there for him alone and defenceless, and she had fallen a prey to some
beast from the jungle! As these thoughts rushed upon the young man's
mind, he could endure no more.
"Was it to meet me, Thisbe, that you came to such a death!" cried he.
"And I followed all too late. But I will atone. Even now I come
lagging, but by no will of mine!"
So saying, the poor youth drew his sword and fell upon it, there at the
foot of that mulberry-tree which he had named as the trysting-place,
and his life-blood ran about the roots.
During these very moments, Thisbe, hearing no sound and a little
reassured, had stolen from her hiding-place and was come to the edge of
the grove. She saw that the lioness had left the spring, and, eager to
show her lover that she had dared all things to keep faith, she came
slowly, little by little, back to the mulberry-tree.
She found Pyramus there, according to his promise. His own sword was in
his heart, the empty scabbard by his side, and in his hand he held her
veil still clasped. Thisbe saw these things as in a dream, and suddenly
the truth awoke her. She saw the piteous mischance of all; and when the
dying Pyramus opened his eyes and fixed them upon her, her heart broke.
With the same sword she stabbed herself, and the lovers died together.
There the parents found them, after a weary search, and they were
buried together in the same tomb. But the berries of the mulberry-tree
turned red that day, and red they have remained ever since.
PYGMALION AND GALATEA.
The island of Cyprus was dear to the heart of Venus. There her temples
were kept with honor, and there, some say, she watched with the Loves
and Graces over the long enchanted sleep of Adonis. This youth, a
hunter whom she had dearly loved, had died of a wound from the tusk of
a wild boar; but the bitter grief of Venus had won over even the powers
of Hades. For six months of every year, Adonis had to live as a Shade
in the world of the dead; but for the rest of time he was free to
breathe the upper air. Here in Cyprus the people came to worship him as
a god, for the sake of Venus who loved him; and here, if any called
upon her, she was like to listen.
Now there once lived in Cyprus a young sculptor, Pygmalion by name, who
thought nothing on earth so beautiful as the white marble folk that
live without faults and never grow old. Indeed, he said that he would
never marry a mortal woman, and people began to think that his daily
life among marble creatures was hardening his heart altogether.
But it chanced that Pygmalion fell to work upon an ivory statue of a
maiden, so lovely that it must have moved to envy every breathing
creature that came to look upon it. With a happy heart the sculptor
wrought day by day, giving it all the beauty of his dreams, until, when
the work was completed, he felt powerless to leave it. He was bound to
it by the tie of his highest aspiration, his most perfect ideal, his
most patient work.
Day after day the ivory maiden looked down at him silently, and he
looked back at her until he felt that he loved her more than anything
else in the world. He thought of her no longer as a statue, but as the
dear companion of his life; and the whim grew upon him like an
enchantment. He named her Galatea, and arrayed her like a princess; he
hung jewels about her neck, and made all his home beautiful and fit for
such a presence.
Now the festival of Venus was at hand, and Pygmalion, like all who
loved Beauty, joined the worshippers. In the temple victims were
offered, solemn rites were held, and votaries from many lands came to
pray the favor of the goddess. At length Pygmalion himself approached
the altar and made his prayer.
"Goddess," he said, "who hast vouchsafed to me this gift of beauty,
give me a perfect love, likewise, and let me have for bride, one like
my ivory maiden." And Venus heard.
Home to his house of dreams went the sculptor, loath to be parted for a
day from his statue, Galatea. There she stood, looking down upon him
silently, and he looked back at her. Surely the sunset had shed a flush
of life upon her whiteness.
He drew near in wonder and delight, and felt, instead of the chill air
that was wont to wake him out of his spell, a gentle warmth around her,
like the breath of a plant. He touched her hand, and it yielded like
the hand of one living! Doubting his senses, yet fearing to reassure
himself, Pygmalion kissed the statue.
In an instant the maiden's face bloomed like a waking rose, her hair
shone golden as returning sunlight; she lifted her ivory eyelids and
smiled at him. The statue herself had awakened, and she stepped down
from the pedestal, into the arms of her creator, alive!
There was a dream that came true.
OEDIPUS.
Behind the power of the gods and beyond all the efforts of men, the
three Fates sat at their spinning.
No one could tell whence these sisters were, but by some strange
necessity they spun the web of human life and made destinies without
knowing why. It was not for Clotho to decree whether the thread of a
life should be stout or fragile, nor for Lachesis to choose the fashion
of the web; and Atropos herself must sometimes have wept to cut a life
short with her shears, and let it fall unfinished. But they were like
spinners for some Power that said of life, as of a garment, _Thus it
must be_. That Power neither gods nor men could withstand.
There was once a king named Laius (a grandson of Cadmus himself), who
ruled over Thebes, with Jocasta his wife. To them an Oracle had
foretold that if a son of theirs lived to grow up, he would one day
kill his father and marry his own mother. The king and queen resolved
to escape such a doom, even at terrible cost. Accordingly Laius gave
his son, who was only a baby, to a certain herdsman, with instructions
to put him to death.
This was not to be. The herdsman carried the child to a lonely
mountain-side, but once there, his heart failed him. Hardly daring to
disobey the king's command, yet shrinking from murder, he hung the
little creature by his feet to the branches of a tree, and left him
there to die.
But there chanced to come that way with his flocks, a man who served
King Polybus of Corinth. He found the baby perishing in the tree, and,
touched with pity, took him home to his master. The king and queen of
Corinth were childless, and some power moved them to take this
mysterious child as a gift. They called him Oedipus (Swollen-Foot)
because of the wounds they had found upon him, and, knowing naught of
his parentage, they reared him as their own son. So the years went by.
Now, when Oedipus had come to manhood, he went to consult the Oracle at
Delphi, as all great people were wont, to learn what fortune had in
store for him. But for him the Oracle had only a sentence of doom.
According to the Fates, he would live to kill his own father and wed
his mother.
Filled with dismay, and resolved in his turn to conquer fate, Oedipus
fled from Corinth; for he had never dreamed that his parents were other
than Polybus and Merope the queen. Thinking to escape crime, he took
the road towards Thebes, so hastening into the very arms of his evil
destiny.
It happened that King Laius, with one attendant, was on his way to
Delphi from the city Thebes. In a narrow road he met this strange young
man, also driving in a chariot, and ordered him to quit the way.
Oedipus, who had been reared to princely honors, refused to obey; and
the king's charioteer, in great anger, killed one of the young man's
horses. At this insult Oedipus fell upon master and servant; mad with
rage, he slew them both, and went on his way, not knowing the half of
what he had done. The first saying of the Oracle was fulfilled.
But the prince was to have his day of triumph before the doom. There
was a certain wonderful creature called the Sphinx, which had been a
terror to Thebes for many days. In form half woman and half lion, she
crouched always by a precipice near the highway, and put the same
mysterious question to every passer-by. None had ever been able to
answer, and none had ever lived to warn men of the riddle; for the
Sphinx fell upon every one as he failed, and hurled him down the abyss,
to be dashed in pieces.
This way came Oedipus towards the city Thebes, and the Sphinx crouched,
face to face with him, and spoke the riddle that none had been able to
guess.
"_What animal is that which in the morning goes on four feet, at noon
on two, and in the evening upon three?_"
Oedipus, hiding his dread of the terrible creature, took thought, and
answered "Man. In childhood he creeps on hands and knees, in manhood he
walks erect, but in old age he has need of a staff."
At this reply the Sphinx uttered a cry, sprang headlong from the rock
into the valley below, and perished. Oedipus had guessed the answer.
When he came to the city and told the Thebans that their torment was
gone, they hailed him as a deliverer. Not long after, they married him
with great honor to their widowed queen, Jocasta, his own mother. The
destiny was fulfilled.
For years Oedipus lived in peace, unwitting; but at length upon that
unhappy city there fell a great pestilence and famine. In his distress
the king sent to the Oracle at Delphi, to know what he or the Thebans
had done, that they should be so sorely punished. Then for the third
time the Oracle spoke his own fateful sentence; and he learned all.
Jocasta died, and Oedipus took the doom upon himself, and left Thebes.
Blinded by his own hand, he wandered away into the wilderness. Never
again did he rule over men; and he had one only comrade, his faithful
daughter Antigone. She was the truest happiness in his life of sorrow,
and she never left him till he died.
CUPID AND PSYCHE.
Once upon a time, through that Destiny that overrules the gods, Love
himself gave up his immortal heart to a mortal maiden. And thus it came
to pass.
There was a certain king who had three beautiful daughters. The two
elder married princes of great renown; but Psyche, the youngest, was so
radiantly fair that no suitor seemed worthy of her. People thronged to
see her pass through the city, and sang hymns in her praise, while
strangers took her for the very goddess of beauty herself.
This angered Venus, and she resolved to cast down her earthly rival.
One day, therefore, she called hither her son Love (Cupid, some name
him), and bade him sharpen his weapons. He is an archer more to be
dreaded than Apollo, for Apollo's arrows take life, but Love's bring
joy or sorrow for a whole life long.
"Come, Love," said Venus. "There is a mortal maid who robs me of my
honors in yonder city. Avenge your mother. Wound this precious Psyche,
and let her fall in love with some churlish creature mean in the eyes
of all men."
Cupid made ready his weapons, and flew down to earth invisibly. At that
moment Psyche was asleep in her chamber; but he touched her heart with
his golden arrow of love, and she opened her eyes so suddenly that he
started (forgetting that he was invisible), and wounded himself with
his own shaft.
Heedless of the hurt, moved only by the loveliness of the maiden, he
hastened to pour over her locks the healing joy that he ever kept by
him, undoing all his work. Back to her dream the princess went,
unshadowed by any thought of love. But Cupid, not so light of heart,
returned to the heavens, saying not a word of what had passed.
Venus waited long; then, seeing that Psyche's heart had somehow escaped
love, she sent a spell upon the maiden. From that time, lovely as she
was, not a suitor came to woo; and her parents, who desired to see her
a queen at least, made a journey to the Oracle, and asked counsel.
Said the voice: "The princess Psyche shall never wed a mortal. She
shall be given to one who waits for her on yonder mountain; he
overcomes gods and men."
At this terrible sentence the poor parents were half distraught, and
the people gave themselves up to grief at the fate in store for their
beloved princess. Psyche alone bowed to her destiny. "We have angered
Venus unwittingly," she said, "and all for sake of me, heedless maiden
that I am! Give me up, therefore, dear father and mother. If I atone,
it may be that the city will prosper once more."
So she besought them, until, after many unavailing denials, the parents
consented; and with a great company of people they led Psyche up the
mountain,--as an offering to the monster of whom the Oracle had
spoken,--and left her there alone.
Full of courage, yet in a secret agony of grief, she watched her
kindred and her people wind down the mountain-path, too sad to look
back, until they were lost to sight. Then, indeed, she wept, but a
sudden breeze drew near, dried her tears, and caressed her hair,
seeming to murmur comfort. In truth, it was Zephyr, the kindly West
Wind, come to befriend her; and as she took heart, feeling some
benignant presence, he lifted her in his arms, and carried her on wings
as even as a sea-gull's, over the crest of the fateful mountain and
into a valley below. There he left her, resting on a bank of hospitable
grass, and there the princess fell asleep.
When she awoke, it was near sunset. She looked about her for some sign
of the monster's approach; she wondered, then, if her grievous trial
had been but a dream. Near by she saw a sheltering forest, whose young
trees seemed to beckon as one maid beckons to another; and eager for
the protection of the dryads, she went thither.
The call of running waters drew her farther and farther, till she came
out upon an open place, where there was a wide pool. A fountain
fluttered gladly in the midst of it, and beyond there stretched a white
palace wonderful to see. Coaxed by the bright promise of the place, she
drew near, and, seeing no one, entered softly. It was all kinglier than
her father's home, and as she stood in wonder and awe, soft airs
stirred about her. Little by little the silence grew murmurous like the
woods, and one voice, sweeter than the rest, took words. "All that you
see is yours, gentle high princess," it said. "Fear nothing; only
command us, for we are here to serve you."
Full of amazement and delight, Psyche followed the voice from hall to
hall, and through the lordly rooms, beautiful with everything that
could delight a young princess. No pleasant thing was lacking. There
was even a pool, brightly tiled and fed with running waters, where she
bathed her weary limbs; and after she had put on the new and beautiful
raiment that lay ready for her, she sat down to break her fast, waited
upon and sung to by the unseen spirits.
Surely he whom the Oracle had called her husband was no monster, but
some beneficent power, invisible like all the rest. When daylight waned
he came, and his voice, the beautiful voice of a god, inspired her to
trust her strange destiny and to look and long for his return. Often
she begged him to stay with her through the day, that she might see his
face; but this he would not grant.
"Never doubt me, dearest Psyche," said he. "Perhaps you would fear if
you saw me, and love is all I ask. There is a necessity that keeps me
hidden now. Only believe."
So for many days Psyche was content; but when she grew used to
happiness, she thought once more of her parents mourning her as lost,
and of her sisters who shared the lot of mortals while she lived as a
goddess. One night she told her husband of these regrets, and begged
that her sisters at least might come to see her. He sighed, but did not
refuse.
"Zephyr shall bring them hither," said he. And on the following
morning, swift as a bird, the West Wind came over the crest of the high
mountain and down into the enchanted valley, bearing her two sisters.
They greeted Psyche with joy and amazement, hardly knowing how they had
come hither. But when this fairest of the sisters led them through her
palace and showed them all the treasures that were hers, envy grew in
their hearts and choked their old love. Even while they sat at feast
with her, they grew more and more bitter; and hoping to find some
little flaw in her good fortune, they asked a thousand questions.
"Where is your husband?" said they. "And why is he not here with you?"
"Ah," stammered Psyche. "All the day long--he is gone, hunting upon
the mountains."
"But what does he look like?" they asked; and Psyche could find no
answer.
When they learned that she had never seen him, they laughed her faith
to scorn.
"Poor Psyche," they said. "You are walking in a dream. Wake, before it
is too late. Have you forgotten what the Oracle decreed,--that you were
destined for a dreadful creature, the fear of gods and men? And are you
deceived by this show of kindliness? We have come to warn you. The
people told us, as we came over the mountain, that your husband is a
dragon, who feeds you well for the present, that he may feast the
better, some day soon. What is it that you trust? Good words! But only
take a dagger some night, and when the monster is asleep go, light a
lamp, and look at him. You can put him to death easily, and all his
riches will be yours--and ours."
Psyche heard this wicked plan with horror. Nevertheless, after her
sisters were gone, she brooded over what they had said, not seeing
their evil intent; and she came to find some wisdom in their words.
Little by little, suspicion ate, like a moth, into her lovely mind; and
at nightfall, in shame and fear, she hid a lamp and a dagger in her
chamber. Towards midnight, when her husband was fast asleep, up she
rose, hardly daring to breathe; and coming softly to his side, she
uncovered the lamp to see some horror.
But there the youngest of the gods lay sleeping,--most beautiful, most
irresistible of all immortals. His hair shone golden as the sun, his
face was radiant as dear Springtime, and from his shoulders sprang two
rainbow wings.
Poor Psyche was overcome with self-reproach. As she leaned towards him,
filled with worship, her trembling hands held the lamp ill, and some
burning oil fell upon Love's shoulder and awakened him.
He opened his eyes, to see at once his bride and the dark suspicion in
her heart.
"O doubting Psyche!" he exclaimed with sudden grief,--and then he flew
away, out of the window.
Wild with sorrow, Psyche tried to follow, but she fell to the ground
instead. When she recovered her senses, she stared about her. She was
alone, and the place was beautiful no longer. Garden and palace had
vanished with Love.
THE TRIAL OF PSYCHE.
Over mountains and valleys Psyche journeyed alone until she came to the
city where her two envious sisters lived with the princes whom they had
married. She stayed with them only long enough to tell the story of her
unbelief and its penalty. Then she set out again to search for Love.
As she wandered one day, travel-worn but not hopeless, she saw a lofty
palace on a hill near by, and she turned her steps thither. The place
seemed deserted. Within the hall she saw no human being,--only heaps of
grain, loose ears of corn half torn from the husk, wheat and barley,
alike scattered in confusion on the floor. Without delay, she set to
work binding the sheaves together and gathering the scattered ears of
corn in seemly wise, as a princess would wish to see them. While she
was in the midst of her task, a voice startled her, and she looked up
to behold Demeter herself, the goddess of the harvest, smiling upon her
with good will.
"Dear Psyche," said Demeter, "you are worthy of happiness, and you may
find it yet. But since you have displeased Venus, go to her and ask her
favor. Perhaps your patience will win her pardon."
These motherly words gave Psyche heart, and she reverently took leave
of the goddess and set out for the temple of Venus. Most humbly she
offered up her prayer, but Venus could not look at her earthly beauty
without anger.
"Vain girl," said she, "perhaps you have come to make amends for the
wound you dealt your husband; you shall do so. Such clever people can
always find work!"
Then she led Psyche into a great chamber heaped high with mingled
grain, beans, and lintels (the food of her doves), and bade her
separate them all and have them ready in seemly fashion by night.
Heracles would have been helpless before such a vexatious task; and
poor Psyche, left alone in this desert of grain, had not courage to
begin. But even as she sat there, a moving thread of black crawled
across the floor from a crevice in the wall; and bending nearer, she
saw that a great army of ants in columns had come to her aid. The
zealous little creatures worked in swarms, with such industry over the
work they like best, that, when Venus came at night, she found the task
completed.
"Deceitful girl," she cried, shaking the roses out of her hair with
impatience, "this is my son's work, not yours. But he will soon forget
you. Eat this black bread if you are hungry, and refresh your dull mind
with sleep. To-morrow you will need more wit."
Psyche wondered what new misfortune could be in store for her. But when
morning came, Venus led her to the brink of a river, and, pointing to
the wood across the water, said, "Go now to yonder grove where the
sheep with the golden fleece are wont to browse. Bring me a golden lock
from every one of them, or you must go your ways and never come back
again."
This seemed not difficult, and Psyche obediently bade the goddess
farewell, and stepped into the water, ready to wade across. But as
Venus disappeared, the reeds sang louder and the nymphs of the river,
looking up sweetly, blew bubbles to the surface and murmured: "Nay,
nay, have a care, Psyche. This flock has not the gentle ways of sheep.
While the sun burns aloft, they are themselves as fierce as flame; but
when the shadows are long, they go to rest and sleep, under the trees;
and you may cross the river without fear and pick the golden fleece off
the briers in the pasture."
Thanking the water-creatures, Psyche sat down to rest near them, and
when the time came, she crossed in safety and followed their counsel.
By twilight she returned to Venus with her arms full of shining fleece.
"No mortal wit did this," said Venus angrily. "But if you care to prove
your readiness, go now, with this little box, down to Proserpina and
ask her to enclose in it some of her beauty, for I have grown pale in
caring for my wounded son."
It needed not the last taunt to sadden Psyche. She knew that it was not
for mortals to go into Hades and return alive; and feeling that Love
had forsaken her, she was minded to accept her doom as soon as might
be.
But even as she hastened towards the descent, another friendly voice
detained her. "Stay, Psyche, I know your grief. Only give ear and you
shall learn a safe way through all these trials." And the voice went on
to tell her how one might avoid all the dangers of Hades and come out
unscathed. (But such a secret could not pass from mouth to mouth, with
the rest of the story.)
"And be sure," added the voice, "when Proserpina has returned the box,
not to open it, however much you may long to do so."
Psyche gave heed, and by this device, whatever it was, she found her
way into Hades safely, and made her errand known to Proserpina, and was
soon in the upper world again, wearied but hopeful.
"Surely Love has not forgotten me," she said. "But humbled as I am and
worn with toil, how shall I ever please him? Venus can never need all
the beauty in this casket; and since I use it for Love's sake, it must
be right to take some." So saying, she opened the box, heedless as
Pandora! The spells and potions of Hades are not for mortal maids, and
no sooner had she inhaled the strange aroma than she fell down like one
dead, quite overcome.
But it happened that Love himself was recovered from his wound, and he
had secretly fled from his chamber to seek out and rescue Psyche. He
found her lying by the wayside; he gathered into the casket what
remained of the philter, and awoke his beloved.
"Take comfort," he said, smiling. "Return to our mother and do her
bidding till I come again."
Away he flew; and while Psyche went cheerily homeward, he hastened up
to Olympus, where all the gods sat feasting, and begged them to
intercede for him with his angry mother.
They heard his story and their hearts were touched. Zeus himself coaxed
Venus with kind words till at last she relented, and remembered that
anger hurt her beauty, and smiled once more. All the younger gods were
for welcoming Psyche at once, and Hermes was sent to bring her hither.
The maiden came, a shy newcomer among those bright creatures. She took
the cup that Hebe held out to her, drank the divine ambrosia, and
became immortal.