himself once more in his own kingdom. He drew Proserpina’s attention to
the rich veins of gold that were to be seen among the rocks, and pointed
to several places where one stroke of a pick-axe would loosen a bushel of
diamonds. All along the road, indeed, there were sparkling gems, which
would have been of inestimable value above ground, but which were here
reckoned of the meaner sort, and hardly worth a beggar’s stooping for.
Not far from the gateway, they came to a bridge, which seemed to be
built of iron. Pluto stopped the chariot, and bade Proserpina look at
the stream which was gliding so lazily beneath it. Never in her life had
she beheld so torpid, so black, so muddy-looking a stream: its waters
reflected no images of anything that was on the banks, and it moved as
sluggishly as if it had quite forgotten which way it ought to flow, and
had rather stagnate than flow either one way or the other.
“This is the river Lethe,” observed King Pluto. “Is it not a very
pleasant stream?”
“I think it a very dismal one,” said Proserpina.
“It suits my taste, however,” answered Pluto, who was apt to be sullen
when anybody disagreed with him. “At all events, its water has one very
excellent quality; for a single draught of it makes people forget every
care and sorrow that has hitherto tormented them. Only sip a little of
it, my dear Proserpina, and you will instantly cease to grieve for your
mother, and will have nothing in your memory that can prevent your being
perfectly happy in my palace. I will send for some, in a golden goblet,
the moment we arrive.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” cried Proserpina, weeping afresh. “I had a thousand
times rather be miserable with remembering my mother, than be happy in
forgetting her. That dear, dear mother! I never, never will forget her.”
“We shall see,” said King Pluto. “You do not know what fine times we will
have in my palace. Here we are just at the portal. These pillars are
solid gold, I assure you.”
He alighted from the chariot, and taking Proserpina in his arms, carried
her up a lofty flight of steps into the great hall of the palace.
It was splendidly illuminated by means of large precious stones, of
various hues, which seemed to burn like so many lamps, and glowed with a
hundredfold radiance all through the vast apartment. And yet there was
a kind of gloom in the midst of this enchanted light; nor was there a
single object in the hall that was really agreeable to behold, except the
little Proserpina herself, a lovely child, with one earthly flower which
she had not let fall from her hand. It is my opinion that even King Pluto
had never been happy in his palace, and that this was the true reason
why he had stolen away Proserpina, in order that he might have something
to love, instead of cheating his heart any longer with this tiresome
magnificence. And, though he pretended to dislike the sunshine of the
upper world, yet the effect of the child’s presence, bedimmed as she was
by her tears, was as if a faint and watery sunbeam had somehow or other
found its way into the enchanted hall.
Pluto now summoned his domestics, and bade them lose no time in preparing
a most sumptuous banquet, and above all things, not to fail of setting a
golden beaker of the water of Lethe by Proserpina’s plate.
“I will neither drink that nor anything else,” said Proserpina. “Nor will
I taste a morsel of food, even if you keep me forever in your palace.”
“I should be sorry for that,” replied King Pluto, patting her cheek; for
he really wished to be kind, if he had only known how. “You are a spoiled
child, I perceive, my little Proserpina; but when you see the nice things
which my cook will make for you, your appetite will quickly come again.”
Then, sending for the head cook, he gave strict orders that all sorts
of delicacies, such as young people are usually fond of, should be set
before Proserpina. He had a secret motive in this; for, you are to
understand, it is a fixed law, that, when persons are carried off to the
land of magic, if they once taste any food there, they can never get back
to their friends. Now, if King Pluto had been cunning enough to offer
Proserpina some fruit, or bread and milk (which was the simple fare to
which the child had always been accustomed), it is very probable that she
would soon have been tempted to eat it. But he left the matter entirely
to his cook, who, like all other cooks, considered nothing fit to eat
unless it were rich pastry, or highly seasoned meat, or spiced sweet
cakes—things which Proserpina’s mother had never given her, and the smell
of which quite took away her appetite, instead of sharpening it.
But my story must now clamber out of King Pluto’s dominions, and see
what Mother Ceres has been about, since she was bereft of her daughter.
We had a glimpse of her, as you remember, half hidden among the waving
grain, while the four black steeds were swiftly whirling along the
chariot in which her beloved Proserpina was so unwillingly borne away.
You recollect, too, the loud scream which Proserpina gave, just when the
chariot was out of sight.
Of all the child’s outcries, this last shriek was the only one that
reached the ears of Mother Ceres. She had mistaken the rumbling of the
chariot-wheels for a peal of thunder, and imagined that a shower was
coming up, and that it would assist her in making the corn grow. But,
at the sound of Proserpina’s shriek, she started, and looked about in
every direction, not knowing whence it came, but feeling almost certain
that it was her daughter’s voice. It seemed so unaccountable, however,
that the girl should have strayed over so many lands and seas (which she
herself could not have traversed without the aid of her winged dragons),
that the good Ceres tried to believe that it must be the child of some
other parent, and not her own darling Proserpina, who had uttered this
lamentable cry. Nevertheless, it troubled her with a vast many tender
fears, such as are ready to bestir themselves in every mother’s heart,
when she finds it necessary to go away from her dear children without
leaving them under the care of some maiden aunt, or other such faithful
guardian.
So she quickly left the field in which she had been so busy; and, as her
work was not half done, the grain looked, next day, as if it needed both
sun and rain, and as if it were blighted in the ear, and had something
the matter with its roots.
The pair of dragons must have had very nimble wings; for, in less than
an hour, Mother Ceres had alighted at the door of her home, and found
it empty. Knowing, however, that the child was fond of sporting on the
seashore, she hastened thither as fast as she could, and there beheld the
wet faces of the poor sea-nymphs peeping over a wave. All this while, the
good creatures had been waiting on the bank of sponge, and, once every
half-minute or so, had popped up their four heads above water, to see if
their playmate were yet coming back. When they saw Mother Ceres, they sat
down on the crest of the surf wave, and let it toss them ashore at her
feet.
“Where is Proserpina?” cried Ceres. “Where is my child? Tell me, you
naughty sea-nymphs, have you enticed her under the sea?”
“Oh, no, good Mother Ceres,” said the innocent sea-nymphs, tossing back
their green ringlets, and looking her in the face. “We never should dream
of such a thing. Proserpina has been at play with us, it is true; but she
left us a long while ago, meaning only to run a little way upon the dry
land, and gather some flowers for a wreath. This was early in the day,
and we have seen nothing of her since.”
Ceres scarcely waited to hear what the nymphs had to say, before she
hurried off to make inquiries all through the neighborhood. But nobody
told her anything that could enable the poor mother to guess what had
become of Proserpina. A fisherman, it is true, had noticed her little
footprints in the sand, as he went homeward along the beach with a basket
of fish; a rustic had seen the child stooping to gather flowers; several
persons had heard either the rattling of chariot-wheels, or the rumbling
of distant thunder; and one old woman, while plucking vervain and catnip,
had heard a scream, but supposed it to be some childish nonsense, and
therefore did not take the trouble to look up. The stupid people! It took
them such a tedious while to tell the nothing that they knew, that it was
dark night before Mother Ceres found out that she must seek her daughter
elsewhere. So she lighted a torch, and set forth, resolving never to come
back until Proserpina was discovered.
In her haste and trouble of mind, she quite forgot her car and the winged
dragons; or, it may be, she thought that she could follow up the search
more thoroughly on foot. At all events, this was the way in which she
began her sorrowful journey, holding her torch before her, and looking
carefully at every object along the path. And as it happened, she had not
gone far before she found one of the magnificent flowers which grew on
the shrub that Proserpina had pulled up.
“Ha!” thought Mother Ceres, examining it by torchlight. “Here is mischief
in this flower! The earth did not produce it by any help of mine, nor
of its own accord. It is the work of enchantment, and is therefore
poisonous; and perhaps it has poisoned my poor child.”
But she put the poisonous flower in her bosom, not knowing whether she
might ever find any other memorial of Proserpina.
All night long, at the door of every cottage and farmhouse, Ceres
knocked, and called up the weary laborers to inquire if they had seen
her child; and they stood, gaping and half asleep, at the threshold,
and answered her pityingly, and besought her to come in and rest. At
the portal of every palace, too, she made so loud a summons that the
menials hurried to throw open the gate, thinking that it must be some
great king or queen, who would demand a banquet for supper and a stately
chamber to repose in. And when they saw only a sad and anxious woman,
with a torch in her hand and a wreath of withered poppies on her head,
they spoke rudely, and sometimes threatened to set the dogs upon her. But
nobody had seen Proserpina, nor could give Mother Ceres the least hint
which way to seek her. Thus passed the night; and still she continued
her search without sitting down to rest, or stopping to take food, or
even remembering to put out the torch; although first the rosy dawn, and
then the glad light of the morning sun, made its red flame look thin
and pale. But I wonder what sort of stuff this torch was made of; for it
burned dimly through the day, and, at night, was as bright as ever, and
never was extinguished by the rain or wind, in all the weary days and
nights while Ceres was seeking for Proserpina.
It was not merely of human beings that she asked tidings of her daughter.
In the woods and by the streams, she met creatures of another nature,
who used, in those old times, to haunt the pleasant and solitary places,
and were very sociable with persons who understood their language and
customs, as Mother Ceres did. Sometimes, for instance, she tapped with
her finger against the knotted trunk of a majestic oak; and immediately
its rude bark would cleave asunder, and forth would step a beautiful
maiden, who was the hamadryad of the oak, dwelling inside of it, and
sharing its long life, and rejoicing when its green leaves sported with
the breeze. But not one of these leafy damsels had seen Proserpina. Then,
going a little farther, Ceres would, perhaps, come to a fountain, gushing
out of a pebbly hollow in the earth, and would dabble with her hand in
the water. Behold, up through its sandy and pebbly bed, along with the
fountain’s gush, a young woman with dripping hair would arise, and stand
gazing at Mother Ceres, half out of the water, and undulating up and down
with its ever-restless motion. But when the mother asked whether her poor
lost child had stopped to drink out of the fountain, the naiad, with
weeping eyes (for these water-nymphs had tears to spare for everybody’s
grief), would answer, “No!” in a murmuring voice, which was just like the
murmur of the stream.
Often, likewise, she encountered fauns, who looked like sunburnt country
people, except that they had hairy ears, and little horns upon their
foreheads, and the hinder legs of goats, on which they gambolled merrily
about the woods and fields. They were a frolicsome kind of creature,
but grew as sad as their cheerful dispositions would allow when Ceres
inquired for her daughter, and they had no good news to tell. But
sometimes she came suddenly upon a rude gang of satyrs, who had faces
like monkeys and horses’ tails behind them, and who were generally
dancing in a very boisterous manner, with shouts of noisy laughter. When
she stopped to question them, they would only laugh the louder, and make
new merriment out of the lone woman’s distress. How unkind of those ugly
satyrs. And once, while crossing a solitary sheep-pasture, she saw a
personage named Pan, seated at the foot of a tall rock, and making music
on a shepherd’s flute. He, too, had horns, and hairy ears, and goat’s
feet; but, being acquainted with Mother Ceres, he answered her question
as civilly as he knew how, and invited her to taste some milk and honey
out of a wooden bowl. But neither could Pan tell her what had become of
Proserpina, any better than the rest of these wild peoples.
And thus Mother Ceres went wandering about for nine long days and nights,
finding no trace of Proserpina, unless it were now and then a withered
flower; and these she picked up and put in her bosom, because she
fancied that they might have fallen from her poor child’s hand. All day
she travelled onward through the hot sun; and at night, again, the flame
of the torch would redden and gleam along the pathway, and she continued
her search by its light, without ever sitting down to rest.
On the tenth day, she chanced to espy the mouth of a cavern, within which
(though it was bright noon everywhere else) there would have been only
a dusky twilight; but it so happened that a torch was burning there. It
flickered, and struggled with the duskiness, but could not half light up
the gloomy cavern with all its melancholy glimmer. Ceres was resolved to
leave no spot without a search; so she peeped into the entrance of the
cave, and lighted it up a little more, by holding her own torch before
her. In so doing, she caught a glimpse of what seemed to be a woman,
sitting on the brown leaves of the last autumn, a great heap of which had
been swept into the cave by the wind. This woman (if woman it were) was
by no means so beautiful as many of her sex; for her head, they tell me,
was shaped very much like a dog’s, and, by way of ornament, she wore a
wreath of snakes around it.
But Mother Ceres, the moment she saw her, knew that this was an odd kind
of a person, who put all her enjoyment in being miserable, and never
would have a word to say to other people, unless they were as melancholy
and wretched as she herself delighted to be.
“I am wretched enough now,” thought poor Ceres, “to talk with this
melancholy Hecate, were she ten times sadder than ever she was yet.”
So she stepped into the cave, and sat down on the withered leaves by the
dog-headed woman’s side. In all the world, since her daughter’s loss, she
had found no other companion.
“O Hecate,” said she, “if ever you lose a daughter, you will know
what sorrow is. Tell me, for pity’s sake, have you seen my poor child
Proserpina pass by the mouth of your cavern?”
“No,” answered Hecate, in a cracked voice, and sighing betwixt every
word or two—“no, Mother Ceres, I have seen nothing of your daughter.
But my ears, you must know, are made in such a way that all cries of
distress and affright, all over the world, are pretty sure to find their
way to them; and nine days ago, as I sat in my cave, making myself very
miserable, I heard the voice of a young girl, shrieking as if in great
distress. Something terrible has happened to the child, you may rest
assured. As well as I could judge, a dragon, or some other cruel monster,
was carrying her away.”
“You kill me by saying so,” cried Ceres, almost ready to faint. “Where
was the sound, and which way did it seem to go?”
“It passed very swiftly along,” said Hecate, “and, at the same time,
there was a heavy rumbling of wheels towards the eastward. I can tell
you nothing more, except that, in my honest opinion, you will never see
your daughter again. The best advice I can give you is, to take up your
abode in this cavern, where we will be the two most wretched women in the
world.”
“Not yet, dark Hecate,” replied Ceres. “But do you first come with your
torch, and help me to seek for my lost child. And when there shall be no
more hope of finding her (if that black day is ordained to come), then,
if you will give me room to fling myself down, either on these withered
leaves or on the naked rock, I will show you what it is to be miserable.
But, until I know that she has perished from the face of the earth, I
will not allow myself space even to grieve.”
The dismal Hecate did not much like the idea of going abroad into the
sunny world. But then she reflected that the sorrow of the disconsolate
Ceres would be like a gloomy twilight round about them both, let the
sun shine ever so brightly, and that therefore she might enjoy her bad
spirits, quite as well as if she were to stay in the cave. So she finally
consented to go, and they set out together, both carrying torches,
although it was broad daylight and clear sunshine. The torchlight seemed
to make a gloom; so that the people whom they met along the road could
not very distinctly see their figures; and, indeed, if they once caught
a glimpse of Hecate, with the wreath of snakes round her forehead, they
generally thought it prudent to run away, without waiting for a second
glance.
As the pair travelled along in this woe-begone manner, a thought struck
Ceres.
“There is one person,” she exclaimed, “who must have seen my poor child,
and can doubtless tell what has become of her. Why did not I think of him
before? It is Phœbus.”
“What,” said Hecate, “the young man that always sits in the sunshine?
Oh, pray do not think of going near him. He is a gay, light, frivolous
young fellow, and will only smile in your face. And besides, there is
such a glare of the sun about him, that he will quite blind my poor eyes,
which I have almost wept away already.”
“You have promised to be my companion,” answered Ceres. “Come, let us
make haste, or the sunshine will be gone, and Phœbus along with it.”
Accordingly, they went along in quest of Phœbus, both of them sighing
grievously, and Hecate, to say the truth, making a great deal worse
lamentation than Ceres; for all the pleasure she had, you know, lay
in being miserable, and therefore she made the most of it. By and by,
after a pretty long journey, they arrived at the sunniest spot in the
whole world. There they beheld a beautiful young man, with long, curling
ringlets, which seemed to be made of golden sunbeams; his garments
were like light summer clouds; and the expression of his face was so
exceedingly vivid, that Hecate held her hands before her eyes, muttering
that he ought to wear a black veil. Phœbus (for this was the very
person whom they were seeking) had a lyre in his hands, and was making
its chords tremble with sweet music; at the same time singing a most
exquisite song, which he had recently composed. For, besides a great many
other accomplishments, this young man was renowned for his admirable
poetry.
As Ceres and her dismal companion approached him, Phœbus smiled on them
so cheerfully that Hecate’s wreath of snakes gave a spiteful hiss, and
Hecate heartily wished herself back in her cave. But as for Ceres, she
was too earnest in her grief either to know or care whether Phœbus smiled
or frowned.
“Phœbus,” exclaimed she, “I am in great trouble, and have come to you for
assistance. Can you tell me what has become of my dear child Proserpina?”
“Proserpina! Proserpina, did you call her name?” answered Phœbus,
endeavoring to recollect; for there was such a continual flow of pleasant
ideas in his mind that he was apt to forget what had happened no longer
ago than yesterday. “Ah, yes, I remember her now. A very lovely child,
indeed. I am happy to tell you, my dear madam, that I did see the little
Proserpina not many days ago. You may make yourself perfectly easy about
her. She is safe, and in excellent hands.”
“Oh, where is my dear child?” cried Ceres, clasping her hands and
flinging herself at his feet.
“Why,” said Phœbus—and as he spoke, he kept touching his lyre so as to
make a thread of music run in and out among his words—“as the little
damsel was gathering flowers (and she has really a very exquisite taste
for flowers) she was suddenly snatched up by King Pluto, and carried off
to his dominions. I have never been in that part of the universe; but the
royal palace, I am told, is built in a very noble style of architecture,
and of the most splendid and costly materials. Gold, diamonds, pearls,
and all manner of precious stones will be your daughter’s ordinary
playthings. I recommend to you, my dear lady, to give yourself no
uneasiness. Proserpina’s sense of beauty will be duly gratified, and,
even in spite of the lack of sunshine, she will lead a very enviable
life.”
“Hush! Say not such a word!” answered Ceres, indignantly. “What is there
to gratify her heart? What are all the splendors you speak of, without
affection? I must have her back again. Will you go with me, Phœbus, to
demand my daughter of this wicked Pluto?”
“Pray excuse me,” replied Phœbus, with an elegant obeisance. “I certainly
wish you success, and regret that my own affairs are so immediately
pressing that I cannot have the pleasure of attending you. Besides, I am
not upon the best of terms with King Pluto. To tell you the truth, his
three-headed mastiff would never let me pass the gateway; for I should be
compelled to take a sheaf of sunbeams along with me, and those, you know,
are forbidden things in Pluto’s kingdom.”
“Ah, Phœbus,” said Ceres, with bitter meaning in her words, “you have a
harp instead of a heart. Farewell.”
“Will not you stay a moment,” asked Phœbus, “and hear me turn the pretty
and touching story of Proserpina into extemporary verses?”
But Ceres shook her head, and hastened away, along with Hecate. Phœbus
(who, as I have told you, was an exquisite poet) forthwith began to make
an ode about the poor mother’s grief; and, if we were to judge of his
sensibility by this beautiful production, he must have been endowed with
a very tender heart. But when a poet gets into the habit of using his
heart strings to make chords for his lyre, he may thrum upon them as
much as he will, without any great pain to himself. Accordingly, though
Phœbus sang a very sad song, he was as merry all the while as were the
sunbeams amid which he dwelt.
Poor Mother Ceres had now found out what had become of her daughter, but
was not a whit happier than before. Her case, on the contrary, looked
more desperate than ever. As long as Proserpina was above ground there
might have been hopes of regaining her. But now that the poor child was
shut up within the iron gates of the king of the mines, at the threshold
of which lay the three-headed Cerberus, there seemed no possibility of
her ever making her escape. The dismal Hecate, who loved to take the
darkest view of things, told Ceres that she had better come with her to
the cavern, and spend the rest of her life in being miserable. Ceres
answered that Hecate was welcome to go back thither herself, but that,
for her part, she would wander about the earth in quest of the entrance
to King Pluto’s dominions. And Hecate took her at her word, and hurried
back to her beloved cave, frightening a great many little children with a
glimpse of her dog’s face, as she went.