she was running up and down the rooms as when she had played on the
sands with the sea-children. And King Pluto, sad and lonely, watched
her and wished that he too was a child, and when Proserpina turned and
saw the great King standing alone in his splendid hall, so grand and
so lonely, with no one to love him, she felt sorry for him. She ran
back and for the first time in all those six months she put her small
hand in his. "I love you a little," she whispered, looking up into his
face.
"Do you really, dear child?" cried Pluto, bending down his dark face
to kiss her. But Proserpina was a little afraid, he was so dark and
severe-looking, and she shrank back.
"Well," said Pluto, "it is just what I deserve after keeping you
a prisoner all these months, and starving you besides. Are you not
dreadfully hungry, is there nothing I can get you to eat?"
In asking this Pluto was very cunning, as you will remember that if
Proserpina once tasted any food in his kingdom, she would never again
be able to go home.
"No, indeed," said Proserpina. "Your poor fat little cook is always
making me all kinds of good things which I do not want. The one thing
I should like to eat would be a slice of bread baked by my own mother,
and a pear out of her garden."
When Pluto heard this he began to see that he had made a mistake in
his way of trying to tempt Proserpina to eat. He wondered why he had
never thought of this before, and he at once sent a servant with a
large basket to get some of the finest and juiciest pears in the whole
world.
But this was just at the time when, as we know, Mother Ceres in her
despair had forbidden any flowers or fruit to grow on the earth, and
the only thing King Pluto's servant could find, after seeking all
over the world was a single dried-up pomegranate, so dried up as to
be hardly worth eating. Still, since there was no better to be had, he
brought it back to the palace, put it on a magnificent gold plate, and
carried it to Proserpina.
Now it just happened that as the servant was bringing the pomegranate
in at the back door of the palace, Mercury had gone up to the front
steps with his message to King Pluto about Proserpina.
As soon as Proserpina saw the pomegranate on the golden plate, she
told the servant to take it away again. "I shall not touch it, I can
assure you," she said. "If I were ever so hungry, I should not think
of eating such a dried-up miserable pomegranate as that."
"It is the only one in the world," said the servant, and he set down
the plate and went away.
When he had gone, Proserpina could not help coming close to the table
and looking at the dried-up pomegranate with eagerness. To tell the
truth, when she saw something that really suited her taste, she felt
all her six months' hunger come back at once.
To be sure it was a very poor-looking pomegranate, with no more juice
in it than in an oyster-shell. But there was no choice of such things
in King Pluto's palace, and this was the first fresh fruit Proserpina
had ever seen there, and the last she was ever likely to see, and
unless she ate it up at once, it would only get drier and drier and be
quite unfit to eat.
"At least I may smell it," she thought, so she took up the pomegranate
and held it to her nose, and somehow, being quite near to her mouth,
the fruit found its way into that little red cave.
Before Proserpina knew what she was about, her teeth had actually
bitten it of their own accord.
Just as this fatal deed was done, the door of the hall opened and King
Pluto came in, followed by Mercury, who had been begging him to let
his little prisoner go.
At the first noise of their coming, Proserpina took the pomegranate
from her mouth.
Mercury, who saw things very quickly, noticed that Proserpina looked
a little uncomfortable, and when he saw the gold plate empty, he was
sure she had been eating something.
As for King Pluto, he never guessed the secret.
"My dear little Proserpina," said the King, sitting down and drawing
her gently between his knees, "here is Mercury, who tells me that a
great many sad things have happened to innocent people because I have
kept you a prisoner down here. And to confess the truth I have been
thinking myself that I really had no right to take you away from your
mother. It was very stupid of me, but I thought this palace was so
dull, and that I should be much happier if I just had a merry little
girl to play in it, and I hoped you would take my crown for a toy and
let me be your playmate. It was very foolish of me, I know."
"No, it was not foolish," said Proserpina, "you have been very kind to
me, and I have often been quite happy here with you."
"Thank you, dear," said King Pluto, "but I cannot help seeing that you
think my palace a dark prison and me the hard-hearted jailor, and I
should, indeed, be hard-hearted if I were to keep you longer than six
months. So I give you your liberty. Go back, dear, with Mercury, to
your mother."
Now, although you might not think so, Proserpina found it impossible
to say good-by to King Pluto without being sorry, and she felt she
ought to tell him about tasting the pomegranate. She even cried a
little when she thought how lonely and dull the great palace with its
jeweled lamps would be after she had left.
She would like to have thanked him many times, but Mercury hurried
her away. "Come along quickly," he said, "as King Pluto may change his
mind, and take care above all things that you say nothing about the
pomegranate which the servant brought you on the gold plate."
In a short time they had passed the great gateway with the golden
pillars, leaving Cerberus barking and growling with all his three
heads at once, and beating his dragon tail on the ground. Along the
dark, rocky road they went very quickly, and soon they reached the
upper world again.
You can guess how excited and happy Proserpina was to see the bright
sunshine. She noticed how green the grass grew on the path behind and
on each side of her. Wherever she set her foot at once there rose a
flower: violets and roses bloomed along the wayside; the grass and the
corn began to grow with ten times their usual quickness to make up for
the dreary months when Mother Ceres had forbidden them to appear above
ground.
The hungry cattle began to eat, and went on eating all day after their
long fast. And, I can assure you, it was a busy time with all the
farmers when they found that summer was coming with a rush.
As to the birds, they hopped about from tree to tree among the fresh,
sweet blossoms, and sang for joy that the dreary days were over and
the world was green and young again.
Mother Ceres had gone back to her empty cottage, and was sitting very
sadly on the doorstep with her burning torch in her hand. She had been
looking wearily at the flame for some moments, when all at once it
flickered and went out.
"What does this mean?" she thought. "It was a magic torch, and should
have gone on burning till Proserpina was found."
She looked up, and was surprised to see the bare brown fields suddenly
turning green, just as you sometimes see them turn golden when the sun
comes from behind a dark cloud.
"Does the Earth dare to disobey me?" exclaimed Mother Ceres angrily.
"Did I not forbid it to be green until my child should be sent back to
me?"
"Then open your arms, mother dear," cried a well-known voice, "and
take me back again." And Proserpina came running along the pathway and
flung herself on her mother's bosom.
It would be impossible to tell how happy they were; so happy that they
cried a little, for people cry when they are very glad as well as when
they are unhappy.
After a little while Mother Ceres looked anxiously at Proserpina.
"My child," she said, "did you taste any food while you were in King
Pluto's palace?"
"Dearest mother," answered Proserpina, "I will tell you the whole
truth. Until this morning not a morsel of food had passed my lips.
But a servant brought me a pomegranate on a golden-plate, a very dry
pomegranate, with no juice inside, nothing but seeds and skin; and I
was so hungry, and had not tasted any food for such a long time, that
I took just one bite. The moment I tasted it King Pluto and Mercury
came into the room. I had not swallowed a morsel, but O mother! I
hope it was no harm, six pomegranate seeds remained in my mouth and I
swallowed them."
"O miserable me!" said Mother Ceres. "For each of these six
pomegranate seeds you must spend a month every year in King Pluto's
palace. You are only half restored to me; you will be six months with
me and then six months with the King of Darkness!"
"Do not be so vexed, mother dear," said Proserpina. "It was very
unkind of King Pluto to carry me off, but then, as he says, it was
such a dismal life for him to lead in that great palace all alone: and
he says he has been much happier since he had me to run about the big
rooms and to play beside him. If only he will let me spend six months
every year with you, I think I can bear to spend the other six months
beside him. After all, he was as kind as he knew how to be, but I am
very glad he cannot keep me the whole year round."
THE STORY OF ATALANTA
ADAPTED BY ANNA KLINGENSMITH
Atalanta was a maiden whose face you might truly say was boyish for a
girl, yet too girlish for a boy. Her fortune had been told, and it was
to this effect: "Atalanta, do not marry; marriage will be your ruin."
Terrified by this oracle, she fled the society of men, and devoted
herself to the sports of the chase. To all suitors (for she had many)
she imposed a condition which was generally effectual in relieving her
of their persecutions, "I will be the prize of him who shall conquer
me in the race; but death must be the penalty of all who try and
fail." In spite of this hard condition some would try. Hippomenes was
to be judge of the race. "Can it be possible that any will be so rash
as to risk so much for a wife?" said he. But when he saw her ravishing
beauty as she prepared for the race, he changed his mind, and said,
"Pardon me, youths, I knew not the prize you were competing for." As
he surveyed them he wished them all to be beaten, and swelled with
envy of anyone that seemed at all likely to win. While such were
his thoughts, the virgin darted forward. As she ran she looked more
beautiful than ever. The breezes seemed to give wings to her feet;
her hair flew over her shoulders, and the gay fringe of her garment
fluttered behind her. A ruddy hue tinged the whiteness of her skin,
such as a crimson curtain casts on a marble wall. All her competitors
were distanced, and were put to death without mercy. Hippomenes, not
daunted by this result, fixing his eyes on the virgin, said, "Why
boast of beating those laggards? I offer myself for the contest."
Atalanta looked at him with a pitying countenance, and hardly knew
whether she would rather conquer him or not. "What god can tempt one
so young and handsome to throw himself away? I pity him, not for his
beauty (yet he is beautiful), but for his youth. I wish he would give
up the race, or if he will be so mad, I hope he may outrun me." While
she hesitates, revolving these thoughts, the spectators grow impatient
for the race, and her father prompts her to prepare. Then Hippomenes
addressed a prayer to Venus: "Help me, Venus, for you have led me on."
Venus heard and was propitious.
In the garden of her temple, in her own island of Cyprus, is a tree
with yellow leaves and yellow branches and golden fruit. Hence she
gathered three golden apples, and, unseen by any one else, gave them
to Hippomenes, and told him how to use them. The signal is given; each
starts from the goal and skims over the sand. So light their tread,
you would almost have thought they might run over the river surface
or over the waving grain without sinking. The cries of the spectators
cheered Hippomenes,--"Now, now, do your best! haste, haste! you gain
on her! relax not! one more effort!" It was doubtful whether the youth
or the maiden heard these cries with the greater pleasure. But his
breath began to fail him, his throat was dry, the goal yet far off. At
that moment he threw down one of the golden apples. The virgin was all
amazement. She stopped to pick it up. Hippomenes shot ahead. Shouts
burst forth from all sides. She redoubled her efforts, and soon
overtook him. Again he threw an apple. She stopped again, but again
came up with him. The goal was near; one chance only remained. "Now,
goddess," said he, "prosper your gift!" and threw the last apple off
at one side. She looked at it, and hesitated; Venus impelled her to
turn aside for it. She did so, and was vanquished. The youth carried
off his prize.
PYRAMUS AND THISBE
ADAPTED BY ALICE ZIMMERN
In Babylon, the great and wonderful city on the Euphrates, there lived
in two adjoining houses a youth and a maiden named Pyramus and Thisbe.
Hardly a day passed without their meeting, and at last they came to
know and love one another. But when Pyramus sought Thisbe in marriage,
the parents would not hear of it, and even forbade the lovers to meet
or speak to each other any more. But though they could no longer be
openly together, they saw each other at a distance and sent messages
by signs and tokens.
One day to their great delight they discovered a tiny crack in the
wall between the two houses, through which they could hear each other
speak. But a few words whispered through a chink in the wall could not
satisfy two ardent lovers, and they tried to arrange a meeting. They
would slip away one night unnoticed and meet somewhere outside the
city. A spot near the tomb of Ninus was chosen, where a mulberry tree
grew near a pleasant spring of water.
At nightfall Thisbe put on a thick veil, slipped out of the house
unobserved and made her way in haste to the city gates. She was first
at the trysting-place and sat down under the tree to wait for her
lover. A strange noise made her look up, and she saw by the clear
moonlight a lioness with bloody jaws coming to drink at the spring.
Thisbe sprang up, and dropping her cloak in her haste ran to hide
herself in a neighboring cave. The lioness, who had already eaten,
did not care to pursue her, but finding the cloak lying on the ground,
pulled it to bits and left the marks of blood on the torn mantle. Now
Pyramus in his turn came to the place and found no Thisbe, but only
her torn and bloodstained cloak. "Surely," he thought, "some beast
must have devoured her, for here lies her cloak, all mangled and
bloodstained. Alas, that I came too late! Her love for me led Thisbe
to brave the perils of night and danger, and I was not here to protect
and save her. She dies a victim to her love, but she shall not perish
alone. One same night will see the end of both lovers. Come, ye lions,
and devour me too, 'tis my one prayer. Yet 'tis a coward's part to
pray for death when his own hands can give it."
With these words he drew Thisbe's cloak towards him, and covered it
with kisses. "My blood too shall stain you," he cried, and plunged his
sword with true aim in his breast. The blood spouted forth as from a
fountain and stained the white fruit of the mulberry overhead.
While Pyramus lay dying under the tree, Thisbe had recovered from her
fright, and now stole forth from her hiding-place, hoping that her
lover might be at hand. What was her dismay when she saw Pyramus
stretched lifeless on the ground. Kneeling down beside him, she washed
his wound with her tears, and kissed his cold lips, calling on him in
vain to speak. "Speak to me, Pyramus," she cried, "'tis your beloved
Thisbe that calls."
At the sound of her voice Pyramus opened his failing eyes, and gave
his love one last look, then he closed them for ever. When Thisbe saw
her own cloak and the empty sheath, she guessed that, thinking her
dead, he had sought death himself.
"'Twas by your own hand you fell," she cried, "a victim to love, and
love will give my hand strength to do the like. Since those who were
parted in life are united in death, perhaps our sorrowing parents will
grant us the boon of a common tomb. May we rest side by side, even as
we have fallen, and may this tree, which has witnessed our despair and
our death, bear the traces for evermore. Let its fruit be clothed in
mourning garb for the death of two hapless lovers."
With these words she threw herself on the sword of Pyramus. Her last
prayer was granted, for one urn held the ashes of the faithful pair.
And since that night the mulberry tree bears purple fruit to recall to
all generations of lovers the cruel fate of Pyramus and Thisbe.
ORPHEUS
ADAPTED BY ALICE ZIMMERN
Orpheus, the Thracian singer, was the most famous of all the musicians
of Greece. Apollo himself had given him his golden harp, and on it he
played music of such wondrous power and beauty that rocks, trees
and beasts would follow to hear him. Jason had persuaded Orpheus
to accompany the Argonauts when they went to fetch back the golden
fleece, for he knew that the perils of the way would be lightened by
song. To the sound of his lyre the Argo had floated down to the sea,
and he played so sweetly when they passed the rocks of the Sirens that
the dreadful monsters sang their most alluring strains in vain.
Orpheus wedded the fair nymph Eurydice, whom he loved dearly, and who
returned his love. But at their marriage the omens were not favorable.
Hymen, the marriage god, came to it with a gloomy countenance and the
wedding torches smoked and would not give forth a cheerful flame.
Indeed the happiness of Orpheus and Eurydice was to be but
short-lived. For as the new-made bride wandered through the woods with
the other nymphs a poisonous serpent stung her heel, and no remedy
availed to save her. Orpheus was thrown into most passionate grief at
his wife's death. He could not believe that he had lost her for ever,
but prayed day and night without ceasing to the gods above to restore
her to him. When they would not listen, he resolved to make one last
effort to win her back. He would go down to the Lower World and seek
her among the dead, and try whether any prayer or persuasion could
move Pluto to restore his beloved.
Near Tænarum, in Laconia, was a cave among dark and gloomy rocks,
through which led one of the entrances to the Lower World. This
was the road by which Hercules descended when he went to carry off
Cerberus, the three-headed dog that guards the threshold of Pluto.
Undaunted by the terrors of the place, Orpheus passed through this
gate and down a dark and dismal road to the kingdom of the dead. Here
he came in safety through the crowd of ghosts and phantoms, and stood
at last before the throne of Pluto and Proserpina. Then he touched the
chords of his lyre and chanted these words:
"Great lords of the world below the earth, to which all we mortals
must one day come, grant me to tell a simple tale and declare unto
you the truth. Not to look upon the blackness of Tartarus have I come
hither, nor yet to bind in chains the snaky heads on Cerberus. It is
my wife I seek. A viper's sting has robbed her of the years that were
her due. I should have borne my loss, indeed I tried to bear it, but I
was overcome by Love, a god well known in the world above, and I think
not without honor in your kingdom, unless the story of Proserpina's
theft be a lying tale. I beseech you, by the realms of the dead, by
mighty Chaos and the silence of your vast kingdom, revoke the untimely
doom of Eurydice. All our lives are forfeit to you. 'Tis but a short
delay, and late or soon we all hasten towards one goal. Hither all our
footsteps tend. This is our last home, yours is the sole enduring rule
over mankind. She too, when she shall have lived her allotted term of
years, will surely come under your sway. Till then, I implore you,
let her be mine. But if the Fates refuse a husband's prayers, I am
resolved never to return hence. My death shall give you a double
boon."
[Illustration: ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.]
Thus he prayed and touched his harp in tune with his words. All around
him the lifeless ghosts came flocking, and as they heard they wept.
Tantalus forgot his hunger and thirst. Ixion's wheel stood still, the
Danaids set aside their leaky urns and Sisyphus sat on his stone to
listen. Never yet had such sweet strains been heard in the world of
gloom. Then, for the first time, tears moistened the cheeks of the
Furies, and even the king and queen of the dead were moved to pity.
They summoned Eurydice, and she came, yet halting from her recent
wound.
"Take her," says Pluto, "and lead her back to the light. But she must
follow you at a distance, nor must you once turn round to look upon
her till you have passed beyond these realms. Else the boon we grant
you will be but vain."
A steep path led upward from the realm of darkness, and the way was
hard to find through the gloom. In silence Orpheus led on, till the
goal was close at hand and the welcoming light of the upper air began
to penetrate the darkness. Then a sudden fear struck his heart. Had
Eurydice really followed his steps, or had she turned back, and was
all his toil in vain? Tom with anxiety and longing, he turned to gaze
on his beloved. Dimly he saw her, but for the last time, for a power
she could not resist drew her back. Orpheus stretched out his arms and
tried to seize her, but he only clasped the empty air. "Farewell, a
last farewell," she murmured, and vanished from his sight.
In vain Orpheus tried to follow her, in vain he besought Charon to
carry him a second time across the waters of Acheron. Seven days he
sat on the further bank without food or drink, nourished by his tears
and grief. Then at last he knew that the gods below were pitiless; and
full of sorrow he returned to the upper earth.
For three years he wandered among the mountains of Thrace, finding his
only consolation in the music of his lyre, for he shunned all men and
women and would have no bride after Eurydice.
One day he sat down to rest on a grassy hill in the sunshine, and
played and sang to beguile his sorrow. As he played, the coolness of
shady branches seemed all about him, and looking up he found himself
in the midst of a wood. Oak, poplar, lime, beech, laurel, ash, pine,
plane and maple and many another tree had gathered together here,
drawn from their distant forest homes by the sounds of Orpheus's lyre.
Yes, and the beasts and the birds of the field came too, and Orpheus
sat in their midst and sang and played the tunes of sorrow.
Suddenly a great noise was heard of laughter and shouting and
merry-making. For this was one of the feasts of Bacchus, and the women
were celebrating his rites, wandering over the mountains with dance
and revel. When they saw Orpheus they set up a shout of derision.
"See," they cried, "the wretched singer who mocks at women and will
have no bride but the dead. Come, let us kill him, and show that no
man shall despise us unpunished."
With these words they began to throw wands and stones at him, but even
the lifeless objects were softened by the music, and fell harmlessly
to the ground. Then the women raised a wild shout and made such a
clamor with trumpets and cymbals, that the soft tones of the harp were
drowned by the noise. Now at last the shots took effect, and in their
fury the women fell upon him, dealing blow on blow. Orpheus fell
lifeless to the ground.
But he was not to die unwept. The little birds of the forest mourned
for him, even the stony rocks wept, the trees shed their leaves with
grief, and the dryads and naiads tore their hair and put on the garb
of sorrow. Only the pitiless revelers knew no remorse. They seized the
singer's head and threw it with his lyre into the river Hebrus. There
it floated down stream and, strange to tell, the chords gave forth a
lament, and the lifeless tongue uttered words. "Eurydice, Eurydice,"
it cried, till head and lyre were carried down to the sea, and on
to Lesbos, the isle of sweet song, where in after years Alcaeus and
Sappho tuned afresh the lyre of Orpheus.
But the shade of the dead singer went down to Hades, and found
entrance at last. Thus Orpheus and Eurydice were re-united, and won in
death the bliss that was denied them in life.
MYTHS OF SCANDINAVIA
BALDUR
ADAPTED FROM A, AND E. KEARY'S VERSION
I
THE DREAM
Upon a summer's afternoon it happened that Baldur the Bright and Bold,
beloved of men and the gods, found himself alone in his palace of
Broadblink. Thor was walking among the valleys, his brow heavy
with summer heat; Frey and Gerda sported on still waters in their
cloud-leaf ship; Odin, for once, slept on the top of Air Throne; a
noon-day stillness pervaded the whole earth; and Baldur in Broadblink,
most sunlit of palaces, dreamed a dream.