A BOOK OF MYTHS
BY JEAN LANG
PSYCHE
(Abridged)
Once upon a time, a king and queen had three beautiful
daughters. The first and the second were fair indeed, but the beauty of the
youngest was such that all the people of the land worshipped it as a thing sent
straight from Olympus. They awaited her outside the royal palace, and when she
came, they threw chaplets of roses and violets for her little feet to tread
upon, and sang hymns of praise as though she were no mortal maiden but a
daughter of the deathless gods.
There were many who said that the beauty of Aphrodite herself
was less perfect than the beauty of Psyche, the youngest daughter, and when the
goddéss found that men were forsaking her altars in order to worship a mortal
maiden, great was her wrath against them and against the princess.
In her garden, sitting amongst the flowers and idly watching
his mother’ s fair white doves as they preened their snowy feathers in the sun,
Aphrodite and angrily poured forth to her son Eros the story of her shame. “You
must avenge your mother’s honour. You have the power of making the loves of men.
Stab with one of your arrows the heart of this presumptuous maiden, and shame
her before all other mortals by making her love a monster from which all others
shrink and which all despise.”
This was a game after Eros’s own heart. In the garden of
Aphrodite there is a fountain of sweet, another of bitter water, and Eros
filled two amber vases, one from each fountain, hung them from his quiver, and
went. In her chamber, Psyche lay fast asleep. Eros sprinkled some of the bitter
drops upon her lips, and then, with one of his sharpest arrows, pricked her
snowy breast. Like a child who half awakes in fear, and looks up with puzzled, wondering
eyes, Psyche opened eyes and gazed at Eros. He knew that he was invisible, and
yet her gaze made him tremble. He said to himself, ‘Not even my mother is as
fair as this princess.’
For a moment her eyelids quivered, and then dropped. Her long
dark lashes fell on her pink cheeks, her red mouth smiled happily, and Psyche
slept again. Eros gazed upon her perfect loveliness. He wiped away the red drop
where his arrow had wounded her, and then stooped and touched her lips with his
own. Psyche in her dreams thought that they had been brushed by a butterfly’s
wings. Yet in her sleep she moved, and Eros, starting back, pricked himself
with one of his arrows. And with that prick, for Eros there passed away all the
careless ease of the heart of a boy, and he knew that he loved Psyche with the
unquenchable love of a deathless god. Now, with bitter regret, all his desire
was to undo the wrong he had done to the one that he loved. Speedily he
sprinkled her with the sweet water that brings joy, and when Psyche rose from
her couch she was radiant with the beauty that comes from a new, undreamed-of
happiness.
From place to place Love (Eros) followed her that day. Eros
decided that no one but he should have her. He would get from Father Jove the
boon that she should never die, he thought.
Meantime it came to be known all over that Aphrodite had declared
herself the enemy of the princess. Therefore, none dared seek her in marriage. Although
many a noble youth sighed away his heart for love of her, she remained in her
father’ s palace like an exquisite rose whose thorns made people fear to pluck
it from the parent stem.
Her sisters married, and her father marvelled why the most beautiful
of his three daughters should remain unwed. At length, an embassy was sent by
the king to the oracle of Apollo to inquire what might be the will of the
dwellers on Olympus concerning his fairest daughter. The ambassadors returned
with the message of the oracle: “For bridegroom Psyche shall have a monster that
neither man nor god can resist. On the mountain top he awaits her coming. Woe
unutterable shall come to the king and to all the dwellers in his land if he
dares to resist the unalterable dictum of the deathless gods.”
Only for a little while did the wretched king strive to resist the decrees of fate. In her chamber, Psyche sat
sobbing pitifully for the shameful, hideous fate that the gods had dealt her. Psyche
faced the horror for the sake of her father and of his people, that she knew
she could not avoid. When morning came, her sorrowful handmaids came to deck
her in all the bridal magnificence that befitted the most beautiful daughter of
a king. There started up the mountain a procession at sight of which the gods
themselves must have wept. With bowed heads the king and queen walked before
the litter upon which lay their daughter in her marriage veil. Minstrels played
wedding hymns.
At length they reached the rocky place where they knew they
must leave the victim bride, and her father dared not meet her eyes as he
turned his head to go. Yet Psyche watched the procession wending its way downhill.
No more tears had she to shed, and it seemed to her that what she saw was not a
wedding throng, but an assembly of broken-hearted people who went back to their
homes with heavy feet after burying one that they loved.
She saw no sign of the monster who was to be her bridegroom,
yet at every little sound her heart grew sick with horror, and when the night
wind swept through the craggy peaks and its moans were echoed. Yet, had Psyche
known it, the wind was her friend.
For Eros had used Zephyrus as his trusty messenger and sent
him to the mountain top to find his bride. With all the gentleness of a loving
nurse to a tired little child, Zephyrus lifted Psyche, and sped with her to the
golden palace of Eros.
Psyche slept, and when she awoke, her eyes looked round to
find the barren rocks, the utter forsakenness, the coming of an unnameable
horror. But, she saw only fair groves with trees bedecked with fruit and
blossom, fragrant meadows, flowers whose beauty made her eyes grow glad. From
the trees birds sang sweeter songs than any she had heard before. There was a noble
palace, golden fronted, and with arcades of stainless marble. Almost holding
her breath, she walked forward to the open golden doors. It is a trap, she
thought. She heard a mysterious voice, “Fear not. Doubt not. No evil shall come
to you—only the bliss of loving and of being loved.”
Psyche lost her fear and entered the golden doors. She found inside
all beautiful and perfect things for which she had ever longed. She found a banquet
ready spread for her, with all the dainties she liked best; as she ate, music
rejoiced her ears. Psyche knew that, monster or not, she was beloved by one who
had thought for her every thought, and who desired only her desire.
Night came at last, and when all was dark and still, Eros softly
entered the palace that was his own. He found Psyche lying with violet eyes,
trembling before something that brought her dread. His voice was as the voice
of spring when it breathes on the sleeping earth; he knew each note in Love’ s music.
Love loved, and Psyche listened, and soon she knew that her lover was Love
himself.
Psyche had a time of perfect happiness. All through the day
she roamed in her Love’s dominion. All through the night he stayed by her, and
satisfied all the longing of her heart. Eros left her at dawn. When she begged him
to stay, he answered, “I am with you only while I keep my visage hidden; if you
see my face, I must forsake you. Gods link Love with Faith. Love withdraws
himself from the full gaze of knowledge.”
Psyche grew more in love with Love. Yet, ever and again, she
recalled those sorrowful days when her father and mother had broken their
hearts over her martyrdom, and her sisters had looked askance at her as at one
whose punishment must assuredly have come from her own misdoing. At length she asked
Eros to permit her sisters come to see for them selves her happiness. Most
unwillingly Eros granted her request but warned that from their visit no good
could come. Zephyrus was sent to bring the two sisters.
When the two sisters came, they were bewildered with the
beauty and the magnificence of it all. Beside this, their own possessions were
paltry trifles indeed. Envy grew in their hearts. They had always been jealous
of their younger sister, and now that they found her, whom all the world
believed to have been slain by a horrible monster, more beautiful than ever,
decked with rare jewels, radiant in her happiness, and queen of a palace fit
for the gods, their envy soon turned to hatred, and they sought how best to
wreak their malice upon the joyous creature who loaded them with priceless
gifts.
They asked Psyche where her lord was and why he was away when
they were visiting, whether he was fair or dark, young or old. Psyche was
bewildered and answered in frightened words that contradicted one another. The
wicked sisters knew that her husband must indeed be one of the deathless gods.
They said to her, “Don’t you think to escape the evil fate the gods meted out
for you? Your husband is none other than the monster of which the oracle spoke.
It would mean too great horror for you to see the loathsome thing. That is why
it hides from you during the day.”
Trembling, Psyche listened. Drop by drop the poisonous words
passed into her soul. She had thought him king of all living things— worthy to rule
over gods as well as men. She was so sure that his body was worthy sheath for
the heart she knew so well. She had pictured him beautiful as Eros, son of
Aphrodite—young and fair, with crisp, golden locks— a husband to glory in—a
lover to adore. And now she knew, with shame and dread, that he who had won her
love between the twilight and the dawn was a thing to shame her, a monster to
be shunned of men.
“What, then, shall I do?” piteously she asked of her sisters.
They said, “Provide yourself with a lamp and a knife sharp enough
to slay the man or monster. When he sleeps soundly, look upon him in all his
horror. Then, swiftly slay him.”
Psyche made answer, “I love him so! I love him so!”
Her sisters turned upon her with furious scorn and said, “Shameless
one! Only by slaying the monster can you hope to regain your place amongst the
daughters of men.”
They left her, carrying with them their royal gifts.
While she awaited the coming of her lord, Psyche crouched with
her head in her hands, with knife and lamp. Eros came back to her in a happy
frame of mind and did not note her silence. He wanted only to hold her safely
in his arms. She lay passive and still, until sleep overcame him. Then, very
gently she withdrew herself from his embrace, and brought the lamp to the couch.
Her arm trembled as she held it aloft. When the yellow light fell upon Eros,
she gazed steadily. She saw him perfect in beauty and she gazed upon his
beauty. Then he turned in his sleep, and smiled, and stretched out his arms to
find the one of his love. Psyche started, and, starting, shook the lamp; from
it a drop of burning oil fell on the white shoulder of Eros. At once he awoke,
and with piteous, pitying eyes looked in those of Psyche. When he spoke, his
words were like daggers that pierced deep into her soul. He told her all that
had been, all that might have been. Had she only had faith and patience to
wait, an immortal life should have been hers. He bid her farewell and left her
alone in despair.
When day came at last, she felt she could no longer endure to
stay in the palace where everything spoke to her of the in finite tenderness of
a lost love. Weary and chill, she wandered away until she stood on the bank of
a swift-flowing river. “I have lost my Love,” she moaned. “What is Life to me
any longer? Come to me then, 0 Death.”
So then she sprang into the wan water, hoping that very
swiftly it might bear her grief-worn soul down to the shades. But the river bore
her up and carried her to its shallows in a fair meadow where Pan himself sat on
the bank and merrily dabbled his feet in the flowing water. When Psyche, shamed
and wet, looked at him with sad eyes, the god spoke to her gently and chid her
for her folly. She was too young and much too fair to try to end her life so
rudely, he said. The river gods would never be so unkind as to drive so
beautiful a maiden in rough haste down to the Cocytus valley.
Psyche, knowing that in truth the gods had spared her to
endure more sorrow, looked in his face with a very piteous gaze, and wandered
on. Her feet had led her near the place where her two sisters dwelt.
She wanted to tell them of her plight and thought that they
would feel sorrow. But, they saw gladly the stricken form of Psyche and drove
her from their palace doors.
When Psyche had gone, the elder sister stood when Zephyrus
bore Psyche to the palace of Eros. She felt certain that she would now be
chosen in the place of Psyche. She held out her arms, and calling aloud to Zephyrus
she sprang from the high cliff on which she stood, into space. The ravens
feasted on her shattered body that night. The younger sister also tried in vain
and perished.
For many a weary day and night, Psyche wandered from temple
to temple until at length in Cyprus she came to the place where Aphrodite
herself had her dwelling. Psyche sought the presence of the goddess who was her
enemy, and humbly begged her to take her life away. With flaming scorn and
anger Aphrodite received her. She said, “O thou fool, I will not let you die. But
you shalt be my slave and slog under
me.”
Psyche had a time of torturing misery. In uncountable
quantity and mingled in inextricable and bewildering confusion, there lay in
the granary of the goddess grains of barley and of wheat, peas and millet,
poppy and coriander seed. To sort out each kind and lay them in heaps was the
task allotted for one day. Psyche could sort out by nightfall only a few very
tiny piles. At night she saw unending processions of ants. They swiftly did for
Psyche what she herself had failed to do. The grains were all piled up in high
heaps, and the sad heart of Psyche knew not only thankful relief, but had a
thrill of gladness.
“Eros sent them to me. Even yet his love for me is not dead,”
she thought. What she thought was true.
Amazed and angry, Aphrodite looked at the task she had deemed
impossible, well and swiftly performed. She said to her new slave, “On the
other side of that glittering stream, my golden-fleeced sheep crop the sweet
flowers of the meadow. Today you must cross the river and bring me back by
evening a sample of wool pulled from each one of their shining fleeces.”
Psyche went down to the brink of the river. Even as her white
feet splashed into the water, she heard a whisper of warning from the reeds
that bowed their heads by the stream, “Beware! O Psyche, stay on the shore and
rest until the sheep lie under the shade of the trees in the evening and the
murmur of the river has lulled them to sleep. While they sleep, you can gather
their wool from the bushes and from the trunks of the trees.”
The heart of Psyche felt a thrill of happiness, because she
knew that she was loved and cared for still. When the sun had set, she waded to
the further shore and gathered the golden wool. When in the evening she came to
the goddess, bearing her shining load, the brow of Aphrodite grew dark. She
said, “If you are so skilled in magic I shall give you that is worthy of thy
skill.” She laid upon Psyche her fresh commands.
Psyche set out next morning to seek the black stream out of
which Aphrodite had commanded her to fill a ewer. Part of its waters flowed
into the Styx, part into the Cocytus, and Psyche knew that a hideous death from
the loathly creatures that protected the fountain must be the fate of those who
risked such an attempt. Once again, there came to her a message of love. Over
her head the bird of Jove flew and asked her why she wept, and when he knew, he
offered to fill her ewer with the water. He said, “When you come unto you
majesty, remember me.” Psyche was gladdened.
When at nightfall, she came with her ewer full of water from
the dread stream and gave it to Aphrodite, although she knew that a yet more arduous
task was sure to follow, her fear had all passed away.
Aphrodite told her that she must seek that dark valley on the
black waters of Cocytus and of the Styx; from Prosperine, she was to ask for
the gift of a box of magical ointment, the secret of which was known to the
Queen of Darkness alone, and which was able to bring to those who used it,
beauty more exquisite than any that the eyes of gods or of men had as yet
looked upon. Aphrodite said, “My son was wounded by a faithless slave, and in
tending to his wound, my beauty has faded.”
“In helping his mother, I shall help him,” Psyche thought. She
took her way along the weary road that leads to that dark place from where no
traveller can ever hope to return. But, cold thoughts and dreadful fears came
to her. When she came to an old grey tower,
she resolved to throw herself down from it, and end her life. A voice
spoke in her ear, “Why do you strive to stay the hope that is not dead?” It told
her by what means she might speedily reach Hades and there find means to face
with courage the King of Darkness himself and his fair wife, Proserpine. Psyche
followed the advice and reached the throne of Proserpine. Proserpine gave her the
box of precious ointment that Aphrodite described. Psyche turned gladly homeward. When she reached
the fair light of day, she thought, “This ointment that I carry will bring back
a beauty greater than any before. For my beauty, Eros loved me. Now my beauty
is worn and well-nigh gone. If I open this box and make use of the ointment, I should be fair enough to be the bride of
Eros whose love is my life.”
She opened the fateful box. But, out of it there came not
Beauty, but Sleep. Psyche sank down by the wayside, the prisoner of Sleep.
Eros, who had loved her ever, rose from his bed and went in
search of her. By the wayside he found her, fettered by sleep. As Eros looked
at her, pity stirred his heart. It did not matter to him whether her body was
like a rose in June or as a wind-scourged tree in December. As his lips met
hers, Psyche awoke, and heard his soft whisper.
Wings of silver and of gold sprang from the shoulders of
Psyche, and, hand in hand with Eros, she winged her way to Olympus. There all
the deathless gods were assembled, and Aphrodite no longer looked upon her with
darkened brows, but smiled upon her. When a cup was placed into the hand of
Psyche, the voice of the great Father and King of Olympus spoke, “Drink now,
and have no fear. For, with this draught you shall be born again and live for
ever free from care and pain.”
In this way, Psyche, a human soul , attained by bitter suffering
to the perfect happiness of purified love. Still we watch the butterfly, which
is her emblem, bursting from its ugly tomb in the dark soil, and spreading joyous
white and gold-powdered wings in the caressing sunshine, amidst the radiance
and the fragrance of the summer flowers. Still, too, we sadly watch her sister,
the white moth, heedlessly rushing into pangs thoughtlessly seeking the anguish
that brings her a cruel death.
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