undoing he never showed them, nor let them know what was troubling his
heart. But he made a niche for her in his chamber where the light fell
upon her from the window, and at night when he could not sleep he
would sit with his arms clasped about her ankles and his head resting
on her feet. Her face would look down on him full of pity and love,
pale and beautiful in the cold white light of the moon. When the day
dawned and the cloudlets clustered red about the rising sun, the warm
rays would fall upon her giving to her some hue of life, and
Pygmalion's heart would beat high with the hope that a miracle had
been wrought, and that his love at last had kindled a soul akin to his
own in the marble statue before him. With a cry he would put his arms
about her, but still she remained a cold, hard, unresponsive stone. So
day by day and week by week he grew more wretched; for there is nought
like a passionate love which is unreturned, and which never can be
returned, to take out the life from a man.
At last Aphrodite had compassion on him, when she saw that he had
suffered as much and more than most men at her hands, and that he no
longer held her in disdain. One night Pygmalion, as usual, had been
kneeling before the statue with his arm clasped about her feet, till,
tired out with longing, he had fallen asleep. On the breath of the
night wind Aphrodite came in, and she kissed the statue on the lips.
[Illustration: On the breath of the night wind Aphrodite came in, and
she kissed the statue on the lips.]
"Let love kindle life," she said. "Live, Galatea, thou milk-white
maid, and bring joy to the heart of Pygmalion."
Then she stole forth again through the moonlit casement, and Pygmalion
slept on unconscious. In the morning the sunlight streamed in through
the window, and fell full upon his face. With a start he awoke, and
looked up at the statue, and to his sun-dazed eyes it seemed to move.
"O Aphrodite," he cried, "mock me not! Thou hast deceived me so
often."
In despair he cast his arms about the image, certain that once again
he would find her a cold white stone. But lo! instead of unyielding
marble he was clasping in his arms a living woman. Her arms were about
his neck, her lips on his lips, and she looked into his eyes with a
fire that answered the fire in his own.
"At last, at last," said he, "my love has prevailed!"
"Even in the heart of a stone, Pygmalion," she said, "love can kindle
love. My form is the work of thy hand, and my soul is the child of thy
love. As long as stone can last, so long shall my body last; and as
long as thy love can live, so long shall my soul live also."
"My love," he said, "will live for ever."
"Then for ever," said she, "my soul will live with thine."
So as husband and wife they lived together for many a long year. The
cunning came back to Pygmalion's hand, and many a fair statue did he
make for the people of Cyprus. In time he died in a green old age. His
spirit fled away to the dwelling-place of souls, and with him the
spirit of Galatea, his wife; and her body returned to the form in
which Pygmalion first had made her--a fair white marble image. In the
garden where he, in his childhood, had learned to model the clay, the
Cyprians buried him, building a fair tomb over him, and in a niche
they placed the statue of Galatea. So the words she had spoken when
she came to life were fulfilled. Her form lived as long as stone could
live, and her soul lived as long as Pygmalion could love her. And
which of us can say that this could not be for ever, or that they do
not still live in the light of each other's love in the dwelling-place
of souls?
[Illustration]
The Divine Musician
North-West of the Ægean, where the cliffs of Pelion rise sheer out of
the sea, dwelt long ago Cheiron, the centaur, the wisest of living
things, half man, half horse. Many brothers had he, who in form were
like himself, but their hearts within were hard and wild, and because
of their untamed passions and their cruelty and lust they were hated
alike by gods and men. But Cheiron was gentle and mild. He knew all
manner of strange things; he could prophesy, and play upon the lyre,
and cure men of their hurts by means of healing herbs. He was brave
withal, and had been in many a bloody fight, and knew the arts of war
full as well as the arts of peace. Wherefore the old Hellenes called
him Cheiron, the Better One, and sent up their sons to live with him
that they might be taught all the things which man should know. In a
hollow cave on the mountain-side he had his home. Far up above him the
snow-capped peaks of Pelion kept watch over the nestling townships of
the plain, and far, far below the waves of the Ægean washed without
ceasing on the rocks of that pitiless coast, now soft and soothing as
the song a mother sings to her child, now loud and boisterous beneath
the lash of the storm-wind, when the seabirds fly screaming to the
shelter of the shore. All around were dark forests of chestnut, pine
and oak, where many a fierce beast had his lair. In the branches of
the trees the wild birds built their nests and filled the dark glades
with song. About the mouth of the cave the ground was trampled hard
beneath the tread of many feet, and paths led this way and that, some
into the heart of the forests, others down the steep cliff to the
shore.
Every morning at sunrise a troop of boys and youths would come forth
from the cave, and, dividing into groups, would go their several ways
to fish or to hunt, or to follow the course of some stream to its
unknown source in the mountains. Sometimes Cheiron himself would go
with them, if he thought they had need of his help; but more often he
left them to their own devices, to follow each one his own bent as
Nature prompted him. In the evening they would come home and tell him
of their doings in the day; and he would praise or blame them,
according as they had done well or ill, and show them how they might
do better another time. Then they would go to their couches of dried
moss and leaves, and sleep the deep sleep of youth and health, while
the cool night breeze blew in upon their faces from the mouth of the
cave, and put fresh life and strength into their tired limbs. In the
winter-time, when the night was longer than the day, and the snow lay
deep upon the hills, they would light a great fire in front of the
cave with logs they had stored in the summer months, and Cheiron
would take his lyre and sing to them of all things in heaven and
earth, while they lay round about and listened. The songs which he
sang to them then they never forgot, because Cheiron was wise, and
spoke to their souls in his singing. So they laid up his songs in
their hearts; and many a long year after, when they were grown men far
away, and some danger or difficulty stood in their path, the drift of
his teaching would come back to them in the words of a song, and their
hearts would grow brave and strong once more to act worthily of their
boyhood's sunny days on Pelion. Many a hero whose name still lives
among men had been trained by Cheiron in his youth--Peleus, who
married a goddess, and Achilles his son, the swiftest and bravest of
mortal men; and Jason, the leader of the Argonauts; and Asklepios, the
mighty healer; and, not least among them, Orpheus, the greatest of
Greek musicians and mystics, whose tale I will tell you now.
One day, as the shades of evening were beginning to fall, Cheiron
stood before the mouth of the cave waiting for the lads to come home.
Sooner than he expected he saw one of them far away coming down a path
from the mountains, and he marvelled that he should return so soon and
alone. As he came nearer Cheiron saw that he walked with his eyes upon
the ground, deep in thought. Every now and again he stopped and looked
round upon the peaceful hillsides stretching calm and smiling in the
golden glow of the evening; and when he had gazed for a moment he
sighed, as though he would breathe into his soul the beauty he saw
around him, and then went on his way once more with his eyes on the
ground. So he walked till he came close to the cave and saw Cheiron
standing in the entrance. Then he ran up to him and put his hand upon
his shoulder.
"My father," he cried, "look round upon the hills; hast thou ever seen
them so fair as they have been this day?"
Cheiron smiled at his words.
"Orpheus," he said, "the fair face of the earth changes but little. In
the soul of man it lies to look upon her and see her beauty or to be
blind."
"Till this day I have been blind, Cheiron," he said.
"And who has lifted the veil from thine eyes, my son?" asked his
master.
"I know not," he said. "But this morning, while yet it was dark, there
came to me a strange unrest and a longing to be alone. So I crept
forth from the cave whilst you were all sleeping, and climbed up the
mountain-side--up, up, in the grey light before dawn, till I came to
the place where the white snow lies like a cloak about the shaggy
shoulders of Pelion. There I left the track of my footsteps where no
feet but mine had trod, and climbed up upon a boulder and looked out
across the sea. And I saw the great sun rise out of the east. As I
looked it seemed that I beheld the face of God; and as the snow and
the sea and the forests awoke to life in the light of His glory, my
soul awoke within me. All the day long I wandered about the forests
and hills; and I saw the beauty of the trees and the grass, and the
grace of the wild deer as he bounded over the rocks, as I had never
seen it before. The wonder of this day lies like a burden on my heart
that I fain would ease, yet I have no words to tell of it."
Then Cheiron took up the lyre which was lying by his side and passed
his fingers gently over the strings.
"Orpheus," he said, "many a long year ago, when thou wast a little
lad, thy mother Calliope brought thee to me. And she put thy hand in
my hand, and said: 'Cheiron, make a man of my son. Make him brave and
fearless and strong, a worthy companion of the noble lads thou hast
around thee. When the right time comes I will breathe my spirit upon
him, and he shall be great, as few in this world are great.' This day
she has kept her word, Orpheus. She has breathed her spirit upon thee,
and has opened the eyes of thy soul and made them see."
"Who is my mother Calliope?" asked the lad.
"She is the Fair-voiced One who speaks through the lips of mortals by
music and song, Orpheus. With her sisters, she dwells for ever by the
sunlit streams of Helicon, where they follow in the footsteps of
Apollo, their lord, across the green lawns and the flowery meadows.
All knowledge, all music of sound and of words, comes to men by their
gift--those nine great sisters, the Muses. Happy art thou to be her
son. Take now this lyre from mine hand. Ease the burden of thy soul in
song, and learn how great is the gift she has given thee."
So Orpheus took the lyre from his master, and struck the chords, as
all the lads who dwelt with Cheiron knew full well how to do. But
instead of the old songs that he had learnt from his childhood, a new
song came to his lips, and he sang as he had never sung before. Far
away upon the hillsides his companions heard his voice, and they
stopped upon their homeward way to listen, as the evening breeze bore
the sound to their ears. When they knew that the voice came from home,
they hastened on and drew silently near, that no sound might disturb
the singer, and throwing themselves upon the ground at his feet,
forgot their weariness and hunger as they listened. On and on he sang,
forgetful of all else but his song, till the red glow of the evening
died away in the west and the stars shone pale in the twilight. There
was a strange magic about his music which drew all living things to
his feet, as a magnet draws the cold heart of steel. From the woods
and the forests they came, and from the bare hillsides--the lion, the
leopard and the trembling fawn. The snake came forth from his
hiding-place, the rabbit from his hole, and the wild birds wheeled
about his head and settled on the brow of the cave. The very trees
seemed to hear him, as they swayed their heads to and fro to the
rhythm of his song. As he looked round upon his comrades whilst he
sang, his heart grew strong within him, for he felt that a strange new
power had been born in his soul, which could bow the heads of men
beneath his will as the wind bows the rushes by the stream. So he sang
on as the twilight deepened into night, and all the stars of heaven
came forth to listen, till at length his song died upon his lips, like
a breeze lulled to rest at sunset. For a moment the creatures lay
spellbound around him; then one by one they crept back to their homes,
with their fears and their hatreds tamed for a while by the magic of
his singing. And his companions crowded round him with words of praise
and eager questions.
"Who taught thee thy magic song, Orpheus?" they cried.
"The sunrise and the snow," he answered, "and the teaching of Cheiron,
and my happy days with you, and the spirit of my mother Calliope--all
these have taught me my song."
But his answer was a dark saying to them, and not one of them
understood it, save Cheiron. He knew that it is the commonest things
in life that are the material of all that is beautiful and fair, just
as a temple may be built of common stone; but that the children of the
Muses are few, who can by music and art open the blind hearts of men
to see.
Thus did the gift of song fall upon Orpheus, so that he became the
greatest of all singers upon earth. All day long he would wander about
the woods and the hills, and tame the heart of every living thing with
the magic of his voice.
One day it chanced that he came into a wood where he had never been
before, and he followed a grass-grown track which led to the mouth of
a cave. On one side of the cave stood a tall beech-tree, whose
moss-covered roots offered a tempting seat, and close by a clear
stream gushed forth from the rocks. He drank eagerly of the water, for
he had wandered far and was thirsty; and when he had quenched his
thirst, he sat down on the roots of the beech-tree and began his song.
As before, the wild things gathered about him, and crouched at his
feet, tame and silent, as he sang; and from the shadow of the cave
crept a wood-nymph, and lay upon the grass, with her chin between her
hands, looking up into his face. For a time he did not see her, so
silently had she come; but at last the power of her eyes drew his
eyes upon her, and he turned his head and looked at her. When he saw
her, his arm fell useless by his side and his voice died away in his
throat, for he had never looked upon anyone so fair. Her hair was
black as the storm-cloud, but her eyes were blue as the summer sky,
and she lay like a white flower in the grass at his feet. For a long
moment he gazed into her face without speaking, as she gazed back at
him, and at last he spoke.
"Who art thou, maiden?" he asked.
"I am Eurydice," she answered.
"Thy hair is black as midnight, Eurydice," he said, "and thine eyes
are bright as the noonday."
"Are not midnight and noonday fair to thine eyes?" she asked.
"They are fair indeed, but thou art fairer."
"Then I am well content," she said.
"I know not thy name nor thy face, Eurydice," said he, "but my heart
beats with thy heart as though we were not strangers."
"When two hearts beat together, Orpheus, they are strangers no more,
whether they have known each other all their days, or have met as thou
and I have met. Long ago the fame of thee, and of thy singing, reached
mine ears, but I hardened my heart against thee, and said, 'It is an
idle rumour, and he is no better than other men, before whose face I
flee.' But now the gods have brought thy steps to the hollow cave
where I dwell, and thou, by thy magic, hast drawn me to thy feet, so
that I, who doubted thy power, must follow thee whithersoever thou
wilt."
[Illustration: From the shadow of the cave crept a wood-nymph, and lay
upon the grass.]
"Shall I sing thee a song, Eurydice--the song thou hast sown in my
heart?"
"Yes, sing me that song," she answered.
So he struck the chords of his lyre and sang her the song that was
born of her beauty. One by one the wild creatures stole back to the
forest, for that song was not for them, and they two were left alone
beneath the spreading boughs of the beech-tree. As he sang, Eurydice
crept closer to him, till her head rested on his knee and her long
black hair fell in a cloud about his feet. As she drew nearer his
voice grew lower, till it became but a whisper in her ear. Then he
laid his lyre on the ground beside him and put his arms about her, and
their hearts spoke to each other in the tongue that knows not sound
nor words.
So it came to pass that Orpheus returned no more to dwell with Cheiron
and his companions in the hollow cave below Pelion, but lived with
Eurydice, his wife, in her cave in the heart of the forest. But he
never forgot his boyhood's happy days, nor all that Cheiron had done
for him. He would come often to see him and take counsel with him, and
sing to the lads his magic song. For a few short years he lived a life
the gods might envy, till the dark days came, when not even music
could bring comfort to his heart. For one day, as he roamed with
Eurydice through the dark forest, it chanced that she unwittingly trod
upon a snake, and the creature turned upon her and pierced her white
foot with its venomous fang. Like liquid fire the poison ran through
her veins, and she lay faint and dying in his arms.
"O Eurydice," he cried, "Eurydice, open thine eyes and come back to
me!"
For a moment the agony of his voice awoke her to life.
"Orpheus," she said, "beloved, this side of the river of death we can
dwell together no more. But love, my dear one, is stronger than death,
and some day our love shall prevail, never again to be conquered."
When she had spoken her head sank down upon his breast, and her spirit
fled away, to return no more. So he bore the fair image of his wife in
his arms, and laid her in the depths of the cave that had been their
home. Above her head he placed a great pine torch, and all the long
night watches he sat with his arms about her and his cheek against her
cheek; and his heart groaned within him with a grief too great for
words. Ere the day dawned he kissed for the last time the lips that
could speak to him never again, and laid back her head on a pillow of
leaves and moss. Then he pulled down the earth and stones about the
mouth of the cave, so that no one could find the opening, and left for
evermore the home he had loved so well. Onward he walked in the grey
light of dawn, little caring where he went, and struck the chords of
his lyre to tell all the earth of his grief. The trees and the flowers
bowed down their heads as they listened, the clouds of heaven dropped
tears upon the ground, and the whole world mourned with him for the
death of Eurydice his wife.
"Oh, sleep no more, ye woods and forests!" he sang, "sleep no more,
but toss your arms in the sighing wind, and bow your heads beneath the
sky that weeps with me. For Eurydice is dead. She is dead. No more
shall her white feet glance through the grass, nor the field-flowers
shine in her hair. But, like last year's snow, she is melted away, and
my heart is desolate without her. Oh! why may the dried grass grow
green again, but my love must be dead for ever? O ye woods and
forests, sleep no more, but awake and mourn with me. For Eurydice is
dead; she is dead, dead, dead!"
So he wandered, making his moan and wringing the hearts of all who
heard him, with the sorrow of his singing. And when he could find no
comfort upon earth he bethought him of the words of his wife:
"This side of the river of death we can dwell together no more. But
love, my dear one, is stronger than death, and some day our love shall
prevail, never again to be conquered."
He pondered the words in his heart, and wondered what she might mean.
"If love is stronger than death," he thought, "then my love can win
her back. If I can charm the hearts of all living things with the
magic of my song, I may charm, too; the souls of the dead and of their
pitiless king, so that he shall give me back Eurydice, my wife. I will
go down to the dark halls of Hades, and bring her up to the fair earth
once more."
When hope was thus born anew in his heart he grew brave for any
venture, and pressed forward on his way till he came to the place men
called the mouth of Hades. Nothing daunted by the tales of horror they
told him, he entered the fearsome cave, which led deep down into the
bowels of the earth, where noisome vapours choked the breath in his
throat, and dark forms crouched in his path and fled shrieking before
him, till at last he stood by the shores of the ninefold Styx, that
winds about the realms of the dead. Then he shouted aloud to Charon,
the ferryman, to row him across in his boat. When the old man heard
his voice, he stopped midway across the stream.
"Who is it that calls me in the voice of the living?" he asked.
"It is Orpheus," he answered. "I am come to fetch back Eurydice, my
wife."
But the old man laughed, and his laugh cut the heart of Orpheus like a
knife.
"O beardless innocent," he said, "who gave thee power over life and
death? I tell thee that many have stood by the shores of this stream
and entreated me to take them across, that they might bring their dear
ones back with them. But no living soul shall sit in my boat, nor
shall the dead, who have sat in it once, ever return to sit in it
again. Go back to the earth, young man, and when thy time has come,
thou too shalt sit in my boat, never fear."
"That time has come, Charon," he said, "and I shall sit in thy boat
this day."
Raising his lyre, he struck the chords, and his love taught him the
tune and the words to sing. Steadfastly he gazed at Charon, and the
magic of his singing drew the old man towards him as surely as though
the rope of the boat were in his hands. Without ceasing his song, he
took his place in the stern, and in time to the music Charon dipped
his oars in the stream, so that the boat swung over the river as it
had never swung before. As it stranded in the shallow water, Orpheus
leaped lightly to shore.
"Farewell for the present, Charon," he cried; "we shall meet again ere
long."
He hastened on his way, playing and singing his magic song. Resting on
his pole, the old man looked after him with wonder in his heart, and
shaded his eyes with his hand. For a ray of the sun seemed to shine
for a moment in that cold grey land as Orpheus passed by. The pale
flowers of hell tossed their heads to and fro, as though the west wind
played through their leaves, and their colour and their scent came
back to them once more. With a sigh, Charon breathed in the perfume
from the air, and tossed back the grey locks from his brow and
straightened his drooping shoulders.
"It is long since I smelt the fresh smell of the earth," he muttered.
"Who is this young god, who can bring light to the darkness and life
to the realms of the dead?"
So till Orpheus passed out of sight and the sound of his singing grew
faint in the distance Charon stood looking after him, and then with a
sigh he sat down in his boat and bent to his oars once more.
And Orpheus went on his way, with hope beating high in his heart, till
he came to the portals of the palace of Death. On the threshold lay
Cerberus, the three-headed hound of hell, who night and day kept watch
beside the gate to see that no one passed in save those who had died
upon earth, and that those who had passed him once should pass him
never again. When he heard Orpheus coming, he sprang to his feet and
snarled and growled and bared his sharp white fangs; but as the
strains of music grew clearer he sank silent to the ground, and
stretched his three great heads between his paws. Orpheus, as he
passed by, bent down and stroked him, and the fierce beast licked his
hands. So did he enter into the gates of Death, and passed through the
shadowy halls, till he stood before the throne of Pluto, the king. A
dim and awful form did he sit, wrapped about in darkness and mist, and
on his right hand sat Persephone, his wife, whom he stole from the
meadows of Sicily. When he saw Orpheus his eyes gleamed like the gleam
of cold steel, and he stretched forth his gaunt right arm towards him.
"What dost thou here, Orpheus?" he asked.
"I am come to ask thee a boon, O king," he answered.
"There be many that ask me a boon," said Pluto, "but none that receive
it."
"Yet none have stood before thee in the flesh, as I do, O king, to ask
their boon."
"Because thou hast trespassed unlawfully on my domain, dost thou think
I will grant thee thy boon?"
"Nay; but because my grief is so great that I have dared what none
have dared before me, I pray thee to hear me."