story of his life, and of how he had loved and lost Eurydice. The eyes
of the pale queen brightened when she heard him, and the colour came
back to her cheeks, as the song brought back to her mind the days of
her girlhood and the sunlit meadows of Sicily. Then a great pity
filled her heart for Eurydice, who had left the green earth for ever,
and might not return, as she herself did, in the spring-time, living
only the dark winter months below. As Orpheus ceased his song she laid
her hand upon her husband's.
"My lord," she said, "grant his boon, I pray thee. He is brave and
true-hearted, and he sings as no man has ever sung before."
But the stern king sat with his head upon his hand and eyes cast down,
deep in thought. At length he spoke, and his voice was soft and kind.
"Orpheus," he said, "thou hast touched my heart with thy singing. Yet
it lies not with me to grant thee thy boon."
"But if the queen, thy wife, may return to the earth in the
spring-time, may not Eurydice, too, come back at thy command?" asked
Orpheus.
"The ways of the gods are not the ways of mortals, Orpheus; they walk
by paths you may not tread. Yet, though I have no power to give thee
back Eurydice, thou mayest win her thyself if thou hast the strength."
"How may that be?" cried Orpheus. "For the sake of Eurydice I have
strength for any venture."
"No strength of the flesh can win her, Orpheus, but the strength of a
faith unfaltering. I will send for her, and when thou seest her stand
within the hall, holding out her hands towards thee, thou must harden
thy heart, and turn and flee before her by the way thou camest. For
the love of thee she will follow, and she will entreat thee to look at
her and give her thy hand over the stony way. But thou must neither
look at her nor speak to her. One look, one word, will be thine
undoing, and she must vanish from thine eyes for ever. The spell of
thy song still rests upon the guardians of my kingdom, and they will
let thee and thy wife pass by. But think not by word nor deed to help
her. Alone she passed from life to death, and alone she must pass back
from death to life. Her love and thy faith can be the only bond
between you. Hast thou the strength for this?"
"My lord," cried Orpheus, "'tis but a small thing to ask of a love
like mine."
"It will be harder than thou thinkest," the king replied.
"Nevertheless, I will call Eurydice."
He signed to a messenger to fetch her. In a few moments he returned,
and behind him came Eurydice from the garden of Death. The dank dew
hung heavy about her, and she walked with her eyes upon the ground,
while her long black hair hid the paleness of her face. Thus did she
come into the centre of the hall, and, not speaking or moving, Orpheus
gazed upon her till she raised her eyes and saw him. With a cry she
sprang towards him.
"Orpheus!" she said.
But, remembering the words of the king, he turned and fled before her
through the misty halls and out by the great gate, where Cerberus lay
tamed with his heads between his paws. And he tried to shut his ears
to her pleading as they sped across the plain, but every word that she
said cut his heart like a stab, and more than once he almost turned to
answer her, so piteous was her cry.
"Oh, Orpheus, what have I done? Why dost thou flee from me? Oh, give
me one word, one look, to say thou lov'st me still."
But he remained firm in his resolve, and sat himself in Charon's
boat, and steeled his heart, whilst she sat beside him, but could not
touch him. For he was a living soul, and she was a shade, and might
not touch him if she would. But still she pleaded with him.
[Illustration: "Orpheus," she cried, in her despair, "thy hand."]
"O Orpheus, my heart is starving for one look, one word. I know thou
lovest me, but oh! to see thine eyes tell me so and hear thy lips say
it."
He longed to turn and clasp her in his arms, and tell her how he loved
her better than life. But still he refrained, and hugged his lyre
close to his breast in his agony; and as soon as the boat touched the
shore he leapt out and hastened up the steep, dark path, whilst the
sweat stood out in drops upon his brow, so hard was the way and so
stifling the air. Behind him followed Eurydice, and if the way was
hard for him, for her it was ten times harder. She had no strength for
words, and only by her sobs did Orpheus know she was following still.
So they went on, till at length the air grew pure and fresh, and the
daylight shone before them at the mouth of the cave. With eager steps
Orpheus pressed forward, longing for the moment when he might clasp
his wife in his arms and speak to her once more. But as the way grew
easier for him, it grew harder for Eurydice; since no one may pass
from death to life without sore travail and pain. So she struggled and
stumbled after him, and her heart gave way within her as she felt she
could follow no farther.
"Orpheus!" she cried in her despair, "thy hand."
Ere reason could restrain him, his heart had answered her sudden cry,
and he turned and held out his arms to help her. All too late he knew
his folly. For even as he was about to hold her she slipped away, and
as smoke is borne away on the wings of the wind, so was she borne
away, helpless and lifeless, to the realms of the dead, and her voice
floated back like the echo of a dream,
"Farewell, Orpheus. Alas! Alas! farewell!"
So for the second time did he lose Eurydice; and if his grief was
great before, it was ten times greater now. For as the cup of joy had
touched his lips it had slipped from his hand and broken, and he knew
that the chance the gods had given him once they would give him never
again, but that all his life long he must dwell in loneliness without
Eurydice his wife. Blindly he went forward with his lyre beneath his
arm. The strings hung broken and lifeless, for the rocks and thorns
had torn them as he passed on his way up from Hades. But he heeded not
nor made any effort to mend them, for the strings of his heart hung
broken too, and the music in his soul was dead. In black despair he
wandered on, and the sunshine to his eyes was darkness, and the fair
forms of earth were sadder than the phantoms of Hades had seemed to
him while hope still beat in his breast. As a colt that has wandered
far by unknown paths returns at last surely to his homestead, so did
his feet carry him back to Pelion and the dear home of his boyhood.
Not till he stood in the path which led up to the cave did he know
where he had come; but when he saw the mouth of the cave before him
his eyes were opened once more, and a faint joy stole into his heart
as he went on and sat down on a stone outside. All was silent and
deserted, and he sat for awhile alone with his own sad thoughts, till
he felt a touch upon his shoulder, and looked up into the face of
Cheiron standing beside him.
"O my master!" he cried.
"My son, thou hast suffered," said Cheiron.
"I have been down into Hades, Cheiron," he answered.
"My child," said Cheiron, "I know it all."
He gazed upon him, his great mild eyes full of pity, and Orpheus gazed
back at him, and knew that he understood, though how he had learnt his
tale he could not tell. His heart drew comfort from the sympathy that
understood without words, and was softened as the parched earth is
softened by rain, so that he took Cheiron's hands between his, and
bowed his head upon them, and wept.
Thus it came to pass that he returned to his boyhood's home, and dwelt
once more with Cheiron and his lads beneath the shade of snow-capped
Pelion. In time the bitterness of his grief was purged away, and he
remembered Eurydice as something bright and fair that had been woven
into the web of his life while yet it was young, and which could never
be taken away. As he listened again to the old songs which Cheiron had
sung to him and his comrades when they were lads, the fire and the
eagerness of his youth were born once more within him. When he saw the
elder ones go forth into the world and little lads brought up to take
their place with Cheiron, he felt how life stands ever beckoning and
calling to those in whose veins the blood of gods and heroes runs, and
they go forth to rule and to serve, to fight and to labour, in answer
to the call which the foolish do not hear. So one morning he took his
lyre, which for many a long day had lain silent, and putting fresh
strings for the ones that were broken, he passed his fingers lovingly
over them as of old. And the spirit of music sprang to life once more
in his heart, as the flowers spring to life when the winter is past,
so that once again he could charm every living thing by the magic of
his song.
When Cheiron knew that his power had come back to him he was glad.
"Orpheus," he said, "thou hast conquered. A weaker man than thou art
would have lain crushed beneath the foot of adversity. But those who
bravely rise again are stronger than before."
"Master," he said, "when I saw the broken strings of my lyre and felt
my voice choked within me, I said, 'With the breaking of this string
the music dies and becomes a voiceless echo of the past, just as now
Eurydice is a shade in the shadowy land while her body is dust upon
earth,' and lo! ere the strings were mended or the voice grew strong
again, the soul of song lived once more in my heart, as on the day
when first my mother Calliope breathed her spirit upon me. If music
may live without sound or words, may not the soul live too without
bones and flesh? This is a mystery, and I must seek the wide world for
an answer."
And Cheiron smiled upon him.
"It is good to seek," said he, "though thou find no answer in the
end."
"Yet will I find an answer," said Orpheus.
So when the call of Jason came soon after, for him to sail with the
heroes in the good ship _Argo_ for the finding of the Golden Fleece,
and to be their minstrel on the stormy seas, he went down right gladly
to Iolchos. At the sound of his song the gallant ship leapt over the
stones and into the sea like a charger ready for battle, though before
she had been too heavy to move. So he sailed with the heroes on their
perilous venture, filling their hearts with courage and hope, and took
them safely through many a danger by the magic of his song. But though
many had set out, there were few that returned, and he saw the wreck
of many a promising life on that terrible voyage, but found no answer
to his quest. He bowed his head in reverence to the memory of those
who, for the sake of adventure and honour and a noble name, had poured
forth their lives like water on a thirsty soil, knowing full well when
they set forth that the danger would be for all, but the prize and the
dear home-coming for few.
So, as soon as might be, he set forth again to wander the wide world
alone with his lyre. Some say he went to Egypt, others say to Crete,
but wherever he went he found at last the answer to his quest. For he
found the great god Dionysos, the god of many names--Bromios, Bacchos,
Zagreus--who fills men's minds with inspiration and divine madness, so
that they become one with him and with the life that lives for ever
behind the forms of things that die. He ate of the flesh of the mystic
bull, which is the god himself, and to the sound of his lyre the
Mænads danced over the mountains and through untrodden woods, and held
to their breasts young lions, and cubs of the untamed wolf. Far away
from towns and cities, where custom and language raise barriers
between man and man, on the breast of the untouched earth they danced
their mystic dance, and became one with Bacchos and with all things
that have life in the present, or have lived in the past. There
Orpheus found Eurydice again in the communion of soul with soul, and
learnt what she had meant when she said, "Some day our love shall
prevail, never again to be conquered." So it came to pass that he
became the priest of Bacchos, the mystic god, who is one with Life and
Love. And he wrote upon tablets the rule of life, by which, through
purity and initiation, men may become one with the god, and when they
have been purified by birth and re-birth in many diverse forms, they
may win, because they are one with him, the immortal life that
changeth not, like the life of the stars in heaven.
The tale goes of Orpheus that at last he came to Thrace and the wild
mountain lands that lie to the north of Greece. There he tamed the
fierce hill tribes with the magic of his song, and lived a life of
abstinence and purity and ecstasy of the soul. But the followers of
Dionysos who dwelt in those parts looked on him askance; for whereas
they worshipped the god with shedding of blood and rending of goats,
in the madness that is born of wine, the ecstasy of his worship was
born of music and beauty, and he would have no part nor lot in their
wild revels. And because there is no hate that is greater than the
hate of those who worship one god in divers way, there came a day when
the mad frenzy of the Mænads was turned against Orpheus himself. As he
sat looking forth on the sunrise and singing as he touched his lyre,
the raving band came up behind him, full of madness and of wine. And
they tore him limb from limb in their frenzy, as they had torn the
wild goats before, and cast his head into the Hebrus, thinking to
silence his singing for ever. But his head floated on the waves of
the eddying stream, fair and fresh as in life, singing as it floated
its magic enchanting song. Gently the river bore it along and down to
the sea, and the blue sea waves kissed it and passed it from one to
the other, till at last they cast it up, still singing, on the shores
of the Lesbian Isle. There the Muses came and buried it, and made of
its tomb a sacred shrine, where, for many a long year, men came from
far and wide to worship and consult the oracle. About that shrine the
nightingales sang more sweetly than in any other spot on earth, for
they learnt their song from the lips of Orpheus himself. And men bound
themselves in a holy brotherhood which they called by his name, and
lived by the rules he had written on his tablets. Some of those who
pretended to follow him were charlatans and rogues, and brought
dishonour and ridicule upon his name, while others kept the letter
without the spirit of his law; but among them were those of a pure
and blameless life, who kept his doctrines, and handed them down
from generation to generation, till in time they became the
foundation-stones of the great philosophies of Pythagoras and Plato.
Thus did Orpheus live and die, and pointed out to men the path to
immortality by purity and abstinence and ecstasy of the soul. There
were many of old who hated his doctrine, and many who hate it now;
and, indeed, it is not one by which every man can live. But there are
those to whom it brings peace and joy, though they call it by other
names than his; and these are the Bacchoi, the initiated, who have
seen the inward light, and their souls are at peace.
The Flight of Arethusa
Many, many hundred years ago a small band of colonists set sail from
Corinth to found for themselves a new home and a new city in the
far-away west. With a song upon their lips, the sailors bent to their
oars.
"Heave ho! Heave ho!" they sang, "for the three-cornered isle of the
west! Heave ho! for the fountain that fails not, and the whispering
willow-trees! Heave ho! for the waters that are wedded with the waters
of our own native land!"
Then, as the breeze filled their sails, they pulled in their oars, and
looked back for the last time at the home they were leaving for ever.
Proudly between two seas did the rock of Corinth raise her head,
encircled with a diadem of walls and towers. With tears in their eyes
they watched her sink, and soon all around them was nothing but the
waste of the grey sea waves. Thus did they leave the old land for the
new with joy and sorrow, hope and fear in their hearts, and sailed
away to the west, to the land of their dreams, the three-cornered isle
of which the oracle had spoken. For when Archias, their leader, had
consulted the priestess at Delphi, she had answered,
"To Trinacria the god bids thee go, the three-cornered isle of the
west. There on Ortygia, the sacred islet, shalt thou build thee a
home, by the side of the fountain that fails not, Arethusa, whose
waters are wedded with the waters of thine own native land."
So, in obedience to her words, Archias set sail with his little band.
And they found Ortygia and the spring Arethusa in the shade of the
whispering willows. There they planted the seed of that city, which
grew to be the greatest in all Sicily and the mistress of the
Mediterranean--Syracuse, proud Corinth's prouder daughter. For her
sake many a battle has been fought and many a weary war been waged;
for through long centuries men knew that whoever held the keys of
Syracuse held the keys of power in their hands.
But what did the priestess mean when she bade Archias go to the isle
whose waters were wedded with the waters of his own native land? And
how came it that when he and his band reached Sicily they found there
the flowers and the fruit of the home they had left, and streams that
ran in and out of the limestone rocks like the streams of the
Peloponnese? I will tell you.
Arethusa, around whose spring in Ortygia the whispering willows bent,
was once a nymph, who dwelt in the Arcadian woodlands and followed
Artemis the maiden huntress, over hill and over dale. Artemis loved
her above all the other nymphs who were her handmaids, and as a sign
of her favour she would let her carry her bow and her quiver full of
darts. On many a hot summer's day did Arethusa and her companions
bathe with their mistress in the cool deep mountain pools. Above their
heads the great oaks of the forest spread their branches, and the
grass beneath their feet was fresh and green. So long as they stayed
by the side of their mistress the nymphs were safe from harm, for no
god or goddess in all the land was so powerful as Artemis, and she
knew how to protect her own.
So it came to pass that, because Arethusa had never known what fear
was, she grew to think that there was no such thing, and one day she
left her mistress and her comrades, and wandered forth alone through
the woods. Her heart was gay and light, and she sang as she went. In
the gloom of the forest she was like a ray of the sun, and on the bare
hill-sides she was like a sparkling stream that leaves green grass and
flowers wherever it passes. But she thought nothing of her beauty, nor
feared any harm because of it. As soon would lily cease from growing,
because it feared to be plucked for the sake of its fair sweet flower.
So she wandered on happy and light-hearted on that bright summer's
day.
At last she came to a broad river that barred her path. High up above
her head the water fell leaping and roaring down the face of the
rocks, while below the swift current hurried along through swirling
eddies and foam. When she saw that she could go no farther, she sat
down on a rock by the edge of a stream, and let the cool water play
over her feet; then she bent down to fill her hand and drink. As she
did so her heart stopped beating, and her limbs grew stiff and numb,
and for the first time in her life she knew what fear was. For out of
the waters before her there rose up what seemed a great billow of foam
and spray, which stretched out a long arm towards her, and from the
tips of five great fingers the drops fell cold upon her shoulders.
With a cry, she drew herself together, and turned and fled; but she
had seen the form of the river-god grow clear in the billow, with the
water flowing down from his damp hair and beard, and the flash of his
eyes like the flash of lightning in the midst of the foam. It was
Alpheus, the king of all the rivers of Peloponnese. He had seen
Arethusa alone on the bank, and for love of her beauty he had risen
from the depths of the stream and stretched out his arms to gather her
to himself, and draw her down beneath the waves, to live with him and
be his for ever. But she had been too quick for him, and now she fled
before him as a deer flees before the hounds, whilst the fear that had
numbed her at first now lent wings to her feet. Over hill and over
dale she fled, swift as the rushing wind. Her bright locks flew out
behind her, and as she leapt from rock to rock her white robes gleamed
like the gleam of sunlit waters. Close behind her came Alpheus. The
deafening roar of his flood sounded like thunder in her ears, and his
misty breath blew cold upon her cheek. On and on she fled, with the
swiftness and strength of despair, till at last she could go no
farther; for before her stretched the blue waste of the cruel Ionian,
and the spray of the waves stung her face, while behind her the floods
of Alpheus rushed thundering down. Then she stretched forth her hands,
and cried out to the Maid of the Sea,
"O Dictynna, Dictynna, have mercy! In the name of great Artemis, whom
thou lovest as I do, help me now."
The Maid of the Sea heard her cry, and wrapped her about in a mist,
and her body and her limbs were unloosed and melted away, till she
became a spring of fresh, pure water that bubbled and danced over the
stones of the shore, and dived at last into the waves of the sea. But
behind her the flood of Alpheus still rushed leaping and foaming. He
had followed her over mountain and valley, and he followed her now
through the ocean. Down through the white waves they dived into the
depths of the sea, and passed like silvery currents of light through
the green sleeping waters, on and on, through forests of seaweed, and
over shell-strewn rocks, till they were stopped at last in their
flight by the roots of the three-cornered isle. There, through the
fissures and clefts, they forced their way up once more to the
sunlight, and side by side they leapt down from the rocks and the
crags--down towards the sea once again. But Arethusa fled no longer in
terror, and her fear of Alpheus was gone; for he pursued her no more
in a thundering, boisterous flood. Now he held out his strong white
arms, and called to her gently and low--as gently as the waves call in
summer as they dance to the shore.
"Arethusa, Arethusa, I love thee. Come, join thy waters with mine."
But she leapt away from him with a happy, mischievous laugh, and
tossed back the spray from her hair, so that it fell on his cheek like
a shower of kisses. Thus she leapt laughing, down over the rocks and
crags towards the sea, knowing full well that he played with her, and
that any moment he could make her his own. At last, as she hovered for
a moment on the brink of the cliff, he caught her in his strong
white arms, and together they dived once more into the salt sea waves,
so that their waters were mingled, and for evermore they were one. And
Arethusa showed her bright head again in the spring beneath the
willows of Ortygia, which is called by her name to this day. From the
time of her flight that spring never failed or grew dry, for from the
snows of the mountains Alpheus flowed always to meet her, bringing
coolness and plenty to the waters he loved. Men said, moreover, that
if a cup were put into the stream of Alpheus in the Peloponnese it
would find its way at last to the spring in Ortygia--which showed that
the waters of Arethusa and Alpheus were wedded and blended together,
so that they lived apart no more.
[Illustration: On and on she fled with the swiftness and strength of
despair.]
And that was the reason why Archias found in Sicily the flowers and
the fruit of the land he had left; for Alpheus had borne their seeds
in his stream from Peloponnese, and scattered them right and left as
he sprang through the rocks, that the winds of heaven might sow them
where they willed. To this day you will find in Sicily the olive and
the vine, and the blushing flower of the almond, and the narcissus
with its crown of gold, as you find them in Peloponnese; for is not
the water that feeds their meadows one stream that joins two lands?
And on the first coins of Syracuse you will find the head of the nymph
Arethusa, with the fish swimming round about; for was it not by the
side of her spring that the first stones of the city were laid, on the
sacred isle of Ortygia, round which the sea-fish swam?
Thus did Arethusa flee in terror from Alpheus, to be wedded to him at
last in a land across the sea.
The Winning of Atalanta