished it, ashamed of her lack of faith
in her kind husband.
But when she heard him coming, she again hastily lighted the lamp and
hid it, with a sharp dagger, behind a tapestry. When her husband
approached her she pretended weariness; she knew that if she allowed
him to talk with her, her fears would melt away.
"My visit with my sisters has tired me. Let me rest," she pleaded, and
her husband, always ready to humor any wish of hers, did not try to
coax her into conversation. He threw himself upon the couch, and when
his regular breathing told her that he really slept, Psyche arose
tremblingly, took up her lamp and dagger and stole to his side.
Lifting her lamp high she looked upon--the very god of Love, himself!
[Illustration: SHE LOOKED UPON THE GOD OF LOVE]
"I stood
Long time uncertain, and at length turned round
And gazed upon my love. He lay asleep,
And ah, how fair he was! The flickering light
Fell on the fairest of the gods, stretched out
In happy slumber. Looking on his locks
Of gold, and faultless face and smile, and limbs
Made perfect, a great joy and trembling took me
Who was most blest of women, and in awe
And fear I stooped to kiss him. One warm drop
From the full lamp within my trembling hand,
Fell on his shoulder."
[Footnote: From Epic of Hades by Lewis Morris]
Cupid awoke, looked with startled eyes at his wife, and reading aright
the story of the lamp and the dagger, spread his wings and flew
through the open window, saying sadly:
"Farewell! There is no love except with Faith, And thine is dead!
Farewell! I come no more!"
Weeping and calling out to her husband, Psyche ran out of doors into
the black, stormy night. To the edge of the garden she ran, and then,
in her grief and terror she swooned. When she awakened, the palace and
garden had vanished, but Psyche cared little for that; henceforth her
only care was to seek her husband.
Encountering on her wanderings the kindly Ceres, Psyche implored her
help; but Ceres could give her no aid except advice.
"The gods must stand by each other," she said. "If Venus is angered at
thee, I can give thee no aid. This, though, thou mayst do: Go to
Venus, submit thyself unto her, and perhaps thou mayst win her favor."
At the temple of Venus, Psyche encountered that goddess, the cause of
all her misfortunes; and right glad was Venus to have the once proud
maiden for her humble slave.
"Many are the tasks thou canst perform for me," said the disdainful
goddess, "if them art not as stupid as thou art ugly. Here is a simple
little task to begin upon."
She led Psyche to the storehouse of the temple and pointed out to her
a great heap of grain--wheat, barley, poppy seeds, beans and millet.
"When I return at evening," she commanded, "have each sort of grain in
a heap by itself."
The luckless girl knew that the work could not be accomplished in the
time allowed her, and she made, therefore, no attempt to begin it. As
she sat with her head in her hands, she heard a faint sound, as if the
grain were being stirred about, and looking up, she saw that the ants
had come in vast numbers and were sorting it out. Fascinated, she
watched them, until long before evening the task was done.
"Thou couldst never have done this by thyself, lazy one," exclaimed
Venus, on her return. "To-morrow I will see whether thou art indeed
able to do anything. Beyond the river which flows past my temple are
golden-fleeced sheep, roaming without a shepherd. Do thou bring to me
a portion of their fleece."
In the morning Psyche set out, utterly discouraged, but afraid to
linger in the temple of the angry goddess. When she approached the
sheep, she trembled, for they were numerous, and very fierce. As she
stood concealed in the rushes by the river bank, the murmuring reeds
said to her:
"Wait! At noon the sheep will seek the shade. Then mayst thou gather
of their fleece from the bushes under which they have ranged,"
With a thankful heart Psyche followed the directions, and at evening
returned unharmed with the golden wool, which she presented to Venus.
Again the goddess upbraided her.
"Well I know that of thine own self thou couldst never have done
this," she cried wrathfully; nor did she stop to reflect that the fact
that Psyche thus received aid, unasked, in her difficulties, was a
proof that all things on earth loved and pitied her, Instead, she gave
her yet another task.
"Take this casket; go with it to the realms of the dead, and ask of
Proserpina that she loan me a little of her beauty. I have worried
about the undutiful conduct of my son until I have grown thin and
pale, and I would look my best at the assembly of the gods to-morrow
night."
This was the most hopeless task of all. To go to the realms of the
dead--what did it mean but that she must die?
"As well soon as late," sighed the poor girl; and she climbed to the
top of a high tower, meaning to cast herself down. But even here,
where no living thing seemed to be, a voice came to her ears.
"Desist, rash girl, from thy plan! Thou art not yet to die. If thou
wilt observe carefully all the directions which I shall give thee,
thou shalt fulfill thy cruel mistress's stern behest. From a cave in
yonder hill there leads a path, straight into the earth. No man has
ever trodden it. Along this shalt thou journey, bearing in thy hand
sops for the three-headed dog of Pluto, and money for the grim
ferryman, Charon. It is written that thou shalt succeed; only, thou
shalt not open the box which hides the beauty of Proserpina."
[Illustration: PSYCHE AND CHARON]
The voice ceased, and Psyche climbed from her tower and set out on the
arduous journey. Through long, long hours she toiled over the rough
path in utter darkness. What was on either side of her, she knew not;
no sound came to her except the far-off drip of water slipping through
the rocks. At length, when she was ready to drop with fatigue and
fear, a faint light appeared before her. Somewhat cheered, she walked
on, and stepping from the vast tunnel in which she had been
journeying, she found herself on the bank of a river. It was not such
a river as she had seen gliding through the green fields and
glittering over the rocks of her native country; it was a sluggish,
inky-black stream, [Footnote: There were several great rivers in
Pluto's realm. Phlegethon, a river of fire, separated Tartarus, the
abode of the wicked, from the rest of Hades, while Cocytus, a salty
river, was composed of the tears of the dwellers in Tartarus. But the
most famous of the rivers were the Styx, by which the gods swore; the
Lethe, a draught from which made one forget all that had ever happened
and begin life anew; and the Acheron, a black, cold stream, over which
the spirits of the dead had to be ferried before they could enter
Pluto's realm. The ferryman was Charon; and since he would row no one
over the river unless he were paid for it, the ancients placed under
the tongue of the dead a small coin wherewith the fare might be paid.]
which slid on without ever a ripple. A strange, gray light filled all
the place, and showed to her a ferryboat, moored to the shore, and a
grim-looking, old, long-bearded ferryman.
"Will you take me over the river?" asked Psyche, in a faint voice. The
ferryman gave her no answer, but she ventured to step upon his craft,
upon which he instantly shoved off. Without a sound they moved across
the river, and when Psyche stepped off on the farther shore, she knew
she was really in Hades, the dreadful realm of Pluto. Tossing back
onto the boat the coin she had brought, she went on and on, until she
came to a great gloomy tower of black marble. On the threshold stood
Pluto's dog, three-headed Cerberus, and fiercely he barked at the poor
frightened girl. However, the sop which she threw to him quieted him,
and she passed on into the palace. There, on their black thrones, sat
Pluto and Proserpina, king and queen of this hopeless realm.
"Great queen," said Psyche, bowing humbly before Proserpina's throne,
"my mistress has sent me to borrow for her a little of thy beauty."
"Willingly will I lend it," said Proserpina, kindly, "not to please
thy proud mistress, but to help thee, poor girl." And taking the
little casket which Psyche had brought with her, she breathed into it,
closed it hurriedly, and handed it to the waiting girl.
Gladly did Psyche leave this gloomy abode and set out on her homeward
journey. The black path seemed not so long nor so frightful when she
knew she was moving toward the light of day; and O, how happy she was
when she saw the sunlight glimmering ahead of her! Out once more in
the free light and fresh air, she sat down for a time to rest, and a
great curiosity came upon her to know what the little casket in her
hand contained.
"My beauty must have been growing less through these weeks of trouble
and fright," she thought, "and perhaps if my husband saw me now he
would not love me. It can do no harm for me to borrow just a little of
the contents of this box."
She raised the lid, but from the box there came, with a rushing sound,
the spirit of sleep. This spirit seized upon Psyche and laid her by
the roadside in a sleep resembling death, and here she might have
slept for all time, had not Cupid, wandering by, spied her. Bending
over her, he kissed her; then he wrestled with the spirit of sleep
until he had forced it to release Psyche, and to enter again the
little casket from which her curiosity had loosed it.
[Illustration: CUPID SPIED PSYCHE SLEEPING]
"Psyche," he said, turning to his wife, who lay speechless with
happiness at beholding him again, "once through thy curiosity I was
lost to thee; this time thou wast almost lost to me. Never again must
I leave thee; never must thou be absent from my sight."
Together, then, they hastened to Olympus, the dwelling of the gods:
together they bowed before Jupiter's throne. The king of the gods,
looking upon Psyche and seeing that she was beautiful as a goddess,
listened favorably to their petition, and, calling for a cup of
ambrosia, presented it to her and said:
"Drink, Psyche; so shalt thou become immortal, and fit wife for a
god."
Venus, touched by her son's happiness, forgave his bride, and the
young lovers, who had gone through so many griefs and hardships, lived
happily forever in the beautiful palace presented to them by the king
of the gods.
The myth of Cupid and Psyche is of much later date than most of the
other myths; in fact, it is met with first in a writer of the second
century of the Christian era. Many of the myths are material--that is,
they explain physical happenings, such as the rising of the sun, the
coming of winter, or the flashing of the lightning; but the myth of
Cupid and Psyche has nothing to do with the forces of nature--it is
wholly spiritual in its application.
Cupid is Love, while Psyche represents the soul; and thus the story,
in its descriptions of Psyche's sufferings, shows how the soul, loved
by heaven, and really loving heaven, is robbed of its joy through its
own folly. Only by striving and suffering, the story tells us, is the
soul purified and made fit for joy everlasting.
Psyche's descent into the regions of the dead signifies that it is
only after death that the soul realizes its true happiness. Even if we
did not know just when this myth originated, we might guess from this
teaching that the myth was a late one, for the earliest Greeks and
Romans did not believe in a real happiness after death. They believed
in existence after death, but it was a very shadowy existence, with
the most negative sort of pleasures. Later, the Romans, even before
they accepted Christianity, had their beliefs more or less modified by
their contact with Christians.
We may sum this myth up by saying that it is an allegory of
"the soul of man, the deathless soul,
Defeated, struggling, purified and blest."
As you read this story of Cupid and Psyche, some incidents in it
doubtless seemed familiar to you; you had come across them before in
various fairy tales. Thus the story of Psyche's arrival at the palace
and of the way in which she was waited upon by invisible beings will
remind you of certain parts of Beauty and the Beast, while the labors
set for Psyche by Venus will recall The Three Tasks. Now, while some
of the fairy stories are undoubtedly borrowed from this old, old tale,
it is a singular fact that there is an old Norse story which contains
some of the same incidents, and yet could not have been taken from
this.
One of the most interesting things about the study of mythology is the
attempt to discover how widely separate nations came to have similar
stories. Many learned men have worked much over this question, and
some of them say that, having the same facts to explain, or the same
things to express in allegory, the various ancient peoples naturally
hit upon the same explanations. Others believe that this similarity of
myths shows that far, far back, the ancestors of these different
people must have had intercourse with each other. Probably there is
some truth in both theories, though most authorities believe that the
former theory covers more cases than does the latter.
We have said that this story is an allegory; do you understand just
what an allegory is? There are different types of allegories; in some,
each person that appears represents some quality or some influence; in
others, a general truth is set forth, but there is no attempt to make
every minor character fill a place in the allegory. To which type do
you think the story of Cupid and Psyche belongs? Do Psyche's sisters,
for instance, represent anything?
What was the real fault of Psyche--the folly that cost her her
happiness?
The word "Psyche" means in Greek, the SOUL; it is also the word for
BUTTERFLY. Can you see any reason why the one name should be used for
both?
There are still some very, very old pictures which show a man with a
butterfly just fluttering out from between his lips. Remembering that
the butterfly was the emblem of the soul, can you imagine what the
artists meant to show by this?
THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN
By ROBERT BROWNING
Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover City;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side;
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
But when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin was a pity.
Rats!
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats.
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women's chats,
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.
At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
"'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy;
And as for our Corporation,--shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can't or won't determine
What's best to rid us of our vermin!
You hope, because you're old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robe ease?
Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we're lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing."
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.
[Illustration: PEOPLE CALL ME THE PIED PIPER]
An hour they sate in counsel,--
At length the Mayor broke silence:
For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell;
I wish I were a mile hence!
It's easy to bid one rack one's brain,--
I'm sure my poor head aches again,
I've scratched it so, and all in vain,
O for a trap, a trap, a trap!"
Just as he said this, what could hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
"Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?"
(With the Corporation as he sat,
Looking little though wondrous fat;
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
Than a too-long-opened oyster,
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous.)
"Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"
"Come in!"--the Mayor cried, looking bigger;
And in did come the strangest figure;
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red.
And he himself was tall and thin,
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,
But lips where smiles went out and in;
There was no guessing his kith and kin;
And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire.
Quoth one: "It's as my great-grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"
He advanced to the council-table:
And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep or swim or fly or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole and toad and newt and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper."
(And here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the self-same check;
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
"Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats;
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats;
And as for what your brain bewilders,--
If I can rid your town of rats,
Will you give me a thousand guilders?"
"One? fifty thousand!"--was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.
Into the street the piper stept,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling,
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers;
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives,--
Followed the piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished
Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he, the manuscript he cherished)
To Rat-land home his commentary,
Which was: "At the first shrill notes of the pipe,
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press's gripe,--
And a moving away of pickle-tub boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks;
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out, 'O rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!'
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!'--
I found the Weser rolling o'er me."