told thee before are as mud which is trampled underfoot by the side of
the one I shall tell thee now."
"Go to, then," said Hera, "and if it pleases me I will listen to the
end."
So Echo would sit upon the grass at Hera's feet, and with her eyes fixed
upon her face she would tell her tale. She had the gift of words, and,
moreover, she had seen and heard many strange things which she alone
could tell of. These she would weave into romances, adding to them as
best pleased her, or taking from them at will; for the best of
tale-tellers are those who can lie, but who mingle in with their lies
some grains of truth which they have picked from their own experience.
And Hera would forget her watchfulness and her jealousies, and listen
entranced, while the magic of Echo's words made each scene live before
her eyes. Meanwhile the nymphs would sport to their hearts' content and
never fear her anger.
But at last came the black day of reckoning when Hera found out the
prank which Echo had played upon her so long, and the fire of her wrath
flashed forth like lightning.
"The gift whereby thou hast deceived me shall be thine no more," she
cried. "Henceforward thou shalt be dumb till some one else has spoken,
and then, even if thou wilt, thou shalt not hold thy tongue, but must
needs repeat once more the last words that have been spoken."
"Alas! alas!" cried the nymphs in chorus.
"Alas! alas!" cried Echo after them, and could say no more, though she
longed to speak and beg Hera to forgive her. So did it come to pass that
she lost her voice, and could only say that which others put in her
mouth, whether she wished it or no.
Now, it chanced one day that the young Narcissus strayed away from his
companions in the hunt, and when he tried to find them he only wandered
further, and lost his way upon the lonely heights of Helicon. He was
now in the bloom of his youth, nearing manhood, and fair as a flower in
spring, and all who saw him straightway loved him and longed for him.
But, though his face was smooth and soft as maiden's, his heart was hard
as steel; and while many loved him and sighed for him, they could kindle
no answering flame in his breast, but he would spurn them, and treat
them with scorn, and go on his way, nothing caring. When he was born,
the blind seer Teiresias had prophesied concerning him:
"So long as he sees not himself he shall live and be happy."
And his words came true, for Narcissus cared for neither man nor woman,
but only for his own pleasure; and because he was so fair that all who
saw him loved him for his beauty, he found it easy to get from them what
he would. But he himself knew naught of love, and therefore but little
of grief; for love at the best brings joy and sorrow hand in hand, and
if unreturned, it brings naught but pain.
Now, when the nymphs saw Narcissus wandering alone through the woods,
they, too, loved him for his beauty, and they followed him wherever he
went. But because he was a mortal they were shy of him, and would not
show themselves, but hid behind the trees and rocks so that he should
not see them; and amongst the others Echo followed him, too. At last,
when he found he had really wandered astray, he began to shout for one
of his companions.
"Ho, there! where art thou?" he cried.
"Where art thou?" answered Echo.
When he heard the voice, he stopped and listened, but he could hear
nothing more. Then he called again.
"I am here in the wood--Narcissus."
"In the wood--Narcissus," said she.
"Come hither," he cried.
"Come hither," she answered.
Wondering at the strange voice which answered him, he looked all about,
but could see no one.
"Art thou close at hand?" he asked.
"Close at hand," answered Echo.
Wondering the more at seeing no one, he went forward in the direction of
the voice. Echo, when she found he was coming towards her, fled further,
so that when next he called, her voice sounded far away. But wherever
she was, he still followed after her, and she saw that he would not let
her escape; for wherever she hid, if he called, she had to answer, and
so show him her hiding-place. By now they had come to an open space in
the trees, where the green lawn sloped down to a clear pool in the
hollow. Here by the margin of the water she stood, with her back to the
tall, nodding bulrushes, and as Narcissus came out from the trees she
wrung her hands, and the salt tears dropped from her eyes; for she loved
him, and longed to speak to him, and yet she could not say a word. When
he saw her he stopped.
"Art thou she who calls me?" he asked.
"Who calls me?" she answered.
"I have told thee, Narcissus," he said.
"Narcissus," she cried, and held out her arms to him.
"Who art thou?" he asked.
"Who art thou?" said she.
"Have I not told thee," he said impatiently, "Narcissus?"
"Narcissus," she said again, and still held out her hands beseechingly.
"Tell me," he cried, "who art thou and why dost thou call me?"
"Why dost thou call me?" said she.
At this he grew angry.
"Maiden, whoever thou art, thou hast led me a pretty dance through the
woods, and now thou dost nought but mock me."
"Thou dost nought but mock me," said she.
At this he grew yet more angry, and began to abuse her, but every word
of abuse that he spoke she hurled back at him again. At last, tired out
with his wanderings and with anger, he threw himself on the grass by the
pool, and would not look at her nor speak to her again. For a time she
stood beside him weeping, and longing to speak to him and explain, but
never a word could she utter. So at last in her misery she left him, and
went and hid herself behind a rock close by. After a while, when his
anger had cooled down somewhat, Narcissus remembered he was very
thirsty, and noticing for the first time the clear pool beside him, he
bent over the edge of the bank to drink. As he held out his hand to take
the water, he saw looking up towards him a face which was the fairest
face he had ever looked on, and his heart, which never yet had known
what love was, at last was set on fire by the face in the pool. With a
sigh he held out both his arms toward it, and the figure also held out
two arms to him, and Echo from the rock answered back his sigh. When he
saw the figure stretching out towards him and heard the sigh, he thought
that his love was returned, and he bent down closer to the water and
whispered, "I love thee."
"I love thee," answered Echo from the rock.
At these words he bent down further, and tried to clasp the figure in
his arms, but as he did so, it vanished away. The surface of the pool
was covered with ripples, and he found he was clasping empty water to
his breast. So he drew back and waited awhile, thinking he had been
over-hasty. In time, the ripples died away and the face appeared again
as clear as before, looking up at him longingly from the water. Once
again he bent towards it, and tried to clasp it, and once again it fled
from his embrace. Time after time he tried, and always the same thing
happened, and at last he gave up in despair, and sat looking down into
the water, with the teardrops falling from his eyes; and the figure in
the pool wept, too, and looked up at him with a look of longing and
despair. The longer he looked, the more fiercely did the flame of love
burn in his breast, till at length he could bear it no more, but
determined to reach the desire of his heart or die. So for the last time
he leaned forward, and when he found that once again he was clasping the
empty water, he threw himself from the bank into the pool, thinking that
in the depths, at any rate, he would find his love. But he found naught
but death among the weeds and stones of the pool, and knew not that it
was his own face he loved reflected in the water below him. Thus were
the words of the prophet fulfilled, "So long as he sees not himself he
shall live and be happy."
Echo, peeping out from the rock, saw all that had happened, and when
Narcissus cast himself into the pool she rushed forward, all too late,
to stop him. When she found she could not save him, she cast herself on
the grass by the pool and wept and wept, till her flesh and her bones
wasted away with weeping, and naught but her voice remained and the
curse that was on her. So to this day she lives, a formless voice
haunting rocks and caves and vaulted halls. Herself no man has seen
since the day Narcissus saw her wringing her hands for love of him
beside the nodding bulrushes, and no man ever shall see again. But her
voice we all have heard repeating our words when we thought that no one
was by; and though now she will say whatever we bid her, if once the
curse were removed, the cry of her soul would be:
"Narcissus, Narcissus, my love, come back--come back to me!"
By the side of the clear brown pool, on the grass that Echo had watered
with her tears, there sprang up a sweet-scented flower, with a pure
white face and a crown of gold. And to this day in many a land men call
that flower "Narcissus," after the lad who, for love of his own fair
face, was drowned in the waters of Helicon.
[Illustration: HOW THE ASS BECAME A MAN AGAIN]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 14: From _Children of the Dawn,_ by Elsie Finnimore Buckley.
Stokes, London.]
HOW THE ASS BECAME A MAN AGAIN[15]
ONCE upon a time there lived a young man who would do nothing from
morning till night but amuse himself. His parents were dead and had left
him plenty of money, but this was fast vanishing, and his friends shook
their heads sadly, for when the money was gone they did not see where
more was to come from. It was not that Apuleius (for that was the name
of the youth) was stupid. He might have been a good soldier, or a
scholar, or a worker in gold, if so it had pleased him, but from a child
he had refused to do anything useful, and roamed about the city all day
long in search of adventures. The only kind of learning to which he paid
any heed was magic, and when he was in the house he would spend hours
poring over great books of spells.
Fond though he was of sorcery, he was too lazy to leave the town and its
pleasures--the chariot-racing, the theater, and the wrestling, and to
travel in search of the wizards who were renowned for their skill in the
art. However, the time came when, very unwillingly, he was forced to
take a journey into Thessaly, to see to the proper working of some
silver mines in which he had a share, and Thessaly, as everybody knows,
is the home of all magic. So when Apuleius arrived at the town of
Hypata, where dwelt the man Milo, overseer of his mines, he was prepared
to believe that all he saw was enchanted.
Now, if Thessaly is the country of magic, it is also the country of
robbers, and Apuleius soon noticed that everybody he met was in fear of
them. Indeed, they made this fear the excuse for all sorts of mean and
foolish ways. For instance, Milo, who loved money and could not bear to
spend a farthing, refused to have any seats in his house that could be
removed, and in consequence there was nothing to sit upon except two
marble chairs fixed to the wall. As there was only room in these for one
person, the wife of Milo had to retire to her own chamber when the young
man entered.
"It was no use," explained Milo, "in laying out money on moveable seats,
with robbers about. They would be sure to hear of it and to break into
the house."
Unlike his guest, Milo was always occupied in adding to his wealth in
one form or another. Sometimes he sent down a train of mules to the
sea, and bought merchandise which the ships had carried from Babylon or
Egypt, to sell it again at a high price. Then he dealt in sheep and
cattle, and when he thought he might do so with safety made false
returns of the silver that was dug up from the mines, and kept the
difference for himself. But most often he lent large sums at high
interest to the young men of the neighborhood, and so cunning was he
that, whoever else might be ruined, Milo managed to make large profits.
Apuleius knew very well that his steward was in his way as great a
robber as any in Thessaly, but, as usual, he found it too much trouble
to look into the matter. So he laughed and jested with the miser, and
next morning went out to the public baths and then took a stroll through
the city. It was full of statues of the famous men to whom Hypata had
given birth; but as Apuleius had made up his mind that nothing in
Thessaly _could_ be what it seemed, he supposed that they were living
people who had fallen under enchantment, and that the oxen whom he met
driven through the streets had once been men and women.
One evening he was returning as usual from a walk when he saw from afar
three figures before Milo's house, whom he at once guessed were trying
to force an entrance.
"Here is an adventure at last," thought he, and, keeping in the shadow,
he stole softly up behind them, and drawing his short sword he stabbed
each one to the heart. Then, without waiting to see what more would
befall, he left them where they were and entered the house by a door at
the back.
He said nothing of what had happened to Milo his host, but the next day,
before he had left his bed, a summons was brought him by one of the
slaves to appear before the court at noon on a charge of murder. As has
been seen, Apuleius was a brave man and did not fear to face three times
his number, but his heart quailed at the thought of a public trial.
Still, he was wise enough to know that there was no help for it, and at
the hour appointed he was in his place.
The first witnesses against him were two women with black veils covering
them from head to foot. At the sound of the herald's trumpet, one of the
two stepped forward and accused him of compassing the death of her
husband. When she had ended her plaint the herald blew another blast,
and another veiled woman came forward and charged him with her son's
murder. Then the herald inquired if there was not yet a third victim,
but was answered that his wound was slight, and that he was able to roam
through the city.
After the witnesses had been called, the judge pronounced sentence.
Apuleius the murderer was condemned to death, but he must first of all
be tortured, so that he might reveal the names of the men who had
abetted him. By order of the court, horrible instruments were brought
forward which chilled the blood of Apuleius in his veins. But to his
surprise, when he looked round to see if none would be his friend, he
noticed that every one, from the judge to the herald, was shaking with
laughter. His amazement was increased when with a trembling voice one of
the women demanded that the bodies should be produced, so that the judge
might be induced to feel more pity and to order more tortures. The judge
assented to this, and two bodies were carried into court shrouded in
wrappings, and the order was given that Apuleius himself should remove
the wrappings.
The face of the young man grew white as he heard the words of the judge,
for even a hardened criminal cares but little to touch the corpse of a
man whom he has murdered. But he dared not disobey, and walked slowly to
the place where the dead bodies lay. He shrank for a moment as he took
the cloth in his hands, but his guards were behind him, and calling up
all his courage, he withdrew it. A shout of laughter pealed out behind
him, and to his amazement he saw that his victims of the previous night
had been three huge leather bottles and not men at all!
As soon as Apuleius found out the trick that had been played on him he
was no less amused than the rest, but in the midst of his mirth a sudden
thought struck him.
"How was it you managed to make them alive?" asked he, "for alive they
were, and battering themselves against the door of the house."
"Oh, that is simple enough when one has a sorceress for a mistress,"
answered a damsel, who was standing by. "She burned the hairs of some
goats and wove spells over them, so that the animals to whom the hairs
and skins had once belonged became endowed with life and tried to enter
their former dwelling."
"They may well say that Thessaly is the home of wonders," cried the
young man. "But do you think that your mistress would let me see her at
work? I would pay her well--and you also," he added.
"It might be managed perhaps, without her knowledge," answered Fotis,
for such was the girl's name; "but you must hold yourself in readiness
after nightfall, for I cannot tell what evening she may choose to cast
off her own shape."
Apuleius promised readily that he would not stir out after sunset, and
the damsel went her way.
That very evening, Hesperus had scarcely risen from his bed when Fotis
knocked at the door of the house.
"Come hither, and quickly," she said; and without stopping to question
her Apuleius hastened by her side to the dwelling of the witch Pamphile.
Entering softly, they crept along a dark passage, where they could peep
through a crack in the wall and see Pamphile at work. She was in the act
of rubbing her body with essences from a long row of bottles which stood
in a cupboard in the wall, chanting to herself spells as she did so.
Slowly, feathers began to sprout from her head to her feet. Her arms
vanished, her nails became claws, her eyes grew round and her nose
hooked, and a little brown owl flew out of the window.
"Well, are you satisfied?" asked Fotis, but Apuleius shook his head.
"Not yet," he answered. "I want to know how she transforms herself into
a woman again."
"That is quite easy, you may be sure," replied Fotis. "My mistress
never runs any risks. A cup of water from a spring, with some laurel
leaves and anise floating in it, is all that she needs. I have seen her
do it a thousand times."
"Turn me into a nightingale, then, and I will give you five hundred
sesterces," cried Apuleius eagerly; and Fotis, tempted by the thought of
so much money, agreed to do what he wished.
But either Fotis was not so skilful as she thought herself, or in her
hurry she neglected to observe that the bird bottles were all on one
shelf, and the beast bottles on another, for when she had rubbed the
ointment over the young man's chest something fearful happened. Instead
of his arms disappearing, they stretched downwards; his back became
bent, his face long and narrow, while a browny-gray fur covered his
body. Apuleius had been changed, not into a nightingale, but into an
ass!
A loud scream broke from Fotis when she saw what she had done, and
Apuleius, glancing at a polished mirror from Corinth which hung on the
walls, beheld with horror the fate that had overtaken him.
"Quick, quick! fetch the water, and I will seek for the laurels and
anise," he cried. "I do not want to be an ass at all; my arms and back
are aching already, and if I am not swiftly restored to my own shape I
shall not be able to overthrow the champion in the wrestling match
to-morrow."
So Fotis ran out to draw the water from the spring, while Apuleius
opened some boxes with his teeth, and soon found the anise and laurels.
But alas! Fotis had deceived herself. The charm which was meant for a
bird would not work with a beast, and, what was worse, when Apuleius
tried to speak to her and beg her to try something else, he found he
could only bray!
In despair the girl took down the book of spells, and began to turn over
the pages; while the ass, who was still a man in all but his outward
form, glanced eagerly down them also. At length he gave a loud bray of
satisfaction, and rubbed his nose on a part of the long scroll.
"Of course, I remember now," cried Fotis with delight. "What a comfort
that nothing more is needed to restore you to your proper shape than a
handful of rose leaves!"
The mind of Apuleius was now quite easy, but his spirits fell again when
Fotis reminded him that he could no longer expect to be received by his
friends, but must lie in the stable of Milo, with his own horse, and be
tended, if he was tended at all, by his own servant.
"However, it will not be for long," she added consolingly. "In the
corner of the stable is a little shrine to the goddess of horses, and
every day fresh roses are placed before it. Before the sun sets
to-morrow you will be yourself again."
Slowly and shyly Apuleius slunk along lonely paths till he came to the
stable of Milo. The door was open, but, as he entered, his horse, who
was fastened with a sliding cord, kicked wildly at him, and caught him
right on the shoulder. But before the horse could deal another blow
Apuleius had sprung hastily on one side, and had hidden himself in a
dark corner, where he slept soundly.
The moon was shining brightly when he awoke, and looking round, he saw,
as Fotis had told him, the shrine of Hippone, with a branch of
sweet-smelling pink roses lying before it. It was rather high up, he
thought, but, when he reared himself on his hind legs, he would surely
be tall enough to reach it. So up he got, and trod softly over the
straw, till he drew near the shrine, when with a violent effort he threw
up his forelegs into the air. Yes! it was all right, his nose was quite
near the roses; but just as he opened his mouth his balance gave way,
and his front feet came heavily on the floor.
The noise brought the man, who was sleeping in another part of the
stable.
"Oh, I see what you are at, you ugly beast," cried he; "would you eat
roses that I put there for the goddess? I don't know who may be your
master, or how you got here, but I will take care that you do no more
mischief." So saying, he struck the ass several times with his fists,
and then, putting a rope round his neck, tied him up in another part of
the stable.
Now it happened that an hour or two later some of the most desperate
robbers in all Thessaly broke into the house of Milo, and, unheard by
any one, took all the bags of money that the miser had concealed under
some loose stones in his cellar. It was clear that they could not carry
away such heavy plunder without risk of the crime being discovered, but
they managed to get it quietly as far as the stable, where they gave the
horse some apples to put it in a good temper, while they thrust a turnip
into the mouth of Apuleius, who did not like it at all. Then they led
out both the animals, and placed the sacks of money on their backs,
after which they all set out for the robbers' cave in the side of the
mountain. As this, however, was some distance off, it took them many
hours to reach it, and on the way they passed through a large deserted
garden, where rose bushes of all sorts grew like weeds. The pulse of
Apuleius bounded at the sight, and he had already stretched out his nose
towards them, when he suddenly remembered that if he should turn into a
man in his present company he would probably be murdered by the robbers.
With a great effort, he left the roses alone, and tramped steadily on
his way.
It were long indeed to tell the adventures of Apuleius and the number of
masters whom he served. After some time he was captured by a soldier,
and by him sold to two brothers, one a cook and the other a maker of
pastry, who were attached to the service of a rich man who lived in the
country. This man did not allow any of his slaves to dwell in his house,
except those who attended on him personally, and these two brothers
lived in a tent on the other side of the garden, and the ass was given
to them to send to and fro with savory dishes in his panniers.
The cook and his brother were both careful men, and always had a great
store of pastry and sweet things on their shelves, so that none might be
lacking if their lord should command them. When they had done their work
they placed water and food for their donkey in a little shed which
opened on to the tent, then, fastening the door so that no one could
enter, they went out to enjoy the evening air.
On their return, it struck them that the tent looked unusually bare, and
at length they perceived that this was because every morsel of pastry
and sweets on the shelves had disappeared, and nothing was left of them,
not so much as a crumb. There was no room for a thief to hide, so the
two brothers supposed that, impossible it seemed, he must not only have
got _in_ but _out_ by the door, and, as their master might send for a
tray of cakes at any moment, there was no help for it but to make a
fresh supply. And so they did, and it took them more than half the night
to do it.
The next evening the same thing happened again; and the next, and the
next, and the next.
Then, by accident, the cook went into the shed where the ass lay, and
discovered a heap of corn and hay that reached nearly to the roof.