CHAPTER V - THE GOLDEN BOOK

Marius the Epicurean - Volume 1

by Walter Pater

CHAPTER V - THE GOLDEN BOOK, MARIUS THE EPICUREAN - VOLUME 1 by Walter Pater

[55] THE two lads were lounging together over a book, half-buried in
a heap of dry corn, in an old granary--the quiet corner to which they
had climbed out of the way of their noisier companions on one of
their blandest holiday afternoons. They looked round: the western
sun smote through the broad chinks of the shutters. How like a
picture! and it was precisely the scene described in what they were
reading, with just that added poetic touch in the book which made it
delightful and select, and, in the actual place, the ray of sunlight
transforming the rough grain among the cool brown shadows into heaps
of gold. What they were intent on was, indeed, the book of books,
the "golden" book of that day, a gift to Flavian, as was shown by the
purple writing on the handsome yellow wrapper, following the title
Flaviane!--it said,

Flaviane! lege Felicitur!
Flaviane! Vivas! Fioreas!
Flaviane! Vivas! Gaudeas!

[56] It was perfumed with oil of sandal-wood, and decorated with
carved and gilt ivory bosses at the ends of the roller.

And the inside was something not less dainty and fine, full of the
archaisms and curious felicities in which that generation delighted,
quaint terms and images picked fresh from the early dramatists, the
lifelike phrases of some lost poet preserved by an old grammarian,
racy morsels of the vernacular and studied prettinesses:--all alike,
mere playthings for the genuine power and natural eloquence of the
erudite artist, unsuppressed by his erudition, which, however, made
some people angry, chiefly less well "got-up" people, and especially
those who were untidy from indolence.

No! it was certainly not that old-fashioned, unconscious ease of the
early literature, which could never come again; which, after all, had
had more in common with the "infinite patience" of Apuleius than with
the hack-work readiness of his detractors, who might so well have
been "self-conscious" of going slip-shod. And at least his success
was unmistakable as to the precise literary effect he had intended,
including a certain tincture of "neology" in expression--nonnihil
interdum elocutione novella parum signatum--in the language of
Cornelius Fronto, the contemporary prince of rhetoricians. What
words he had found for conveying, with a single touch, the sense of
textures, colours, [57] incidents! "Like jewellers' work! Like a
myrrhine vase!"--admirers said of his writing. "The golden fibre in
the hair, the gold thread-work in the gown marked her as the
mistress"--aurum in comis et in tunicis, ibi inflexum hic intextum,
matronam profecto confitebatur--he writes, with his "curious
felicity," of one of his heroines. Aurum intextum: gold fibre:--
well! there was something of that kind in his own work. And then, in
an age when people, from the emperor Aurelius downwards, prided
themselves unwisely on writing in Greek, he had written for Latin
people in their own tongue; though still, in truth, with all the care
of a learned language. Not less happily inventive were the incidents
recorded--story within story--stories with the sudden, unlooked-for
changes of dreams. He had his humorous touches also. And what went
to the ordinary boyish taste, in those somewhat peculiar readers,
what would have charmed boys more purely boyish, was the adventure:--
the bear loose in the house at night, the wolves storming the farms
in winter, the exploits of the robbers, their charming caves, the
delightful thrill one had at the question--"Don't you know that these
roads are infested by robbers?"

The scene of the romance was laid in Thessaly, the original land of
witchcraft, and took one up and down its mountains, and into its old
weird towns, haunts of magic and [58] incantation, where all the more
genuine appliances of the black art, left behind her by Medea when
she fled through that country, were still in use. In the city of
Hypata, indeed, nothing seemed to be its true self--"You might think
that through the murmuring of some cadaverous spell, all things had
been changed into forms not their own; that there was humanity in the
hardness of the stones you stumbled on; that the birds you heard
singing were feathered men; that the trees around the walls drew
their leaves from a like source. The statues seemed about to move,
the walls to speak, the dumb cattle to break out in prophecy; nay!
the very sky and the sunbeams, as if they might suddenly cry out."
Witches are there who can draw down the moon, or at least the lunar
virus--that white fluid she sheds, to be found, so rarely, "on high,
heathy places: which is a poison. A touch of it will drive men mad."

And in one very remote village lives the sorceress Pamphile, who
turns her neighbours into various animals. What true humour in the
scene where, after mounting the rickety stairs, Lucius, peeping
curiously through a chink in the door, is a spectator of the
transformation of the old witch herself into a bird, that she may
take flight to the object of her affections--into an owl! "First she
stripped off every rag she had. Then opening a certain chest she
took from it many small boxes, and removing the lid [59] of one of
them, rubbed herself over for a long time, from head to foot, with an
ointment it contained, and after much low muttering to her lamp,
began to jerk at last and shake her limbs. And as her limbs moved to
and fro, out burst the soft feathers: stout wings came forth to view:
the nose grew hard and hooked: her nails were crooked into claws; and
Pamphile was an owl. She uttered a queasy screech; and, leaping
little by little from the ground, making trial of herself, fled
presently, on full wing, out of doors."

By clumsy imitation of this process, Lucius, the hero of the romance,
transforms himself, not as he had intended into a showy winged
creature, but into the animal which has given name to the book; for
throughout it there runs a vein of racy, homely satire on the love of
magic then prevalent, curiosity concerning which had led Lucius to
meddle with the old woman's appliances. "Be you my Venus," he says
to the pretty maid-servant who has introduced him to the view of
Pamphile, "and let me stand by you a winged Cupid!" and, freely
applying the magic ointment, sees himself transformed, "not into a
bird, but into an ass!"

Well! the proper remedy for his distress is a supper of roses, could
such be found, and many are his quaintly picturesque attempts to come
by them at that adverse season; as he contrives to do at last, when,
the grotesque procession of Isis [60] passing by with a bear and
other strange animals in its train, the ass following along with the
rest suddenly crunches the chaplet of roses carried in the High-
priest's hand.

Meantime, however, he must wait for the spring, with more than the
outside of an ass; "though I was not so much a fool, nor so truly an
ass," he tells us, when he happens to be left alone with a daintily
spread table, "as to neglect this most delicious fare, and feed upon
coarse hay." For, in truth, all through the book, there is an
unmistakably real feeling for asses, with bold touches like Swift's,
and a genuine animal breadth. Lucius was the original ass, who
peeping slily from the window of his hiding-place forgot all about
the big shade he cast just above him, and gave occasion to the joke
or proverb about "the peeping ass and his shadow."

But the marvellous, delight in which is one of the really serious
elements in most boys, passed at times, those young readers still
feeling its fascination, into what French writers call the macabre--
that species of almost insane pre-occupation with the materialities
of our mouldering flesh, that luxury of disgust in gazing on
corruption, which was connected, in this writer at least, with not a
little obvious coarseness. It was a strange notion of the gross lust
of the actual world, that Marius took from some of these episodes.
"I am told," they read, "that [61] when foreigners are interred, the
old witches are in the habit of out-racing the funeral procession, to
ravage the corpse"--in order to obtain certain cuttings and remnants
from it, with which to injure the living--"especially if the witch
has happened to cast her eye upon some goodly young man." And the
scene of the night-watching of a dead body lest the witches should
come to tear off the flesh with their teeth, is worthy of Théophile
Gautier.

But set as one of the episodes in the main narrative, a true gem amid
its mockeries, its coarse though genuine humanity, its burlesque
horrors, came the tale of Cupid and Psyche, full of brilliant, life-
like situations, speciosa locis, and abounding in lovely visible
imagery (one seemed to see and handle the golden hair, the fresh
flowers, the precious works of art in it!) yet full also of a gentle
idealism, so that you might take it, if you chose, for an allegory.
With a concentration of all his finer literary gifts, Apuleius had
gathered into it the floating star-matter of many a delightful old
story.--

The Story of Cupid and Psyche.

In a certain city lived a king and queen who had three daughters
exceeding fair. But the beauty of the elder sisters, though pleasant
to behold, yet passed not the measure of human praise, while such was
the loveliness of the [62] youngest that men's speech was too poor to
commend it worthily and could express it not at all. Many of the
citizens and of strangers, whom the fame of this excellent vision had
gathered thither, confounded by that matchless beauty, could but kiss
the finger-tips of their right hands at sight of her, as in adoration
to the goddess Venus herself. And soon a rumour passed through the
country that she whom the blue deep had borne, forbearing her divine
dignity, was even then moving among men, or that by some fresh
germination from the stars, not the sea now, but the earth, had put
forth a new Venus, endued with the flower of virginity.

This belief, with the fame of the maiden's loveliness, went daily
further into distant lands, so that many people were drawn together
to behold that glorious model of the age. Men sailed no longer to
Paphos, to Cnidus or Cythera, to the presence of the goddess Venus:
her sacred rites were neglected, her images stood uncrowned, the cold
ashes were left to disfigure her forsaken altars. It was to a maiden
that men's prayers were offered, to a human countenance they looked,
in propitiating so great a godhead: when the girl went forth in the
morning they strewed flowers on her way, and the victims proper to
that unseen goddess were presented as she passed along. This
conveyance of divine worship to a mortal kindled meantime the anger
of the true Venus. "Lo! now, the ancient [63] parent of nature," she
cried, "the fountain of all elements! Behold me, Venus, benign
mother of the world, sharing my honours with a mortal maiden, while
my name, built up in heaven, is profaned by the mean things of
earth! Shall a perishable woman bear my image about with her? In
vain did the shepherd of Ida prefer me! Yet shall she have little
joy, whosoever she be, of her usurped and unlawful loveliness!"
Thereupon she called to her that winged, bold boy, of evil ways, who
wanders armed by night through men's houses, spoiling their
marriages; and stirring yet more by her speech his inborn wantonness,
she led him to the city, and showed him Psyche as she walked.

"I pray thee," she said, "give thy mother a full revenge. Let this
maid become the slave of an unworthy love." Then, embracing him
closely, she departed to the shore and took her throne upon the crest
of the wave. And lo! at her unuttered will, her ocean-servants are
in waiting: the daughters of Nereus are there singing their song, and
Portunus, and Salacia, and the tiny charioteer of the dolphin, with a
host of Tritons leaping through the billows. And one blows softly
through his sounding sea-shell, another spreads a silken web against
the sun, a third presents the mirror to the eyes of his mistress,
while the others swim side by side below, drawing her chariot. Such
was the escort of Venus as she went upon the sea.

[64] Psyche meantime, aware of her loveliness, had no fruit thereof.
All people regarded and admired, but none sought her in marriage. It
was but as on the finished work of the craftsman that they gazed upon
that divine likeness. Her sisters, less fair than she, were happily
wedded. She, even as a widow, sitting at home, wept over her
desolation, hating in her heart the beauty in which all men were
pleased.

And the king, supposing the gods were angry, inquired of the oracle
of Apollo, and Apollo answered him thus: "Let the damsel be placed on
the top of a certain mountain, adorned as for the bed of marriage and
of death. Look not for a son-in-law of mortal birth; but for that
evil serpent-thing, by reason of whom even the gods tremble and the
shadows of Styx are afraid."

So the king returned home and made known the oracle to his wife. For
many days she lamented, but at last the fulfilment of the divine
precept is urgent upon her, and the company make ready to conduct the
maiden to her deadly bridal. And now the nuptial torch gathers dark
smoke and ashes: the pleasant sound of the pipe is changed into a
cry: the marriage hymn concludes in a sorrowful wailing: below her
yellow wedding-veil the bride shook away her tears; insomuch that the
whole city was afflicted together at the ill-luck of the stricken
house.

But the mandate of the god impelled the hapless Psyche to her fate,
and, these solemnities [65] being ended, the funeral of the living
soul goes forth, all the people following. Psyche, bitterly weeping,
assists not at her marriage but at her own obsequies, and while the
parents hesitate to accomplish a thing so unholy the daughter cries
to them: "Wherefore torment your luckless age by long weeping? This
was the prize of my extraordinary beauty! When all people celebrated
us with divine honours, and in one voice named the New Venus, it was
then ye should have wept for me as one dead. Now at last I
understand that that one name of Venus has been my ruin. Lead me and
set me upon the appointed place. I am in haste to submit to that
well-omened marriage, to behold that goodly spouse. Why delay the
coming of him who was born for the destruction of the whole world?"

She was silent, and with firm step went on the way. And they
proceeded to the appointed place on a steep mountain, and left there
the maiden alone, and took their way homewards dejectedly. The
wretched parents, in their close-shut house, yielded themselves to
perpetual night; while to Psyche, fearful and trembling and weeping
sore upon the mountain-top, comes the gentle Zephyrus. He lifts her
mildly, and, with vesture afloat on either side, bears her by his own
soft breathing over the windings of the hills, and sets her lightly
among the flowers in the bosom of a valley below.

Psyche, in those delicate grassy places, lying [66] sweetly on her
dewy bed, rested from the agitation of her soul and arose in peace.
And lo! a grove of mighty trees, with a fount of water, clear as
glass, in the midst; and hard by the water, a dwelling-place, built
not by human hands but by some divine cunning. One recognised, even
at the entering, the delightful hostelry of a god. Golden pillars
sustained the roof, arched most curiously in cedar-wood and ivory.
The walls were hidden under wrought silver:--all tame and woodland
creatures leaping forward to the visitor's gaze. Wonderful indeed
was the craftsman, divine or half-divine, who by the subtlety of his
art had breathed so wild a soul into the silver! The very pavement
was distinct with pictures in goodly stones. In the glow of its
precious metal the house is its own daylight, having no need of the
sun. Well might it seem a place fashioned for the conversation of
gods with men!

Psyche, drawn forward by the delight of it, came near, and, her
courage growing, stood within the doorway. One by one, she admired
the beautiful things she saw; and, most wonderful of all! no lock, no
chain, nor living guardian protected that great treasure house. But
as she gazed there came a voice--a voice, as it were unclothed of
bodily vesture--"Mistress!" it said, "all these things are thine.
Lie down, and relieve thy weariness, and rise again for the bath when
thou wilt. We thy servants, whose [67] voice thou hearest, will be
beforehand with our service, and a royal feast shall be ready."

And Psyche understood that some divine care was providing, and,
refreshed with sleep and the Bath, sat down to the feast. Still she
saw no one: only she heard words falling here and there, and had
voices alone to serve her. And the feast being ended, one entered
the chamber and sang to her unseen, while another struck the chords
of a harp, invisible with him who played on it. Afterwards the sound
of a company singing together came to her, but still so that none
were present to sight; yet it appeared that a great multitude of
singers was there.

And the hour of evening inviting her, she climbed into the bed; and
as the night was far advanced, behold a sound of a certain clemency
approaches her. Then, fearing for her maidenhood in so great
solitude, she trembled, and more than any evil she knew dreaded that
she knew not. And now the husband, that unknown husband, drew near,
and ascended the couch, and made her his wife; and lo! before the
rise of dawn he had departed hastily. And the attendant voices
ministered to the needs of the newly married. And so it happened
with her for a long season. And as nature has willed, this new
thing, by continual use, became a delight to her: the sound of the
voice grew to be her solace in that condition of loneliness and
uncertainty.

[68] One night the bridegroom spoke thus to his beloved, "O Psyche,
most pleasant bride! Fortune is grown stern with us, and threatens
thee with mortal peril. Thy sisters, troubled at the report of thy
death and seeking some trace of thee, will come to the mountain's
top. But if by chance their cries reach thee, answer not, neither
look forth at all, lest thou bring sorrow upon me and destruction
upon thyself." Then Psyche promised that she would do according to
his will. But the bridegroom was fled away again with the night.
And all that day she spent in tears, repeating that she was now dead
indeed, shut up in that golden prison, powerless to console her
sisters sorrowing after her, or to see their faces; and so went to
rest weeping.

And after a while came the bridegroom again, and lay down beside her,
and embracing her as she wept, complained, "Was this thy promise, my
Psyche? What have I to hope from thee? Even in the arms of thy
husband thou ceasest not from pain. Do now as thou wilt. Indulge
thine own desire, though it seeks what will ruin thee. Yet wilt thou
remember my warning, repentant too late." Then, protesting that she
is like to die, she obtains from him that he suffer her to see her
sisters, and present to them moreover what gifts she would of golden
ornaments; but therewith he ofttimes advised her never at any time,
yielding to pernicious counsel, to enquire concerning his bodily
form, lest she fall, [69] through unholy curiosity, from so great a
height of fortune, nor feel ever his embrace again. "I would die a
hundred times," she said, cheerful at last, "rather than be deprived
of thy most sweet usage. I love thee as my own soul, beyond
comparison even with Love himself. Only bid thy servant Zephyrus
bring hither my sisters, as he brought me. My honeycomb! My
husband! Thy Psyche's breath of life!" So he promised; and after
the embraces of the night, ere the light appeared, vanished from the
hands of his bride.

And the sisters, coming to the place where Psyche was abandoned, wept
loudly among the rocks, and called upon her by name, so that the
sound came down to her, and running out of the palace distraught, she
cried, "Wherefore afflict your souls with lamentation? I whom you
mourn am here." Then, summoning Zephyrus, she reminded him of her
husband's bidding; and he bare them down with a gentle blast. "Enter
now," she said, "into my house, and relieve your sorrow in the
company of Psyche your sister."

And Psyche displayed to them all the treasures of the golden house,
and its great family of ministering voices, nursing in them the
malice which was already at their hearts. And at last one of them
asks curiously who the lord of that celestial array may be, and what
manner of man her husband? And Psyche [70] answered dissemblingly,
"A young man, handsome and mannerly, with a goodly beard. For the
most part he hunts upon the mountains." And lest the secret should
slip from her in the way of further speech, loading her sisters with
gold and gems, she commanded Zephyrus to bear them away.

And they returned home, on fire with envy. "See now the injustice of
fortune!" cried one. "We, the elder children, are given like
servants to be the wives of strangers, while the youngest is
possessed of so great riches, who scarcely knows how to use them.
You saw, Sister! what a hoard of wealth lies in the house; what
glittering gowns; what splendour of precious gems, besides all that
gold trodden under foot. If she indeed hath, as she said, a
bridegroom so goodly, then no one in all the world is happier. And
it may be that this husband, being of divine nature, will make her
too a goddess. Nay! so in truth it is. It was even thus she bore
herself. Already she looks aloft and breathes divinity, who, though
but a woman, has voices for her handmaidens, and can command the
winds." "Think," answered the other, "how arrogantly she dealt with
us, grudging us these trifling gifts out of all that store, and when
our company became a burden, causing us to be hissed and driven away
from her through the air! But I am no woman if she keep her hold on
this great fortune; and if the insult done us has touched [71] thee
too, take we counsel together. Meanwhile let us hold our peace, and
know naught of her, alive or dead. For they are not truly happy of
whose happiness other folk are unaware."

And the bridegroom, whom still she knows not, warns her thus a second
time, as he talks with her by night: "Seest thou what peril besets
thee? Those cunning wolves have made ready for thee their snares, of
which the sum is that they persuade thee to search into the fashion
of my countenance, the seeing of which, as I have told thee often,
will be the seeing of it no more for ever. But do thou neither
listen nor make answer to aught regarding thy husband. Besides, we
have sown also the seed of our race. Even now this bosom grows with
a child to be born to us, a child, if thou but keep our secret, of
divine quality; if thou profane it, subject to death." And Psyche
was glad at the tidings, rejoicing in that solace of a divine seed,
and in the glory of that pledge of love to be, and the dignity of the
name of mother. Anxiously she notes the increase of the days, the
waning months. And again, as he tarries briefly beside her, the
bridegroom repeats his warning:

"Even now the sword is drawn with which thy sisters seek thy life.
Have pity on thyself, sweet wife, and upon our child, and see not
those evil women again." But the sisters make their way into the
palace once more, crying to her in [72] wily tones, "O Psyche! and
thou too wilt be a mother! How great will be the joy at home! Happy
indeed shall we be to have the nursing of the golden child. Truly if
he be answerable to the beauty of his parents, it will be a birth of
Cupid himself."

So, little by little, they stole upon the heart of their sister.
She, meanwhile, bids the lyre to sound for their delight, and the
playing is heard: she bids the pipes to move, the quire to sing, and
the music and the singing come invisibly, soothing the mind of the
listener with sweetest modulation. Yet not even thereby was their
malice put to sleep: once more they seek to know what manner of
husband she has, and whence that seed. And Psyche, simple over-much,
forgetful of her first story, answers, "My husband comes from a far
country, trading for great sums. He is already of middle age, with
whitening locks." And therewith she dismisses them again.

And returning home upon the soft breath of Zephyrus one cried to the
other, "What shall be said of so ugly a lie? He who was a young man
with goodly beard is now in middle life. It must be that she told a
false tale: else is she in very truth ignorant what manner of man he
is. Howsoever it be, let us destroy her quickly. For if she indeed
knows not, be sure that her bridegroom is one of the gods: it is a
god she bears in her womb. And let [73] that be far from us! If she
be called mother of a god, then will life be more than I can bear."

So, full of rage against her, they returned to Psyche, and said to
her craftily, "Thou livest in an ignorant bliss, all incurious of thy
real danger. It is a deadly serpent, as we certainly know, that
comes to sleep at thy side. Remember the words of the oracle, which
declared thee destined to a cruel beast. There are those who have
seen it at nightfall, coming back from its feeding. In no long time,
they say, it will end its blandishments. It but waits for the babe
to be formed in thee, that it may devour thee by so much the richer.
If indeed the solitude of this musical place, or it may be the
loathsome commerce of a hidden love, delight thee, we at least in
sisterly piety have done our part." And at last the unhappy Psyche,
simple and frail of soul, carried away by the terror of their words,
losing memory of her husband's precepts and her own promise, brought
upon herself a great calamity. Trembling and turning pale, she
answers them, "And they who tell those things, it may be, speak the
truth. For in very deed never have I seen the face of my husband,
nor know I at all what manner of man he is. Always he frights me
diligently from the sight of him, threatening some great evil should
I too curiously look upon his face. Do ye, if ye can help your
sister in her great peril, stand by her now."

[74] Her sisters answered her, "The way of safety we have well
considered, and will teach thee. Take a sharp knife, and hide it in
that part of the couch where thou art wont to lie: take also a lamp
filled with oil, and set it Privily behind the curtain. And when he
shall have drawn up his coils into the accustomed place, and thou
hearest him breathe in sleep, slip then from his side and discover
the lamp, and, knife in hand, put forth thy strength, and strike off
the serpent's head." And so they departed in haste.

And Psyche left alone (alone but for the furies which beset her) is
tossed up and down in her distress, like a wave of the sea; and
though her will is firm, yet, in the moment of putting hand to the
deed, she falters, and is torn asunder by various apprehension of the
great calamity upon her. She hastens and anon delays, now full of
distrust, and now of angry courage: under one bodily form she loathes
the monster and loves the bridegroom. But twilight ushers in the
night; and at length in haste she makes ready for the terrible deed.
Darkness came, and the bridegroom; and he first, after some faint
essay of love, falls into a deep sleep.

And she, erewhile of no strength, the hard purpose of destiny
assisting her, is confirmed in force. With lamp plucked forth, knife
in hand, she put by her sex; and lo! as the secrets of the bed became
manifest, the sweetest and most gentle of all creatures, Love
himself, reclined [75] there, in his own proper loveliness! At sight
of him the very flame of the lamp kindled more gladly! But Psyche
was afraid at the vision, and, faint of soul, trembled back upon her
knees, and would have hidden the steel in her own bosom. But the
knife slipped from her hand; and now, undone, yet ofttimes looking
upon the beauty of that divine countenance, she lives again. She
sees the locks of that golden head, pleasant with the unction of the
gods, shed down in graceful entanglement behind and before, about the
ruddy cheeks and white throat. The pinions of the winged god, yet
fresh with the dew, are spotless upon his shoulders, the delicate
plumage wavering over them as they lie at rest. Smooth he was, and,
touched with light, worthy of Venus his mother. At the foot of the
couch lay his bow and arrows, the instruments of his power,
propitious to men.

And Psyche, gazing hungrily thereon, draws an arrow from the quiver,
and trying the point upon her thumb, tremulous still, drave in the
barb, so that a drop of blood came forth. Thus fell she, by her own
act, and unaware, into the love of Love. Falling upon the
bridegroom, with indrawn breath, in a hurry of kisses from eager and
open lips, she shuddered as she thought how brief that sleep might
be. And it chanced that a drop of burning oil fell from the lamp
upon the god's shoulder. Ah! maladroit minister of love, thus to
wound him from whom [76] all fire comes; though 'twas a lover, I
trow, first devised thee, to have the fruit of his desire even in the
darkness! At the touch of the fire the god started up, and beholding
the overthrow of her faith, quietly took flight from her embraces.

And Psyche, as he rose upon the wing, laid hold on him with her two
hands, hanging upon him in his passage through the air, till she
sinks to the earth through weariness. And as she lay there, the
divine lover, tarrying still, lighted upon a cypress tree which grew
near, and, from the top of it, spake thus to her, in great emotion.
"Foolish one! unmindful of the command of Venus, my mother, who had
devoted thee to one of base degree, I fled to thee in his stead. Now
know I that this was vainly done. Into mine own flesh pierced mine
arrow, and I made thee my wife, only that I might seem a monster
beside thee--that thou shouldst seek to wound the head wherein lay
the eyes so full of love to thee! Again and again, I thought to put
thee on thy guard concerning these things, and warned thee in loving-
kindness. Now I would but punish thee by my flight hence." And
therewith he winged his way into the deep sky.

Psyche, prostrate upon the earth, and following far as sight might
reach the flight of the bridegroom, wept and lamented; and when the
breadth of space had parted him wholly from her, cast herself down
from the bank of a river [77] which was nigh. But the stream,
turning gentle in honour of the god, put her forth again unhurt upon
its margin. And as it happened, Pan, the rustic god, was sitting
just then by the waterside, embracing, in the body of a reed, the
goddess Canna; teaching her to respond to him in all varieties of
slender sound. Hard by, his flock of goats browsed at will. And the
shaggy god called her, wounded and outworn, kindly to him and said,
"I am but a rustic herdsman, pretty maiden, yet wise, by favour of my
great age and long experience; and if I guess truly by those
faltering steps, by thy sorrowful eyes and continual sighing, thou
labourest with excess of love. Listen then to me, and seek not death
again, in the stream or otherwise. Put aside thy woe, and turn thy
prayers to Cupid. He is in truth a delicate youth: win him by the
delicacy of thy service."

So the shepherd-god spoke, and Psyche, answering nothing, but with a
reverence to his serviceable deity, went on her way. And while she,
in her search after Cupid, wandered through many lands, he was lying
in the chamber of his mother, heart-sick. And the white bird which
floats over the waves plunged in haste into the sea, and approaching
Venus, as she bathed, made known to her that her son lies afflicted
with some grievous hurt, doubtful of life. And Venus cried, angrily,
"My son, then, has a mistress! And it is Psyche, who witched away
[78] my beauty and was the rival of my godhead, whom he loves!"

Therewith she issued from the sea, and returning to her golden
chamber, found there the lad, sick, as she had heard, and cried from
the doorway, "Well done, truly! to trample thy mother's precepts
under foot, to spare my enemy that cross of an unworthy love; nay,
unite her to thyself, child as thou art, that I might have a
daughter-in-law who hates me! I will make thee repent of thy sport,
and the savour of thy marriage bitter. There is one who shall
chasten this body of thine, put out thy torch and unstring thy bow.
Not till she has plucked forth that hair, into which so oft these
hands have smoothed the golden light, and sheared away thy wings,
shall I feel the injury done me avenged." And with this she hastened
in anger from the doors.

And Ceres and Juno met her, and sought to know the meaning of her
troubled countenance. "Ye come in season," she cried; "I pray you,
find for me Psyche. It must needs be that ye have heard the disgrace
of my house." And they, ignorant of what was done, would have
soothed her anger, saying, "What fault, Mistress, hath thy son
committed, that thou wouldst destroy the girl he loves? Knowest thou
not that he is now of age? Because he wears his years so lightly
must he seem to thee ever but a child? Wilt thou for ever thus pry
into the [79] pastimes of thy son, always accusing his wantonness,
and blaming in him those delicate wiles which are all thine own?"
Thus, in secret fear of the boy's bow, did they seek to please him
with their gracious patronage. But Venus, angry at their light
taking of her wrongs, turned her back upon them, and with hasty steps
made her way once more to the sea.

Meanwhile Psyche, tost in soul, wandering hither and thither, rested
not night or day in the pursuit of her husband, desiring, if she
might not sooth his anger by the endearments of a wife, at the least
to propitiate him with the prayers of a handmaid. And seeing a
certain temple on the top of a high mountain, she said, "Who knows
whether yonder place be not the abode of my lord?" Thither,
therefore, she turned her steps, hastening now the more because
desire and hope pressed her on, weary as she was with the labours of
the way, and so, painfully measuring out the highest ridges of the
mountain, drew near to the sacred couches. She sees ears of wheat,
in heaps or twisted into chaplets; ears of barley also, with sickles
and all the instruments of harvest, lying there in disorder, thrown
at random from the hands of the labourers in the great heat. These
she curiously sets apart, one by one, duly ordering them; for she
said within herself, "I may not neglect the shrines, nor the holy
service, of any god there be, but must rather [80] win by
supplication the kindly mercy of them all."

And Ceres found her bending sadly upon her task, and cried aloud,
"Alas, Psyche! Venus, in the furiousness of her anger, tracks thy
footsteps through the world, seeking for thee to pay her the utmost
penalty; and thou, thinking of anything rather than thine own safety,
hast taken on thee the care of what belongs to me!" Then Psyche fell
down at her feet, and sweeping the floor with her hair, washing the
footsteps of the goddess in her tears, besought her mercy, with many
prayers:--"By the gladdening rites of harvest, by the lighted lamps
and mystic marches of the Marriage and mysterious Invention of thy
daughter Proserpine, and by all beside that the holy place of Attica
veils in silence, minister, I pray thee, to the sorrowful heart of
Psyche! Suffer me to hide myself but for a few days among the heaps
of corn, till time have softened the anger of the goddess, and my
strength, out-worn in my long travail, be recovered by a little
rest."

But Ceres answered her, "Truly thy tears move me, and I would fain
help thee; only I dare not incur the ill-will of my kinswoman.
Depart hence as quickly as may be." And Psyche, repelled against
hope, afflicted now with twofold sorrow, making her way back again,
beheld among the half-lighted woods of the valley below a sanctuary
builded with cunning [81] art. And that she might lose no way of
hope, howsoever doubtful, she drew near to the sacred doors. She
sees there gifts of price, and garments fixed upon the door-posts and
to the branches of the trees, wrought with letters of gold which told
the name of the goddess to whom they were dedicated, with
thanksgiving for that she had done. So, with bent knee and hands
laid about the glowing altar, she prayed saying, "Sister and spouse
of Jupiter! be thou to these my desperate fortune's Juno the
Auspicious! I know that thou dost willingly help those in travail
with child; deliver me from the peril that is upon me." And as she
prayed thus, Juno in the majesty of her godhead, was straightway
present, and answered, "Would that I might incline favourably to
thee; but against the will of Venus, whom I have ever loved as a
daughter, I may not, for very shame, grant thy prayer."

And Psyche, dismayed by this new shipwreck of her hope, communed thus
with herself, "Whither, from the midst of the snares that beset me,
shall I take my way once more? In what dark solitude shall I hide me
from the all-seeing eye of Venus? What if I put on at length a man's
courage, and yielding myself unto her as my mistress, soften by a
humility not yet too late the fierceness of her purpose? Who knows
but that I may find him also whom my soul seeketh after, in the abode
of his mother?"

[82] And Venus, renouncing all earthly aid in her search, prepared to
return to heaven. She ordered the chariot to be made ready, wrought
for her by Vulcan as a marriage-gift, with a cunning of hand which
had left his work so much the richer by the weight of gold it lost
under his tool. From the multitude which housed about the bed-
chamber of their mistress, white doves came forth, and with joyful
motions bent their painted necks beneath the yoke. Behind it, with
playful riot, the sparrows sped onward, and other birds sweet of
song, making known by their soft notes the approach of the goddess.
Eagle and cruel hawk alarmed not the quireful family of Venus. And
the clouds broke away, as the uttermost ether opened to receive her,
daughter and goddess, with great joy.

And Venus passed straightway to the house of Jupiter to beg from him
the service of Mercury, the god of speech. And Jupiter refused not
her prayer. And Venus and Mercury descended from heaven together;
and as they went, the former said to the latter, "Thou knowest, my
brother of Arcady, that never at any time have I done anything
without thy help; for how long time, moreover, I have sought a
certain maiden in vain. And now naught remains but that, by thy
heraldry, I proclaim a reward for whomsoever shall find her. Do thou
my bidding quickly." And therewith [83] she conveyed to him a little
scrip, in the which was written the name of Psyche, with other
things; and so returned home.

And Mercury failed not in his office; but departing into all lands,
proclaimed that whosoever delivered up to Venus the fugitive girl,
should receive from herself seven kisses--one thereof full of the
inmost honey of her throat. With that the doubt of Psyche was ended.
And now, as she came near to the doors of Venus, one of the
household, whose name was Use-and-Wont, ran out to her, crying, "Hast
thou learned, Wicked Maid! now at last! that thou hast a mistress?"
And seizing her roughly by the hair, drew her into the presence of
Venus. And when Venus saw her, she cried out, saying, "Thou hast
deigned then to make thy salutations to thy mother-in-law. Now will
I in turn treat thee as becometh a dutiful daughter-in-law!"

And she took barley and millet and poppy-seed, every kind of grain
and seed, and mixed them together, and laughed, and said to her:
"Methinks so plain a maiden can earn lovers only by industrious
ministry: now will I also make trial of thy service. Sort me this
heap of seed, the one kind from the others, grain by grain; and get
thy task done before the evening." And Psyche, stunned by the
cruelty of her bidding, was silent, and moved not her hand to the
inextricable heap. And there came [84] forth a little ant, which had
understanding of the difficulty of her task, and took pity upon the
consort of the god of Love; and he ran deftly hither and thither, and
called together the whole army of his fellows. "Have pity," he
cried, "nimble scholars of the Earth, Mother of all things!--have
pity upon the wife of Love, and hasten to help her in her perilous
effort." Then, one upon the other, the hosts of the insect people
hurried together; and they sorted asunder the whole heap of seed,
separating every grain after its kind, and so departed quickly out of
sight.

And at nightfall Venus returned, and seeing that task finished with
so wonderful diligence, she cried, "The work is not thine, thou
naughty maid, but his in whose eyes thou hast found favour." And
calling her again in the morning, "See now the grove," she said,
"beyond yonder torrent. Certain sheep feed there, whose fleeces
shine with gold. Fetch me straightway a lock of that precious stuff,
having gotten it as thou mayst."

And Psyche went forth willingly, not to obey the command of Venus,
but even to seek a rest from her labour in the depths of the river.
But from the river, the green reed, lowly mother of music, spake to
her: "O Psyche! pollute not these waters by self-destruction, nor
approach that terrible flock; for, as the heat groweth, they wax
fierce. Lie down under yon plane-tree, till the [85] quiet of the
river's breath have soothed them. Thereafter thou mayst shake down
the fleecy gold from the trees of the grove, for it holdeth by the
leaves."

And Psyche, instructed thus by the simple reed, in the humanity of
its heart, filled her bosom with the soft golden stuff, and returned
to Venus. But the goddess smiled bitterly, and said to her, "Well
know I who was the author of this thing also. I will make further
trial of thy discretion, and the boldness of thy heart. Seest thou
the utmost peak of yonder steep mountain? The dark stream which
flows down thence waters the Stygian fields, and swells the flood of
Cocytus. Bring me now, in this little urn, a draught from its
innermost source." And therewith she put into her hands a vessel of
wrought crystal.

And Psyche set forth in haste on her way to the mountain, looking
there at last to find the end of her hapless life. But when she came
to the region which borders on the cliff that was showed to her, she
understood the deadly nature of her task. From a great rock, steep
and slippery, a horrible river of water poured forth, falling
straightway by a channel exceeding narrow into the unseen gulf below.
And lo! creeping from the rocks on either hand, angry serpents, with
their long necks and sleepless eyes. The very waters found a voice
and bade her depart, in smothered cries of, Depart hence! and [86]
What doest thou here? Look around thee! and Destruction is upon
thee! And then sense left her, in the immensity of her peril, as one
changed to stone.

Yet not even then did the distress of this innocent soul escape the
steady eye of a gentle providence. For the bird of Jupiter spread
his wings and took flight to her, and asked her, "Didst thou think,
simple one, even thou! that thou couldst steal one drop of that
relentless stream, the holy river of Styx, terrible even to the gods?
But give me thine urn." And the bird took the urn, and filled it at
the source, and returned to her quickly from among the teeth of the
serpents, bringing with him of the waters, all unwilling--nay!
warning him to depart away and not molest them.

And she, receiving the urn with great joy, ran back quickly that she
might deliver it to Venus, and yet again satisfied not the angry
goddess. "My child!" she said, "in this one thing further must thou
serve me. Take now this tiny casket, and get thee down even unto
hell, and deliver it to Proserpine. Tell her that Venus would have
of her beauty so much at least as may suffice for but one day's use,
that beauty she possessed erewhile being foreworn and spoiled,
through her tendance upon the sick-bed of her son; and be not slow in
returning."

And Psyche perceived there the last ebbing of her fortune--that she
was now thrust openly [87] upon death, who must go down, of her own
motion, to Hades and the Shades. And straightway she climbed to the
top of an exceeding high tower, thinking within herself, "I will cast
myself down thence: so shall I descend most quickly into the kingdom
of the dead." And the tower again, broke forth into speech:
"Wretched Maid! Wretched Maid! Wilt thou destroy thyself? If the
breath quit thy body, then wilt thou indeed go down into Hades, but
by no means return hither. Listen to me. Among the pathless wilds
not far from this place lies a certain mountain, and therein one of
hell's vent-holes. Through the breach a rough way lies open,
following which thou wilt come, by straight course, to the castle of
Orcus. And thou must not go empty-handed. Take in each hand a
morsel of barley-bread, soaked in hydromel; and in thy mouth two
pieces of money. And when thou shalt be now well onward in the way
of death, then wilt thou overtake a lame ass laden with wood, and a
lame driver, who will pray thee reach him certain cords to fasten the
burden which is falling from the ass: but be thou cautious to pass on
in silence. And soon as thou comest to the river of the dead,
Charon, in that crazy bark he hath, will put thee over upon the
further side. There is greed even among the dead: and thou shalt
deliver to him, for the ferrying, one of those two pieces of money,
in such wise that he take [88] it with his hand from between thy
lips. And as thou passest over the stream, a dead old man, rising on
the water, will put up to thee his mouldering hands, and pray thee
draw him into the ferry-boat. But beware thou yield not to unlawful
pity.

"When thou shalt be come over, and art upon the causeway, certain
aged women, spinning, will cry to thee to lend thy hand to their
work; and beware again that thou take no part therein; for this also
is the snare of Venus, whereby she would cause thee to cast away one
at least of those cakes thou bearest in thy hands. And think not
that a slight matter; for the loss of either one of them will be to
thee the losing of the light of day. For a watch-dog exceeding
fierce lies ever before the threshold of that lonely house of
Proserpine. Close his mouth with one of thy cakes; so shalt thou
pass by him, and enter straightway into the presence of Proserpine
herself. Then do thou deliver thy message, and taking what she shall
give thee, return back again; offering to the watch-dog the other
cake, and to the ferryman that other piece of money thou hast in thy
mouth. After this manner mayst thou return again beneath the stars.
But withal, I charge thee, think not to look into, nor open, the
casket thou bearest, with that treasure of the beauty of the divine
countenance hidden therein."

So spake the stones of the tower; and Psyche [89] delayed not, but
proceeding diligently after the manner enjoined, entered into the
house of Proserpine, at whose feet she sat down humbly, and would
neither the delicate couch nor that divine food the goddess offered
her, but did straightway the business of Venus. And Proserpine
filled the casket secretly and shut the lid, and delivered it to
Psyche, who fled therewith from Hades with new strength. But coming
back into the light of day, even as she hasted now to the ending of
her service, she was seized by a rash curiosity. "Lo! now," she said
within herself, "my simpleness! who bearing in my hands the divine
loveliness, heed not to touch myself with a particle at least
therefrom, that I may please the more, by the favour of it, my fair
one, my beloved." Even as she spoke, she lifted the lid; and behold!
within, neither beauty, nor anything beside, save sleep only, the
sleep of the dead, which took hold upon her, filling all her members
with its drowsy vapour, so that she lay down in the way and moved
not, as in the slumber of death.

And Cupid being healed of his wound, because he would endure no
longer the absence of her he loved, gliding through the narrow window
of the chamber wherein he was holden, his pinions being now repaired
by a little rest, fled forth swiftly upon them, and coming to the
place where Psyche was, shook that sleep away from her, and set him
in his prison again, awaking her with the [90] innocent point of his
arrow. "Lo! thine old error again," he said, "which had like once
more to have destroyed thee! But do thou now what is lacking of the
command of my mother: the rest shall be my care." With these words,
the lover rose upon the air; and being consumed inwardly with the
greatness of his love, penetrated with vehement wing into the highest
place of heaven, to lay his cause before the father of the gods. And
the father of gods took his hand in his, and kissed his face and said
to him, "At no time, my son, hast thou regarded me with due honour.
Often hast thou vexed my bosom, wherein lies the disposition of the
stars, with those busy darts of thine. Nevertheless, because thou
hast grown up between these mine hands, I will accomplish thy
desire." And straightway he bade Mercury call the gods together;
and, the council-chamber being filled, sitting upon a high throne,
"Ye gods," he said, "all ye whose names are in the white book of the
Muses, ye know yonder lad. It seems good to me that his youthful
heats should by some means be restrained. And that all occasion may
be taken from him, I would even confine him in the bonds of marriage.
He has chosen and embraced a mortal maiden. Let him have fruit of
his love, and possess her for ever."

Thereupon he bade Mercury produce Psyche in heaven; and holding out
to her his ambrosial cup, "Take it," he said, "and live for ever;
[91] nor shall Cupid ever depart from thee." And the gods sat down
together to the marriage-feast.

On the first couch lay the bridegroom, and Psyche in his bosom. His
rustic serving-boy bare the wine to Jupiter; and Bacchus to the rest.
The Seasons crimsoned all things with their roses. Apollo sang to
the lyre, while a little Pan prattled on his reeds, and Venus danced
very sweetly to the soft music. Thus, with due rites, did Psyche
pass into the power of Cupid; and from them was born the daughter
whom men call Voluptas.