man; and though it certainly requires a great deal of muscular power to
uphold the sky, yet, if any mortal could be supposed capable of such
an exploit, he was the one. Nevertheless, it seemed so difficult an
undertaking, that, for the first time in his life, he hesitated.
“Is the sky very heavy?” he inquired.
“Why, not particularly so, at first,” answered the giant, shrugging his
shoulders. “But it gets to be a little burdensome, after a thousand
years!”
“And how long a time,” asked the hero, “will it take you to get the
golden apples?”
“Oh, that will be done in a few moments,” cried Atlas. “I shall take ten
or fifteen miles at a stride, and be at the garden and back again before
your shoulders begin to ache.”
“Well, then,” answered Hercules, “I will climb the mountain behind you
there, and relieve you of your burden.”
The truth is, Hercules had a kind heart of his own, and considered that
he should be doing the giant a favor, by allowing him this opportunity
for a ramble. And, besides, he thought that it would be still more for
his own glory, if he could boast of upholding the sky, than merely to
do so ordinary a thing as to conquer a dragon with a hundred heads.
Accordingly, without more words, the sky was shifted from the shoulders
of Atlas, and placed upon those of Hercules.
When this was safely accomplished, the first thing that the giant did
was to stretch himself; and you may imagine what a prodigious spectacle
he was then. Next, he slowly lifted one of his feet out of the forest
that had grown up around it; then, the other. Then, all at once, he began
to caper, and leap, and dance, for joy at his freedom; flinging himself
nobody knows how high into the air, and floundering down again with a
shock that made the earth tremble. Then he laughed—Ho! ho! ho!—with a
thunderous roar that was echoed from the mountains, far and near, as if
they and the giant had been so many rejoicing brothers. When his joy
had a little subsided, he stepped into the sea; ten miles at the first
stride, which brought him mid-leg deep; and ten miles at the second, when
the water came just above his knees; and ten miles more at the third, by
which he was immersed nearly to his waist. This was the greatest depth of
the sea.
Hercules watched the giant, as he still went onward; for it was really
a wonderful sight, this immense human form, more than thirty miles
off, half hidden in the ocean, but with his upper half as tall, and
misty, and blue, as a distant mountain. At last the gigantic shape faded
entirely out of view. And now Hercules began to consider what he should
do, in case Atlas should be drowned in the sea, or if he were to be
stung to death by the dragon with the hundred heads, which guarded the
golden apples of the Hesperides. If any such misfortune were to happen,
how could he ever get rid of the sky? And, by the by, its weight began
already to be a little irksome to his head and shoulders.
“I really pity the poor giant,” thought Hercules. “If it wearies me so
much in ten minutes, how must it have wearied him in a thousand years!”
O my sweet little people, you have no idea what a weight there was in
that same blue sky, which looks so soft and aerial above our heads!
And there, too, was the bluster of the wind, and the chill and watery
clouds, and the blazing sun, all taking their turns to make Hercules
uncomfortable! He began to be afraid that the giant would never come
back. He gazed wistfully at the world beneath him, and acknowledged to
himself that it was a far happier kind of life to be a shepherd at the
foot of a mountain, than to stand on its dizzy summit, and bear up the
firmament with his might and main. For, of course, as you will easily
understand, Hercules had an immense responsibility on his mind, as well
as a weight on his head and shoulders. Why, if he did not stand perfectly
still, and keep the sky immovable, the sun would perhaps be put ajar! Or,
after nightfall, a great many of the stars might be loosened from their
places, and shower down, like fiery rain, upon the people’s heads! And
how ashamed would the hero be, if, owing to his unsteadiness beneath its
weight, the sky should crack, and show a great fissure quite across it!
I know not how long it was before, to his unspeakable joy, he beheld the
huge shape of the giant, like a cloud, on the far-off edge of the sea.
At his nearer approach, Atlas held up his hand, in which Hercules could
perceive three magnificent golden apples, as big as pumpkins, all hanging
from one branch.
“I am glad to see you again,” shouted Hercules, when the giant was within
hearing. “So you have got the golden apples?”
“Certainly, certainly,” answered Atlas; “and very fair apples they are.
I took the finest that grew on the tree, I assure you. Ah! it is a
beautiful spot, that garden of the Hesperides. Yes; and the dragon with
a hundred heads is a sight worth any man’s seeing. After all, you had
better have gone for the apples yourself.”
“No matter,” replied Hercules. “You have had a pleasant ramble, and have
done the business as well as I could. I heartily thank you for your
trouble. And now, as I have a long way to go, and am rather in haste—and
as the king, my cousin, is anxious to receive the golden apples—will you
be kind enough to take the sky off my shoulders again?”
“Why, as to that,” said the giant, chucking the golden apples into the
air twenty miles high, or thereabouts and catching them as they came
down—“as to that, my good friend, I consider you a little unreasonable.
Cannot I carry the golden apples to the king, your cousin, much quicker
than you could? As his majesty is in such a hurry to get them, I promise
you to take my longest strides. And besides, I have no fancy for
burdening myself with the sky, just now.”
Here Hercules grew impatient, and gave a great shrug of his shoulders. It
being now twilight, you might have seen two or three stars tumble out of
their places. Everybody on earth looked upward in affright, thinking that
the sky might be going to fall next.
“Oh, that will never do!” cried Giant Atlas, with a great roar of
laughter. “I have not let fall so many stars within the last five
centuries. By the time you have stood there as long as I did, you will
begin to learn patience!”
“What!” shouted Hercules, very wrathfully, “do you intend to make me bear
this burden forever?”
“We will see about that, one of these days,” answered the giant. “At
all events, you ought not to complain, if you have to bear it the next
hundred years, or perhaps the next thousand. I bore it a good while
longer, in spite of the backache. Well, then, after a thousand years, if
I happen to feel in the mood, we may possibly shift about again. You are
certainly a very strong man, and can never have a better opportunity to
prove it. Posterity will talk of you, I warrant it!”
“Pish! a fig for its talk!” cried Hercules, with another hitch of his
shoulders. “Just take the sky upon your head one instant, will you? I
want to make a cushion of my lion’s skin, for the weight to rest upon.
It really chafes me, and will cause unnecessary inconvenience in so many
centuries as I am to stand here.”
“That’s no more than fair, and I’ll do it!” quoth the giant; for he had
no unkind feeling towards Hercules, and was merely acting with a too
selfish consideration of his own ease. “For just five minutes, then, I’ll
take back the sky. Only for five minutes, recollect! I have no idea of
spending another thousand years as I spent the last. Variety is the spice
of life, say I.”
Ah, the thick-witted old rogue of a giant! He threw down the golden
apples, and received back the sky, from the head and shoulders of
Hercules, upon his own, where it rightly belonged. And Hercules picked up
the three golden apples, that were as big or bigger than pumpkins, and
straightway set out on his journey homeward, without paying the slightest
heed to the thundering tones of the giant, who bellowed after him to come
back. Another forest sprang up around his feet, and grew ancient there;
and again might be seen oak-trees, of six or seven centuries old, that
had waxed thus aged betwixt his enormous toes.
And there stands the giant to this day; or, at any rate, there stands a
mountain as tall as he, and which bears his name; and when the thunder
rumbles about its summit, we may imagine it to be the voice of Giant
Atlas, bellowing after Hercules!
THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE
By Thomas Bulfinch
A certain king and queen had three daughters. The charms of the two elder
were more than common, but the beauty of the youngest was so wonderful
that the poverty of language is unable to express its due praise. The
fame of her beauty was so great that strangers from neighboring countries
came in crowds to enjoy the sight, and looked on her with amazement,
paying her that homage which is due only to Venus herself. In fact Venus
found her altars deserted, while men turned their devotion to this young
virgin. As she passed along, the people sang her praises, and strewed her
way with chaplets and flowers.
This gave great offense to the real Venus. Shaking her locks with
indignation, she exclaimed, “Am I then to be eclipsed in my honors by a
mortal girl? She shall not so quietly usurp my honors. I will give her
cause to repent of so unlawful a beauty.”
Thereupon she calls her winged son Cupid, mischievous enough in his own
nature, and rouses and provokes him yet more by her complaints. She
points out Psyche to him and says, “My dear son, punish that obstinate
beauty; give thy mother a revenge as sweet as her injuries are great;
infuse into the bosom of that haughty girl a passion for some low, mean,
unworthy being, so that she may reap a mortification as great as her
present exultation and triumph.”
Cupid prepared to obey the commands of his mother. There are two
fountains in Venus’s garden, one of sweet waters, the other of bitter.
Cupid filled two amber vases, one from each fountain, and suspending them
from the top of his quiver, hastened to the chamber of Psyche, whom he
found asleep. He shed a few drops from the bitter fountain over her lips,
though the sight of her almost moved him to pity; then touched her side
with the point of his arrow. At the touch she awoke, and opened eyes upon
Cupid (himself invisible), which so startled him that in his confusion
he wounded himself with his own arrow. Heedless of his wound, his whole
thought now was to repair the mischief he had done, and he poured the
balmy drops of joy over all her silken ringlets.
Psyche, henceforth frowned upon by Venus, derived no benefit from all
her charms. True, all eyes were cast eagerly upon her, and every mouth
spoke her praises; but neither king, royal youth, nor plebeian presented
himself to demand her in marriage. Her two elder sisters of moderate
charms, had now long been married to two royal princes; but Psyche, in
her lonely apartment, deplored her solitude, sick of that beauty which,
while it procured abundance of flattery, had failed to awaken love.
Her parents, afraid they had incurred the anger of the gods, consulted
the oracle of Apollo, and received this answer: “The virgin is destined
for the bride of no mortal lover. Her future husband awaits her on the
top of the mountain. He is a monster whom neither gods nor men can
resist.”
This dreadful decree of the oracle filled all the people with dismay, and
her parents abandoned themselves to grief. But Psyche said, “Why, my dear
parents, do you now lament me? You should rather have grieved when the
people showered upon me undeserved honors, and with one voice called me a
Venus. I now perceive that I am a victim to that name. I submit. Lead me
to that rock to which my unhappy fate has destined me.”
Accordingly, all things being prepared, the royal maid took her place
in the procession, which more resembled a funeral than a nuptial pomp,
and with her parents, amid the lamentations of the people, ascended the
mountain, on the summit of which they left her alone, and with sorrowful
hearts returned home.
While Psyche stood on the ridge of the mountain, panting with fear and
with eyes full of tears, the gentle Zephyr raised her from the earth and
bore her with an easy motion into a flowery dale. By degrees her mind
became composed, and she laid herself down on the grassy bank to sleep.
When she awoke refreshed with sleep, she looked round and beheld near by
a pleasant grove of tall and stately trees. She entered it, and in the
midst discovered a fountain, sending forth clear and crystal waters, and
fast by, a magnificent palace whose august front impressed the spectator
that it was not the work of mortal hands, but the happy retreat of some
god. Drawn by admiration and wonder, she approached the building and
ventured to enter. Every object she met filled her with pleasure and
amazement. Golden pillars supported the vaulted roof, and the walls
were enriched with carvings and paintings representing beasts of the
chase and rural scenes. Proceeding onward, she perceived that besides
the apartments of state there were others filled with all manner of
treasures, and beautiful and precious productions of nature and art.
While her eyes were thus occupied, a voice addressed her, though she
saw no one, uttering these words: “Sovereign lady, all that you see is
yours. We whose voices you hear are your servants and shall obey all your
commands with our utmost care and diligence. Retire, therefore, to your
chamber and repose on your bed of down, and when you see fit repair to
the bath. Supper awaits you in the adjoining alcove when it pleases you
to take your seat there.”
Psyche gave ear to the admonitions of her vocal attendants, and after
repose and the refreshment of the bath, seated herself in the alcove,
where a table immediately presented itself, without any visible aid from
waiters or servants, and covered with the greatest delicacies of food.
Her ears too were feasted with music from invisible performers; of whom
one sang, another played on the lute, and all closed in the wonderful
harmony of a full chorus.
She had not yet seen her destined husband. He came only in the hours of
darkness and fled before the dawn of morning, but his accents were full
of love, and inspired a like passion in her. She often begged him to
stay and let her behold him, but he would not consent. On the contrary
he charged her to make no attempt to see him, for it was his pleasure,
for the best of reasons, to keep concealed. “Why should you wish to
behold me?” he said; “have you any doubt of my love? have you any wish
ungratified? If you saw me, perhaps you would fear me, perhaps adore me,
but all I ask of you is to love me. I would rather you would love me as
an equal than adore me as a god.”
This reasoning somewhat quieted Psyche for a time, and while the novelty
lasted she felt quite happy. But at length the thought of her parents,
left in ignorance of her fate, and of her sisters, preyed on her mind
and made her begin to feel her palace as but a splendid prison. When her
husband came one night, she told him her distress, and at last drew from
him an unwilling consent that her sisters should be brought to see her.
So, calling Zephyr, she acquainted him with her husband’s commands, and
he, promptly obedient, soon brought them across the mountain down to
their sister’s valley. They embraced her and she returned their caresses.
“Come,” said Psyche, “enter with me my house and refresh yourselves with
whatever your sister has to offer.” Then taking their hands she led them
into her golden palace, and committed them to the care of her numerous
train of attendant voices, to refresh them in her baths and at her
table, and to show them all her treasures. The view of these celestial
delights caused envy to enter their bosoms, at seeing their young sister
possessed of such state and splendor, so much exceeding their own.
They asked her numberless questions, among others what sort of a person
her husband was. Psyche replied that he was a beautiful youth, who
generally spent the daytime in hunting upon the mountains. The sisters,
not satisfied with this reply, soon made her confess that she had never
seen him. Then they proceeded to fill her mind with dark suspicions.
“Call to mind,” they said, “the Pythian oracle that declared you destined
to marry a direful and tremendous monster. The inhabitants of this valley
say that your husband is a terrible and monstrous serpent, who nourishes
you for a while with dainties that he may by and by devour you. Take
our advice. Provide yourself with a lamp and a sharp knife; put them in
concealment that your husband may not discover them, and when he is sound
asleep, slip out of bed, bring forth your lamp, and see for yourself
whether what they say is true or not. If it is, hesitate not to cut off
the monster’s head, and thereby recover your liberty.”
Psyche resisted these persuasions as well as she could, but they did not
fail to have their effect on her mind, and when her sisters were gone,
their words and her own curiosity were too strong for her to resist. So
she prepared her lamp and a sharp knife, and hid them out of sight of her
husband. When he had fallen asleep, she silently rose and uncovering her
lamp beheld not a hideous monster, but the most beautiful and charming
of the gods, with golden ringlets wandering over his snowy neck and
crimson cheek, with two wings on his shoulders, whiter than snow, and
with shining feathers like the tender blossoms of spring. As she leaned
over to have a nearer view of his face a drop of burning oil fell on the
shoulder of the god, startled with which he opened his eyes and fixed
them full upon her; then, without saying one word, he spread his white
wings and flew out of the window. Psyche, in vain endeavoring to follow
him, fell from the window to the ground. Cupid, beholding her as she
lay in the dust, stopped his flight for an instant and said, “O foolish
Psyche, is it thus you repay my love? After having disobeyed my mother’s
commands and made you my wife, will you think me a monster and cut off
my head? But go; return to your sisters, whose advice you seem to think
preferable to mine. I inflict no other punishment on you than to leave
you forever. Love cannot dwell with suspicion.” So saying, he fled away,
leaving poor Psyche prostrate on the ground, filling the place with
mournful lamentations.
When she had recovered some degree of composure she looked around her,
but the palace and gardens had vanished, and she found herself in the
open field not far from the city where her sisters dwelt. She repaired
thither and told them the story of her misfortunes, at which, pretending
to grieve, those spiteful creatures inwardly rejoiced. “For now,” said
they, “he will perhaps choose one of us.” With this idea, without saying
a word of her intentions, each of them rose early the next morning and
ascended the mountain, and having reached the top, called upon Zephyr to
receive her and bear her to his lord; then leaping up, and not being
sustained by Zephyr, fell down the precipice and was dashed to pieces.
Psyche meanwhile wandered day and night, without food or repose, in
search of her husband. Casting her eyes on a lofty mountain having on its
brow a magnificent temple, she sighed and said to herself, “Perhaps my
lord inhabits there,” and directed her steps thither.
She had no sooner entered than she saw heaps of corn, some in loose ears
and some in sheaves, with mingled ears of barley. Scattered about, lay
sickles and rakes, and all the instruments of harvest, without order, as
if thrown carelessly out of the weary reapers’ hands in the sultry hours
of the day.
This unseemly confusion Psyche put an end to, by separating and sorting
everything to its proper place and kind, believing that she ought neglect
none of the gods, but endeavor by her piety to engage them all in her
behalf. The holy Ceres, whose temple it was, finding her so religiously
employed, thus spoke to her: “O Psyche, truly worthy of our pity, though
I cannot shield you from the frowns of Venus, yet I can teach you how
best to allay her displeasure. Go, then, and voluntarily surrender
yourself to your lady and sovereign, and try by modesty and submission to
win her forgiveness, and perhaps her favor will restore you the husband
you have lost.”
Psyche obeyed the commands of Ceres and took her way to the temple of
Venus, endeavoring to fortify her mind and ruminating on what she should
say and how best propitiate the angry goddess, feeling that the issue
was doubtful and perhaps fatal.
Venus received her with angry countenance. “Most undutiful and faithless
of servants,” said she, “do you at last remember that you really have a
mistress? Or have you rather come to see your sick husband, yet laid up
of the wound given him by his loving wife? You are so ill-favored and
disagreeable that the only way you can merit your lover must be by dint
of industry and diligence. I will make trial of your housewifery.” Then
she ordered Psyche to be led to the storehouse of her temple, where was
laid up a great quantity of wheat, barley, millet, vetches, beans, and
lentils prepared for food for her pigeons, and said, “Take and separate
all these grains, putting all of the same kind in a parcel by themselves,
and see that you get it done before evening.” Then Venus departed and
left her to her task.
But Psyche, in a perfect consternation at the enormous work, sat stupid
and silent, without moving a finger to the inextricable heap.
While she sat despairing, Cupid stirred up the little ant, a native
of the fields, to take compassion on her. The leader of the ant hill,
followed by whole hosts of his six-legged subjects, approached the heap,
and with the utmost diligence taking grain by grain, they separated the
pile, sorting each kind to its parcel; and when it was all done, they
vanished out of sight in a moment.
Venus at the approach of twilight returned from the banquet of the gods,
breathing odors and crowned with roses. Seeing the task done, she
exclaimed, “This is no work of yours, wicked one, but his, whom to your
own and his misfortune you have enticed.” So saying, she threw her a
piece of black bread for her supper and went away.
Next morning Venus ordered Psyche to be called and said to her, “Behold
yonder grove which stretches along the margin of the water. There you
will find sheep feeding without a shepherd, with golden-shining fleeces
on their backs. Go fetch me a sample of that precious wool gathered from
every one of their fleeces.”
Psyche obediently went to the riverside, prepared to do her best to
execute the command. But the river god inspired the reeds with harmonious
murmurs, which seemed to say, “O maiden, severely tried, tempt not the
dangerous flood, nor venture among the formidable rams on the other side,
for as long as they are under the influence of the rising sun, they burn
with a cruel rage to destroy mortals with their sharp horns or rude
teeth. But when the noontide sun has driven the cattle to the shade, and
the serene spirit of the flood has lulled them to rest, you may then
cross in safety, and you will find the woolly gold sticking to the bushes
and the trunks of the trees.”
Thus the compassionate river god gave Psyche instructions how to
accomplish her task, and by observing his directions she soon returned to
Venus with her arms full of the golden fleece; but she received not the
approbation of her implacable mistress, who said, “I know very well that
it is by none of your own doings that you have succeeded in this task,
and I am not satisfied yet that you have any capacity to make yourself
useful. But I have another task for you. Here, take this box and go your
way to the infernal shades, and give this box to Proserpine and say, ‘My
mistress Venus desires you to send her a little of your beauty, for in
tending her sick son she has lost some of her own.’ Be not too long on
your errand, for I must paint myself with it to appear at the circle of
the gods and goddesses this evening.”