Chapter XIIIThe pleasant days followed each other like a row of laughing houris.... Eros and Psyche tended the flowers, which did not fade when Psyche stroked the stems or gently kissed the calyces. They wandered along the brook, and, if the days were warm, sought coolness under the crocus-coloured awning, in the crystal palace, where the doves cooed round the basin. The flutes played, or Eros himself took a lyre and sang, at Psyche’s feet, the stories of days gone by.It was one of the pleasures of the flower-laughing Present.Between the shrubs, where May strewed fragrant snow-blossom, naked, chubby cupids with tender wings played or romped, hovering like little clouds in the air.The sweet nights followed the pleasant days; the diamond stars, the same which Psyche had entreated to watch over her in the desert,glittered in the heavens. Under the roses, close to one another, slumbered the fair-winged children, tired out with play, their little mouths open and their chubby legs all folds. The air was heavy with the breath of lilac and jasmine; it was spring, it was the Present, it was night...!And while Psyche lay with her head against Eros’ shoulder and he wound his arm round her waist, while Psyche looked up at the stars, sacred in the violet night, the nightingale broke out into melody. The bird sang, and sang alone; everything was still. The bird sang, and let her notes fall in the air like drops of sprinkled sound, like the harmonious falling of water from a playing fountain. The bird sang, and Psyche closed her eyes, and felt on her lips Eros’ kiss.The days followed the nights. It was always the sweet pleasure of flowers and birds, of spring and love, cupids and roses, music and dance. The flowers were more beautiful, and did not fade; the fruits were sweeter and of richer colour; the spring air was lighter, and life was happier than a golden day. It was day which lasted days and nights; it was the Present.If Psyche were alone she longed for Eros, and when she saw him again she spread out her arms, and they loved each other. If Psyche were alone, she wandered about in the rosy spring morning; the flowers bowed down to her; the brook flowed cool over her feet; she played with the winged cherubs, who flew about her head like butterflies; she sat down in the moss full of violets; she bade the children take off her crown, loosen the plaits of her long hair, untie the knots of the drapery round her loins, and she lay down on the bank of the brook; her hand played with the clear cold water, and, naked in the shade of flowery shrubs, she fell asleep and the cupids round her. Then the step of the king awoke her; the children awoke; they dressed her, and she went to meet her husband, and received him with open arms. It was the sweet delight of the Present.The StormThe Storm[To face p. 90One day she was sleeping naked under the shrubs, the boys round about her; on the moss lay her crown and her veil, and the brooklet flowed on, gently murmuring. The day was very still, heavy with warmth. A storm was brewing, but the sky was still blue. In the far-off distance, where the horizon was likewaves of the sea, clouds pregnant with storm curled up gloomily like ostrich feathers. And once there was lightning, but no thunder.Then above the ridge of the hill something dark appeared to rise against the stormy clouds. It was round like a head, like a black head. From the black head leered two eyes, black as jet, and nothing more appeared. Long leered the eyes; then from the palace a voice cried.“Psyche, Psyche!”Psyche awoke, and the cupids with her. Eros approached and led her away. The air grew dark, and the next moment the summer storm burst forth, dark sky, lightning, rain, and thunder rapidly rolling on. It lasted only for a time; then the sky became blue again, the flowers recovered their breath and raised their drooping heads, shaking with fresh rain.Chapter XIVNext day, when Psyche was sleeping again by the brook, the dark head with the leering eyes of jet appeared again on the horizon. For a long time the eyes leered, full of lust. Then the head rose up higher like a dark sun, behind the hill-slope in the sky.It was a face tanned by the sun, with coal-black hair; round the temples a wreath of vine leaves, and from the wreath protruded two horns like those of a young goat.The eyes looked lustful and young, as though they were jet and gold. The lips laughed in the curly beard, and the sharp teeth were dazzling white; the pointed ears stood up.Then the dark face became perfectly visible in the light; the shoulders rose brown and naked, and two brown hands with long fingers lifted to the lips a pipe of short and long reeds. The pipe played a fanfare, a march of very quick notes. Then it stopped, and the gold-jeteyes leered. Psyche moved in her sleep. Then the pipe sounded again, and Psyche opened her eyes. Astonished, she listened to the notes of the pipe, as they rose and fell so as she had never heard before, lively and wanton, quick and playful. She sat up, leant on her arm, and looked....She started. There, on the horizon, like a dark sun, she saw the brown face and the lips in the curly beard blowing the reeds, short and long. Psyche started and looked on trembling. Then the pipe stopped again, and roguishly the head nodded to her. Psyche was frightened; she woke the boys. She fled away. From the palace Eros came to meet her.At first she meant to speak, but he kissed her; and why, she did not know, but she spoke not. Then she made up her mind to tell Eros that night, but in her husband’s arms she lacked the courage to speak. She did not tell him. The next morning she resolved not to repose again in the moss by the brook. But that afternoon she played with the cupids, and tired, fell asleep in the same place. The pipe awoke her; on the horizon, the brown face stood out against the sun, and roguishly nodded to her.Psyche, indignant, looked up.The head rose, the shoulders rose, and the whole form then rose up: a sunburnt youth, with the legs of a goat, rough-haired and cloven hoofs. There he stood, his dark shadow reflected in the golden rays of the setting sun. He blew his reeds; he piped lustily and merrily, roguishly and joyously and as well as he could, to please Psyche. She listened—about her the boys were sleeping—and she smiled. He saw her smile and smiled too. Then proudly she pointed with her finger for him to go. He went, but the next day he was there again. Then she saw him every day. He stood in the sun, which was going down, and blew his reeds, laughed and nodded to her roguishly. Sometimes Psyche bade him be gone; sometimes she pretended not to see who was playing there; sometimes she listened graciously. When she heard the king call:The SatyrThe Satyr[To face p. 94“Psyche! Psyche!” she woke the cupids, who dressed her in a moment, and went to meet her husband. She kissed him, and wished to tell him that every day a young man with goats’ legs stood on the hill and played upon his pipe. But because she had kept silence so long, she was silent again, and could notopen her lips. It made her sad, and Eros saw her sadness, and often asked her what it was that disturbed the equanimity of her soul. She said “Nothing,” and embraced him and declared that she was happy. But when the lark warbled and the nightingale’s sweet notes were heard, when Eros sang to the lyre and the brook murmured gently, Psyche always heard, between the pleasant sounds, the impudent tunes of the reeds, short and long. She tried not to hear, but she always heard them. They sounded saucily and merrily, like the sounds of a little bird in a wood calling something to her from afar; she heard, but did not yet understand what.One day, when he stood in the same place blowing lustily with puffed-out cheeks, Psyche, indignant, rose with her lips closely pressed together. She put her veil on and wound it tightly round her loins, without waking the boys. Then, with a firm step and innocently, she crossed a little slope, and came into a valley, a valley of grass; there the brook flowed away between multitudes of irises and narcissi. The goat, leering and laughing, tripped nimbly down the hill on his hoofs to meet her.“Who are you?” said Psyche haughtily.“I am the Satyr,” said he deferentially. “And now will you just see me dance?”He piped a waltz, and danced for her to the measure of his tripping music. He turned out his feet, spun round and round, and underneath, on his back, she saw his tiny tail wagging. She laughed, and found him amusing, with his tail, and feet, and horns. Then he turned a somersault, and finished his dance with a bow.“You may not come here,” said Psyche severely. “This is the Kingdom of the Present, and I am the queen, and my husband is Eros, the king of this kingdom. You dance indeed nicely, and you play rather pretty tunes, but you may not come here. We have here the lark and the nightingale, and my husband sings to the lyre.”“That is classical music,” said the Satyr.“I don’t know what you mean byclassical music. But you may not come here and pipe, and disturb me in my afternoon slumber. If my husband knew it, he would be very angry, and have you torn to pieces by two raging griffons.”“I am not afraid of that,” said the Satyr.“Why, I tame panthers, and they are much more dangerous.”“I had pity on you,” continued Psyche severely, raising her head in queenly dignity, “and have not yet said anything to the king. But if you come again to-morrow, I will tell him.”“No, you won’t!” said the Satyr saucily.“You are an ill-mannered boy!” said Psyche, angry and offended. “You must not speak so to a princess. I ought not to condescend to speak to you. I can see very well that you don’t know how people behave at court, and that you come from the wood. And you are ugly, too, with your hairy feet and your tail.”The Satyr looked at her astonished.“I think you very pretty!” he whispered admiringly. “Oh, I think you so pretty! You have such pretty eyes, and such golden hair, and such a white skin! Only, I don’t like your wings. The nymphs haven’t any.”“You may not speak to me like that!” said Psyche vexed. “I am the queen. How dare you? Go away now, else I will call the wild beasts here.”“Well, don’t be angry!” said the Satyr ina low, imploring tone. “That is my way of speaking. We all speak like that in the wood. The Bacchantes, too, are not particular what they say. We are unacquainted with your court language. And we don’t know anything of classical music. But we are always very merry and sociable together; but you must come once....”“Are you going?” said Psyche imperiously, and red with passion, and with her finger she pointed to him to be gone. He crouched down suddenly in the reeds of the brook among the irises and narcissi, and she saw him stealing away through the high grass. When she turned round she beheld the cupids; they were bringing her her crown.“The king is looking for you, Psyche!” they cried out in the distance, and like a cloud they hovered round her.She went back with them and threw herself into the arms of her husband.“Don’t roam so far away, my little Psyche!” said Eros. “In the wood behind the hills are wild beasts....”Night came on; Eros sang, the nightingale filled the air with her sweet notes.“Classical music!” thought Psyche.Chapter XVPsyche had a secret. Why did she not tell it? She did not know. She could not, after having once kept silent. She knew that she was not doing right by being silent, and yet she did not speak. But she was very sad about it, and felt dissatisfied. Then she wanted to speak with Eros; but because she had said nothing at first, she was afraid. And then she said to herself: “The Satyr does nothing wrong by standing there and piping a little, and it is not worth while thinking much about it....”And yet shedidthink about it, and in her ears she always heard his saucy voice, his coarse words, countrified and funny.Then she laughed about it all.“But what does he do—what is he? a Satyr? What is a Satyr? What are Bacchantes? And what are nymphs? Panthers, too, I have never seen. I should like to seethem. What is their life there in the wood? There are many lives in the world, and most of them are a secret. I only know the courtiers of the Kingdom of the Past.... Here there are the two girls that play on the pipe and the winged children. I should like to see all that there is in the world, and experience all that is in life. There must be strange things, which I never see.... The Chimera was glorious, and deep in my soul I always long for him; but in other respects everything is the same.... No wonders take place in this garden.... Eros is a young prince; then there are the doves, the griffons, the cupids.... That is all so commonplace.... Oh, to seek, to wander! The world is so great! the universe is awful, although it has limits. My father said it had no limits.... Oh, if it had no limits...! Oh,to seek, to wander, to soarin the air!... I shall never see the Chimera again. Never shall I soar in the air again.... He conjured up visions for me, and then let them pass away.... Oh, to soar through the air! When shall I see him again, and when shall I soar again...? Eros I love—he is my husband; but he has no wings. The Chimera had powerful wingsof silver feathers. He has left me for ever....”So, alone with her thought, she wandered in the garden. The cupids she drove away, and, crying, they hid themselves among the roses. When the Satyr appeared, she went to meet him in the valley, where the irises were blooming.“So, you are there again!”“Yes! won’t you just see me dance again?”He danced and frisked his tail.“I have already told you more than once that you may not come here,” said Psyche severely.He winked roguishly; he knew very well that his presence was not disagreeable to her.“You are so beautiful!” he said, in his most flattering tone; “much more beautiful than any of the nymphs.”“And the Bacchantes, then?” said Psyche.“Much more beautiful than the Bacchantes!” he answered. “But they are also very nice. Tell me, wouldn’t you like to see them?”Psyche was very inquisitive, and he noticed it.“Won’t you just see them?” he repeated temptingly.“Where?” said Psyche.“Look ... there!” He pointed in the distance with his finger.On the hill Psyche saw forms madly whirling round in a dance.“Those are the Bacchantes!” said the Satyr. Psyche laughed.“How madly they whirl round!” she exclaimed. “Are they always so merry?”“Oh, we are always dancing,” said the Satyr. “In the wood it is always pleasure. We play at tag with one another, we drink the juice of the grapes, and we dance till nightfall.”“Psyche! Psyche!” called a voice.It was her husband. The Satyr fled through the flags, and Psyche hastened back.She threw herself into Eros’ arms, who asked her where she had been. And without answering him, she began to cry and hid her face in his breast.“What is it, little Psyche?” asked Eros. “Are you in trouble? Amongst the roses the boys cry, and by the brook the queen cries. Is there then sadness in my kingdom? Does not Psyche feel happy?”She wept and shrugged her shoulders, as ifto say that she did not know. And she hid her face in his breast.“Tell me, Psyche, what is the matter?”She would have liked to tell him, but she could not; a stronger power kept her back.“Does not Psyche feel happy? Does she long for the Chimera?”She laid her little hand upon his lips.“Don’t speak about him. I am not worthy of him. I am not worthy of you, Eros.”He kissed her very gently.“What does my Psyche think about? May I not leave her any more, alone by the brook?”“No, no!” said she hastily, and drew his arms round her.... “No,” she continued quickly. “Don’t leave me alone any more. Always stay by me. Protect me from myself, O Eros...!”“Is little Psyche ill?”She nodded in the affirmative, and laid her burning head upon his breast; she nestled against him and shut her feverish eyes.He stayed by her, and all around was still, and the cupids appeared fluttering in the air. That night she slept in Eros’ arms. She awoke for a moment out of her sleep; faraway in the distance through the crystal of the palace she heard the sound of pipes. She raised her head and listened. But she would not hear any more, and hid herself in Eros’ arms and fell asleep on his heart.The next day he stayed by her, and they wandered to the brook. Sadness hung over the garden, the flowers drooped. In the afternoon Psyche became uneasy; she heard the pipe, and in the distance caught a glimpse of vague forms dancing.“Do you see nothing?” she asked Eros.“No....”“Do you hear nothing?” she said again.“No,” he answered. “Poor Psyche is ill. And the flowers are ill too, because she is. Oh, let Eros cure you...!”The following night, in the arms of her husband, she heard the pipe. It played saucy, short, lively tunes. “Come, come, now dance with us; we are drinking the grapes. Come ... come...!”She could resist no longer. Trembling, she loosed herself from her husband’s arms, who was asleep. She got up, stole out of the palace, fled through the garden to the alluring voice.The flowers in the brook seemed to entreather: “Oh, go not away! Oh, go not away!” The nightingale uttered a cry, and she thought it was an owl.She hurried on to the valley, where the irises were in blossom. There, near the brook, in the light of the moon, stood the Satyr, tripping to the sound of his pipe, and round him, hand in hand, madly danced the Bacchantes, naked, a panther’s skin cast about them, their wild streaming hair encircled with vine-leaves. They danced like drunken spectres in the pale moonlight night; they waved their thyrsus, and pelted each other with grapes, which smashed to juice upon their faces.“Come, come!” they cried triumphantly.Psyche was startled by their voices, rough and hoarse. But they opened their circle, two stretched their hand out to Psyche, and they danced round with her. The wild dance excited her; she had never known till then what dancing was, and she danced with sparkling eyes. She waved a thyrsus, and pressed the grapes to her mouth.... Then suddenly the Satyr caught hold of her and kissed her passionately, pressing the grapes to her lips....“Psyche! Psyche!”She started and stood still. The Bacchantes, the Satyr, fled.Psyche hastened back; with her hand she wiped her contaminated, burning lips.“... Psyche!”She ran to meet Eros, but when she saw him, godlike and beautiful as an image, spotlessly pure in the moonlight, with his noble countenance, his deep brown eyes full of love, she was so disgusted with herself that she fell at his feet in a swoon.He lifted her up and laid her on the bed.He watched while she slumbered.The whole night he watched by her....And it seemed as if she were wandering in her mind....Her face glowed with fever, and ever and anon she wiped her lips.Outside in the garden the flowers drooped in sorrow. The lark was silent, and the little angels sat together with their wings drawn in. The sky was ash-coloured and gloomy.That night Psyche slept in Eros’ arms, and afar off the pipe allured her....She extracted herself from Eros’ embrace and got up....She wanted to kiss him for the last time, but durst not, for fear of waking him.“Farewell!” she whispered very gently. “Noble Eros, beloved husband, farewell! I am unworthy of you. The Satyr’s kiss is still burning on my lips; my mouth is on fire from the juice of the grapes. Farewell...! And if you can, forgive me!”She went.The night was sultry and heavy with thunder; the flowers, exhausted, hung their heads; the nightingale uttered a cry, and she thought it was an owl. Bats flitted about with flapping wings.She walked with a firm step. She followed the brook to where it flowed into the valley. Yonder ... with the Satyr in their midst, danced the Bacchantes.“Hurrah! Hurrah!” they cried out, rough and hoarse, and threw at her a bunch of grapes.She hesitated a moment.... She raised her eyes. Through the gloomy night a single star glistened like a cold, proud eye.“Sacred star!” said Psyche, “you who watched over me before, and now leave me for ever ... tell him that I am unworthy of him and beg him to forgive me!”The star hid itself in the darkness.“Come!” cried the Bacchantes.Psyche took a step forward....“Brook!” she then cried, “little stream of the land of the Present, babbling pure and peacefully, in which I never more may cool myself ... oh, tell him that I am unworthy of him and beg him to forgive me!”The brook went murmuring over the stones, and muttered: “No, no....”“Come, come!” cried the Bacchantes.Then Psyche plucked a single violet, white as a maiden’s face.“Sweet violet!” said she, “humble flower, don’t be proud. Your queen, who is forsaking her kingdom, entreats the star and brook in vain. She is no longer a queen. She is no longer obeyed. Sweet violet, hear the prayer of Psyche, who, unworthy, is forsaking the Present....”The BacchantesThe Bacchantes[To face p. 108“Stay, Psyche!” implored the flower in her hand.“Dear little flower!” said Psyche, “born in the moss, withering when you are plucked, what do you know of gods and mortals? What do you know of soul and life and power? Psyche can no longer stay. Butbeg Love to forgive her...! Oh, give him my last message!”She kissed the flower and laid it in the moss.“Psyche! Psyche! Come!” cried the Bacchantes.She sprang forward into the midst of the dance.“Here I am!” she cried wildly. And they dragged her away with them to the wood.Chapter XVIWhen Eros awoke that morning, he found not Psyche by his side. He got up, thinking that she was in the garden, and went out.The sky was dull and lowering, a mist hung over the hills. The lark had not sung, the cupids were not fluttering about.“Psyche!” cried he, “Psyche!”No answer was returned. No sigh rustled in the leaves of the trees; no insect hummed in the grass; the flowers hung down withered on their limp stems. A deathly chilliness reigned around. A fearful presentiment took possession of Eros. He walked along the flower-beds, along the brook.“Oh! where is Psyche?” he cried. “Oh, tell me, water, flowers, birds, where is Psyche!!”No answer was returned. The brook flowed on murkily and noiselessly, the flowers lay across the path; no bird sang among the leaves. He wrung his hands and hastened on.Then he came to the spot where Psyche was wont to rest in the moss by the brook, in the shade of the shrubs.“Who will tell me where Psyche is?” he exclaimed in despair, and threw himself on the moss and sobbed.“Eros!” cried a weak voice.“Who speaks there?”“I, a white violet, which Psyche plucked.... Hear me quickly, for I feel I am dying, and my elfin voice is scarcely audible to your ear. Listen to me ... I am lying close to you. Take me in your hand....”Eros took the flower.“Psyche has been enticed by the Satyr into the wood. The Bacchantes have taken her away. This was her last word: that she was unworthy of you, and went away praying for forgiveness.... She could not remain, she said; she went...! Eros, forgive her!”The flower shrivelled up in his hand. Eros rose and tottered; he too felt that he was dying.Sad at heart walked Eros, and all along his path the flowers now lay shrivelled. The brook was dry. The lark lay dead before his feet. The cupids lay dead in the withered roses.Eros went into the castle and fell upon the purple bed.A single dove was expiring at the marble basin.The strings of the lyre were all broken....Eros too felt that his life was leaving his body.He raised his eyes, over which the film of death was stealing, and looked about the castle; the crystal crumbled off and split from the top to the bottom.“Sacred powers!” prayed he, “forgive her as I forgive her, and love her till the End, as I shall and for ever. Let her find what she seeks; let her wanderings once come to an end; let her soar through the air, if she must, till she comes to the purest sphere....” This sphere was the earth, the sweet Present, the little resting-point on which she could not wander, and thus felt within her the irresistible desire....“Sacred powers, let her one day find what her happiness is. Then, if it is not I.... Let her find....”His voice failed, his eyes opened as in a vision, and he whispered and finished his prayer: “... find ... in the Future...!”That sacred word was his last. He died.In the Kingdom of the Present, that once had been as a smiling garden, everything was now dead....Then ... in the mist, which hung over the ridge of the mountains, something seemed to be creeping near, something with feet that could only move slowly. From many sides, over the hill-top, the strange creeping came nearer.... Gigantic, hairy feet of monstrous spiders were walking over it; they came nearer and nearer; they were spiders with big, swollen bodies and feet always in motion....They were the sacred spiders of Emeralda, Princess of the Past. Eagerly they ran to the dead garden of the Present....They surrounded the garden and threw out their filaments to the crystal roof of the palace. Then they wove over the Present, that lay dead, one single gigantic web....And whilst they wove, the dead Present went to dust.Chapter XVIIIn the wood, in the autumn sun, Autumn was keeping festival.The foliage shone resplendent in yellow, bronze, purple, golden-red, and pink; the sulphur-coloured moss looked like antique velvet. With gusts of wind, the branches, madly arrogant, shook off their exuberance of sere and yellow leaves, as if they were strewing the paths with silver and gold and rustling notes.Loudly laughing danced the dryads through the whirling leaves.Out of the foaming stream between moss-covered rocks, rose the white, naked nymphs.“Where is she? Where is she?” cried they inquisitively.“There she comes! there she comes!” shouted the mad dryads, and in handfuls they cast the leaves into the air, which whirled over the nymphs and fell down on the water.The dryads danced past, and the nymphs looked out inquisitively. They stood, a naked group, in their rocky bath; their arms were clasped round one another; green was their hair and white as pearls were their bosoms. The sere and yellow leaves kept whirling about. Trampling feet were approaching and were heard amongst the rustling leaves. Merry-makers were drawing near; the golden foliage quivered like a curtain of thin, fine, gold lace....“There she comes! there she comes!” exclaimed the nymphs with joy.The branches cracked, the leaves whirled about, the tender sprays recoiled from the noisy merry-makers, who were advancing.Nearer they came with the sound of pipe and cymbal. Drunken Bacchantes danced before them, waving the thyrsus, hand in hand with fauns and satyrs; they encircled a triumphal car, drawn by spotted lynxes.High on the car sat a youth, beardless, with a wreath of vine-leaves round his forehead, full of laughter and animal spirits, with blue eyes that showed his love of pleasure. Naked were his godlike limbs, chubbily formed like the tender flesh of a boy, and his legs werelong and slender, his arms rounded like those of a woman. He was the prince of the wood, of divine origin: Prince Bacchus was his name.And next to him on the triumphal car, sat little Psyche enthroned. She too was naked, with nothing on but her veil, and her wings were so strikingly beautiful, crimson and soft yellow and with four peacock’s-feather eyes. Round the car, close together as a bunch of grapes, sported madly a number of wine-gods, tumbling over one another, grape-drunken children.In triumph the procession rushed on through the golden wood. The Bacchantes and satyrs sang and danced; two satyrs drove the lynxes, which, spiteful as cats, spat at them; the wine-gods entwined the vine and bore great heavy bunches of grapes.High up, like a butterfly, which was a goddess, sat Psyche, and laughed with glistening eyes and glowing cheeks, waving to the nymphs.“Live! long live Psyche—Psyche with the splendid wings!” shouted the nymphs.The wind blew, the leaves whirled about; the procession swept past as though hurriedalong by the gale. A little wine-god had fallen and lay in the yellow leaves, playing with his chubby legs, purple-red from the juice of grapes; he was crying because he had been left behind; then he succeeded in getting on to his feet, and tottered after the procession....The nymphs laughed loudly at the little wine-god; they dived under and beneath the rocks.The wind blew, the yellow leaves whirled about.And the wood became still and lonely.Chapter XVIII“Psyche, stay!” said Bacchus entreatingly.“No, no, let me alone!”“With you goes all joy from the feast; Psyche, stay!”“I will not always sing, dance, drink. No, no, let me alone!”She pushed him away from her; she pushed the satyrs away from her; she broke the round dance of the Bacchantes, who, drunken, shouted with drunken eyes and wide-open, screaming mouths.“Psyche! Psyche!” screamed all.She laughed loudly and coquettishly, like a spoilt child.“I will come back to-morrow, when you are sober!” she said with a mocking laugh. “Your voices are hoarse, your song is out of tune, your last grapes were sour! I will only have the sweet of your feast, and the bitter I will leave to you. Spread out your pantherskins; go and sleep off your drunkenness. If your feast has to last till winter, you need rest—rest for your hoarse throats, rest for your drunken legs, rest for your heads, muddled with wine.... I will come back to-morrow, when you are sober!”She gave a loud, mocking laugh, and rushed into the wood. It was a moonlight night; in the pale moonbeams she left the wild feast behind. The jealous Bacchantes danced round Bacchus, and embraced him.Psyche hastened on. Her temples throbbed, her heart beat, and her bosom heaved. When she was far enough away, she stopped, pressed both her hands to her bosom, and gave a deep sigh. More slowly she went on to the stream. Fresh was the autumn night, but burning were her naked limbs!The wood was still, save that in the top-most branches the wind moaned. Like a silvery ship the moon sailed forth from the luminous, ethereal sea, and the rushing mountain-stream foamed like snow on the rocks. With a longing desire for coolness and water, Psyche stepped down to the flags on the bank; with her hands she put aside the irises, and made her way throughthe ferns and plunged her foot into the water.Then the nymphs dived up.The NymphsThe Nymphs[To face p. 120“Psyche! Psyche!” cried they joyously, “Psyche with the splendid wings!”Psyche smiled. She threw herself into the water, and the snow-white foam dashed up.“Let me be with you a moment,” entreated Psyche. “Let me cool myself in your stream.”The nymphs pressed round her and carried her on their arms. She lay down at full length.“Cool my forehead, cool my cheeks, cool my heart!” she cried imploringly. “Dear nymphs, oh, cool my soul! Everything burns on me and in me; fire scorches my lips, fire scorches my brain.... O dear nymphs, cool me!”The nymphs sprinkled water on her; Psyche put her arm round the neck of one of them.“Your water-drops hiss on my forehead as on burning metal. Your flakes of foam evaporate on the fire in my breast. And on my soul, O dear nymphs, you cannot sprinkle your coolness!”The nymphs filled their stream-urns and poured them over Psyche.“Pour them all out! Pour them all out!” cried Psyche entreatingly. “But although my hair is dripping, and my wings and my limbs too, my lips are scorched, my poor forehead burns, and within me, O nymphs...! within me, my soul is consumed as in hell-fire...!”The nymphs took her gently in their arms; they dived with her below, they came up again; they kept diving up and down.“Oh, bathe me, bathe me!” cried Psyche imploringly. “Benevolent nymphs, bathe me! Some coolness still hangs about my body ... but my soul, oh, my soul you can never cool!” She wept, and the nymphs caught up her tears in mother-of-pearl shells.“Are you collecting my tears? Oh, no, they are not worth it. Once I wept a brook full; once they were drunk, drunk by Love; once they were pearls, and Love crowned me with them! Now, now they are like drops of wine, drops of fire, and though they should congeal and become rubies or topazes, they may never crown me more. Henceforth my tears I shall always shed ... for Emeralda!”In the shells the nymphs saw glistening pearls, and they understood not.... But all their urns they poured out upon Psyche’s eyes.“My eyes are getting cool, O beloved nymphs; many tears I shall never shed again; never again shall I weep a brook full.... But cool my soul, extinguish deep within me the burning flames!”“We cannot, Psyche....”“No, no, you cannot, O nymphs! Let me lie still, then, still in your arms. Let me rock quietly to and fro on your white-foaming water, then let me sleep quietly.... But in my sleep my soul keeps burning; in my dreams I see it flame up, high up as out of a hole in hell.... Oh!”She uttered a cry, as of pain.... The nymphs rocked her in their entwined arms, as in a cradle of lilies, and softly sang a song....“Nymphs, nymphs....! This is the fire that nothing can extinguish—no, never.... This is remorse....”The nymphs understood her not; they rocked her and sang in a low, soft voice.Chapter XIXThat morning she wandered about in the rosy autumn dawn—a mist between the trees stripped of leaves. Along the path she trod; on a skin she found a satyr and a Bacchante lying in a drunken sleep, tight in each other’s arms; a cup lay on the ground, a broken thyrsus, pressed-out grapes. She hastened on and sought the most lonely spots. The foliage became scantier, the trees grew farther apart, the wood ended in a plain and, violet misty, a perspective of very low hills.Psyche walked on over the plain and climbed the hills.The autumn wind blew and howled between shrubs and bushes, and sang the approach of winter. But Psyche felt not the cold, for her naked limbs glowed: her soul was all on fire.On the highest hill-top she looked out, her hand above her eyes, gazing into the violet mist.... Unconscious to herself, she hopedfor something vague and impossible: that she might see Eros, that he would come to her, that she would fall at his feet, that he would forgive her tenderly, and take her away with him. Impossible. “What was impossible? Could not everything be possible? Had he not followed the track of her tears? had he not found her in the arms of the Sphinx?” Oh, she hoped, she hoped, she hoped more definitely! Her remorse-burned soul longed for the balsam of his love in the palace of crystal, for the sounds of his lyre, for the tender words in the garden of the Present.She hoped, she gazed....In the pale glow of the morning sun, the violet mist cleared up, and parted like violet curtains....She gazed: there was the Present....There Eros would be, mourning for his naughty Psyche!There he would presently forgive her....Oh, how she hoped, how she longed!.... She longed; she stretched out her arms and dared cry in a plaintive voice:“Eros!”The wind blew through bush and shrub and sang the approach of winter. The violetcurtains of mist were drawn aside. The sad autumn morning appeared. There, now visible, lay the Present....And Psyche gazed, screening her eyes with her hand....There she saw her happiness of days gone by, destroyed. In a dead, withered garden, a ruin: crystal pillars crumbling to pieces. And between the pillars, spiders’ webs; all over the garden spiders’ webs, web upon web, and in them spiders with bloated bodies and lazy-moving feet....Then she saw that Emeralda was reigning!Then she felt that Eros was dead!She had murdered him!Oh, how her limbs glowed, how her soul burned! Oh, the burning pain within her, deep within—a pain which no grape-juice could allay, which no mad dance could deaden and the nymphs could not cool, though they poured over her all their urns! Oh, that hell in her soul, for the irretrievable desolation, for the murdered one, past recall! Oh, that suffering, not for herself, but for him—for another! that repentance, that burning remorse!....She fell to the ground and sobbed.The pale sunbeams faded away, thick grey clouds came sweeping along, a shower of hail rattled down, flinging handfuls of icy-cold stones....She felt a touch on her shoulder. She looked up.It was the Satyr who had allured her with his pipe, there, on that very spot.“Psyche!” said he, “what are you doing here, so far away from all of us? Winter is coming, Psyche; listen to the whistling winds, feel the rattling hail; the last leaves are being blown away. We are going to the South, and Prince Bacchus is seeking for you.... What are you doing here, and why are you crouching down and weeping?“We are having a feast and are fleeing the winter; come!”“I feel no cold; I am burning.... Let me stay here, and weep, and die....”“Why should you die, O Psyche, Psyche, so pretty and so gay—Psyche, the prettiest and gayest, who can dance the maddest, who can dance out all the Bacchantes? Come!....”She laughed through her tears, a laugh like a piercing shriek.“But Psyche, do you know what it is?”said the Satyr, whispering confidentially. “Do you know what it is that prevents you from being happy, and why you are not like all of us? I told you before, Psyche: it is on account of your wings. Your wings prevent you from putting a beast’s skin round you, and entwining your hair with vine. The nymphs find your wings pretty, but what do you want with things that are pretty, yet of no use whatever? If you could only fly with those wings!”... “If I could only fly with those wings!” said Psyche, sighing. “No, I have never been able to fly with them, my poor, weak wings!”“The nymphs think your wings pretty, but the nymphs are sentimental. The Bacchantes think them ugly, and laugh at you in secret. Prince Bacchus does not like wings either; he cannot embrace you well with those things on your back. Psyche, dear Psyche, listen: shall I tell you something....? You must let me cut those wings off with a pair of grape-scissors. For when you have got rid of your wings, then you can throw a panther’s skin round you, and put a vine-wreath round your hair, and you will be altogether one of us....”The wind blew, the hail rattled down: winter was coming on.... “Eros is dead!” murmured Psyche, “Spring is past, the Present is withered, Emeralda reigns.... ‘What are you doing with things that are pretty, and have no use at all...?’“If I cannot possibly get cool, if I keep burning deep within me ... it is better, perhaps, to renounce my princess’s rights, to go naked no longer, to have no wings....”“Tell me, Psyche, may I cut them off?”“Yes, clip them! Cut them right off, my wings, which are only pretty!” she cried fiercely. “Cut them off!!”His eyes glowed jet and gold, his breath came quickly from joy. He produced his sharp scissors....And whilst she knelt, he cut off both her wings.They fell on the ground and shrivelled up.“Oh, that pains, that pains!... Oh, that pains!” cried Psyche.“It is a little wound, it will soon heal,” said the Satyr soothingly, but grinning with pleasure.Then he threw a panther’s skin round her,put a wreath of vine-leaves on her head, and she was like a fair Bacchante still very young and tender, with her white skin, with her tender eyes of soul-innocence, in which, deep down, dejection reigned.“Psyche!” cried he delighted, “Psyche! How pretty you are!”She uttered her shrill laugh, her laugh of bitter irony. He led her away down the hills. She looked about: yonder lay the Present, reduced to dust and spider-webs. She looked about: in the wind, which was blowing, her wings whirled away, shrivelled up, whirled away like dry leaves.She laughed and put her arm round his neck, and they hastened back to the wood.The wind blew; the first snowflakes fell.
Chapter XIIIThe pleasant days followed each other like a row of laughing houris.... Eros and Psyche tended the flowers, which did not fade when Psyche stroked the stems or gently kissed the calyces. They wandered along the brook, and, if the days were warm, sought coolness under the crocus-coloured awning, in the crystal palace, where the doves cooed round the basin. The flutes played, or Eros himself took a lyre and sang, at Psyche’s feet, the stories of days gone by.It was one of the pleasures of the flower-laughing Present.Between the shrubs, where May strewed fragrant snow-blossom, naked, chubby cupids with tender wings played or romped, hovering like little clouds in the air.The sweet nights followed the pleasant days; the diamond stars, the same which Psyche had entreated to watch over her in the desert,glittered in the heavens. Under the roses, close to one another, slumbered the fair-winged children, tired out with play, their little mouths open and their chubby legs all folds. The air was heavy with the breath of lilac and jasmine; it was spring, it was the Present, it was night...!And while Psyche lay with her head against Eros’ shoulder and he wound his arm round her waist, while Psyche looked up at the stars, sacred in the violet night, the nightingale broke out into melody. The bird sang, and sang alone; everything was still. The bird sang, and let her notes fall in the air like drops of sprinkled sound, like the harmonious falling of water from a playing fountain. The bird sang, and Psyche closed her eyes, and felt on her lips Eros’ kiss.The days followed the nights. It was always the sweet pleasure of flowers and birds, of spring and love, cupids and roses, music and dance. The flowers were more beautiful, and did not fade; the fruits were sweeter and of richer colour; the spring air was lighter, and life was happier than a golden day. It was day which lasted days and nights; it was the Present.If Psyche were alone she longed for Eros, and when she saw him again she spread out her arms, and they loved each other. If Psyche were alone, she wandered about in the rosy spring morning; the flowers bowed down to her; the brook flowed cool over her feet; she played with the winged cherubs, who flew about her head like butterflies; she sat down in the moss full of violets; she bade the children take off her crown, loosen the plaits of her long hair, untie the knots of the drapery round her loins, and she lay down on the bank of the brook; her hand played with the clear cold water, and, naked in the shade of flowery shrubs, she fell asleep and the cupids round her. Then the step of the king awoke her; the children awoke; they dressed her, and she went to meet her husband, and received him with open arms. It was the sweet delight of the Present.The StormThe Storm[To face p. 90One day she was sleeping naked under the shrubs, the boys round about her; on the moss lay her crown and her veil, and the brooklet flowed on, gently murmuring. The day was very still, heavy with warmth. A storm was brewing, but the sky was still blue. In the far-off distance, where the horizon was likewaves of the sea, clouds pregnant with storm curled up gloomily like ostrich feathers. And once there was lightning, but no thunder.Then above the ridge of the hill something dark appeared to rise against the stormy clouds. It was round like a head, like a black head. From the black head leered two eyes, black as jet, and nothing more appeared. Long leered the eyes; then from the palace a voice cried.“Psyche, Psyche!”Psyche awoke, and the cupids with her. Eros approached and led her away. The air grew dark, and the next moment the summer storm burst forth, dark sky, lightning, rain, and thunder rapidly rolling on. It lasted only for a time; then the sky became blue again, the flowers recovered their breath and raised their drooping heads, shaking with fresh rain.
Chapter XIII
The pleasant days followed each other like a row of laughing houris.... Eros and Psyche tended the flowers, which did not fade when Psyche stroked the stems or gently kissed the calyces. They wandered along the brook, and, if the days were warm, sought coolness under the crocus-coloured awning, in the crystal palace, where the doves cooed round the basin. The flutes played, or Eros himself took a lyre and sang, at Psyche’s feet, the stories of days gone by.It was one of the pleasures of the flower-laughing Present.Between the shrubs, where May strewed fragrant snow-blossom, naked, chubby cupids with tender wings played or romped, hovering like little clouds in the air.The sweet nights followed the pleasant days; the diamond stars, the same which Psyche had entreated to watch over her in the desert,glittered in the heavens. Under the roses, close to one another, slumbered the fair-winged children, tired out with play, their little mouths open and their chubby legs all folds. The air was heavy with the breath of lilac and jasmine; it was spring, it was the Present, it was night...!And while Psyche lay with her head against Eros’ shoulder and he wound his arm round her waist, while Psyche looked up at the stars, sacred in the violet night, the nightingale broke out into melody. The bird sang, and sang alone; everything was still. The bird sang, and let her notes fall in the air like drops of sprinkled sound, like the harmonious falling of water from a playing fountain. The bird sang, and Psyche closed her eyes, and felt on her lips Eros’ kiss.The days followed the nights. It was always the sweet pleasure of flowers and birds, of spring and love, cupids and roses, music and dance. The flowers were more beautiful, and did not fade; the fruits were sweeter and of richer colour; the spring air was lighter, and life was happier than a golden day. It was day which lasted days and nights; it was the Present.If Psyche were alone she longed for Eros, and when she saw him again she spread out her arms, and they loved each other. If Psyche were alone, she wandered about in the rosy spring morning; the flowers bowed down to her; the brook flowed cool over her feet; she played with the winged cherubs, who flew about her head like butterflies; she sat down in the moss full of violets; she bade the children take off her crown, loosen the plaits of her long hair, untie the knots of the drapery round her loins, and she lay down on the bank of the brook; her hand played with the clear cold water, and, naked in the shade of flowery shrubs, she fell asleep and the cupids round her. Then the step of the king awoke her; the children awoke; they dressed her, and she went to meet her husband, and received him with open arms. It was the sweet delight of the Present.The StormThe Storm[To face p. 90One day she was sleeping naked under the shrubs, the boys round about her; on the moss lay her crown and her veil, and the brooklet flowed on, gently murmuring. The day was very still, heavy with warmth. A storm was brewing, but the sky was still blue. In the far-off distance, where the horizon was likewaves of the sea, clouds pregnant with storm curled up gloomily like ostrich feathers. And once there was lightning, but no thunder.Then above the ridge of the hill something dark appeared to rise against the stormy clouds. It was round like a head, like a black head. From the black head leered two eyes, black as jet, and nothing more appeared. Long leered the eyes; then from the palace a voice cried.“Psyche, Psyche!”Psyche awoke, and the cupids with her. Eros approached and led her away. The air grew dark, and the next moment the summer storm burst forth, dark sky, lightning, rain, and thunder rapidly rolling on. It lasted only for a time; then the sky became blue again, the flowers recovered their breath and raised their drooping heads, shaking with fresh rain.
The pleasant days followed each other like a row of laughing houris.... Eros and Psyche tended the flowers, which did not fade when Psyche stroked the stems or gently kissed the calyces. They wandered along the brook, and, if the days were warm, sought coolness under the crocus-coloured awning, in the crystal palace, where the doves cooed round the basin. The flutes played, or Eros himself took a lyre and sang, at Psyche’s feet, the stories of days gone by.
It was one of the pleasures of the flower-laughing Present.
Between the shrubs, where May strewed fragrant snow-blossom, naked, chubby cupids with tender wings played or romped, hovering like little clouds in the air.
The sweet nights followed the pleasant days; the diamond stars, the same which Psyche had entreated to watch over her in the desert,glittered in the heavens. Under the roses, close to one another, slumbered the fair-winged children, tired out with play, their little mouths open and their chubby legs all folds. The air was heavy with the breath of lilac and jasmine; it was spring, it was the Present, it was night...!
And while Psyche lay with her head against Eros’ shoulder and he wound his arm round her waist, while Psyche looked up at the stars, sacred in the violet night, the nightingale broke out into melody. The bird sang, and sang alone; everything was still. The bird sang, and let her notes fall in the air like drops of sprinkled sound, like the harmonious falling of water from a playing fountain. The bird sang, and Psyche closed her eyes, and felt on her lips Eros’ kiss.
The days followed the nights. It was always the sweet pleasure of flowers and birds, of spring and love, cupids and roses, music and dance. The flowers were more beautiful, and did not fade; the fruits were sweeter and of richer colour; the spring air was lighter, and life was happier than a golden day. It was day which lasted days and nights; it was the Present.
If Psyche were alone she longed for Eros, and when she saw him again she spread out her arms, and they loved each other. If Psyche were alone, she wandered about in the rosy spring morning; the flowers bowed down to her; the brook flowed cool over her feet; she played with the winged cherubs, who flew about her head like butterflies; she sat down in the moss full of violets; she bade the children take off her crown, loosen the plaits of her long hair, untie the knots of the drapery round her loins, and she lay down on the bank of the brook; her hand played with the clear cold water, and, naked in the shade of flowery shrubs, she fell asleep and the cupids round her. Then the step of the king awoke her; the children awoke; they dressed her, and she went to meet her husband, and received him with open arms. It was the sweet delight of the Present.
The StormThe Storm[To face p. 90
The Storm
[To face p. 90
One day she was sleeping naked under the shrubs, the boys round about her; on the moss lay her crown and her veil, and the brooklet flowed on, gently murmuring. The day was very still, heavy with warmth. A storm was brewing, but the sky was still blue. In the far-off distance, where the horizon was likewaves of the sea, clouds pregnant with storm curled up gloomily like ostrich feathers. And once there was lightning, but no thunder.
Then above the ridge of the hill something dark appeared to rise against the stormy clouds. It was round like a head, like a black head. From the black head leered two eyes, black as jet, and nothing more appeared. Long leered the eyes; then from the palace a voice cried.
“Psyche, Psyche!”
Psyche awoke, and the cupids with her. Eros approached and led her away. The air grew dark, and the next moment the summer storm burst forth, dark sky, lightning, rain, and thunder rapidly rolling on. It lasted only for a time; then the sky became blue again, the flowers recovered their breath and raised their drooping heads, shaking with fresh rain.
Chapter XIVNext day, when Psyche was sleeping again by the brook, the dark head with the leering eyes of jet appeared again on the horizon. For a long time the eyes leered, full of lust. Then the head rose up higher like a dark sun, behind the hill-slope in the sky.It was a face tanned by the sun, with coal-black hair; round the temples a wreath of vine leaves, and from the wreath protruded two horns like those of a young goat.The eyes looked lustful and young, as though they were jet and gold. The lips laughed in the curly beard, and the sharp teeth were dazzling white; the pointed ears stood up.Then the dark face became perfectly visible in the light; the shoulders rose brown and naked, and two brown hands with long fingers lifted to the lips a pipe of short and long reeds. The pipe played a fanfare, a march of very quick notes. Then it stopped, and the gold-jeteyes leered. Psyche moved in her sleep. Then the pipe sounded again, and Psyche opened her eyes. Astonished, she listened to the notes of the pipe, as they rose and fell so as she had never heard before, lively and wanton, quick and playful. She sat up, leant on her arm, and looked....She started. There, on the horizon, like a dark sun, she saw the brown face and the lips in the curly beard blowing the reeds, short and long. Psyche started and looked on trembling. Then the pipe stopped again, and roguishly the head nodded to her. Psyche was frightened; she woke the boys. She fled away. From the palace Eros came to meet her.At first she meant to speak, but he kissed her; and why, she did not know, but she spoke not. Then she made up her mind to tell Eros that night, but in her husband’s arms she lacked the courage to speak. She did not tell him. The next morning she resolved not to repose again in the moss by the brook. But that afternoon she played with the cupids, and tired, fell asleep in the same place. The pipe awoke her; on the horizon, the brown face stood out against the sun, and roguishly nodded to her.Psyche, indignant, looked up.The head rose, the shoulders rose, and the whole form then rose up: a sunburnt youth, with the legs of a goat, rough-haired and cloven hoofs. There he stood, his dark shadow reflected in the golden rays of the setting sun. He blew his reeds; he piped lustily and merrily, roguishly and joyously and as well as he could, to please Psyche. She listened—about her the boys were sleeping—and she smiled. He saw her smile and smiled too. Then proudly she pointed with her finger for him to go. He went, but the next day he was there again. Then she saw him every day. He stood in the sun, which was going down, and blew his reeds, laughed and nodded to her roguishly. Sometimes Psyche bade him be gone; sometimes she pretended not to see who was playing there; sometimes she listened graciously. When she heard the king call:The SatyrThe Satyr[To face p. 94“Psyche! Psyche!” she woke the cupids, who dressed her in a moment, and went to meet her husband. She kissed him, and wished to tell him that every day a young man with goats’ legs stood on the hill and played upon his pipe. But because she had kept silence so long, she was silent again, and could notopen her lips. It made her sad, and Eros saw her sadness, and often asked her what it was that disturbed the equanimity of her soul. She said “Nothing,” and embraced him and declared that she was happy. But when the lark warbled and the nightingale’s sweet notes were heard, when Eros sang to the lyre and the brook murmured gently, Psyche always heard, between the pleasant sounds, the impudent tunes of the reeds, short and long. She tried not to hear, but she always heard them. They sounded saucily and merrily, like the sounds of a little bird in a wood calling something to her from afar; she heard, but did not yet understand what.One day, when he stood in the same place blowing lustily with puffed-out cheeks, Psyche, indignant, rose with her lips closely pressed together. She put her veil on and wound it tightly round her loins, without waking the boys. Then, with a firm step and innocently, she crossed a little slope, and came into a valley, a valley of grass; there the brook flowed away between multitudes of irises and narcissi. The goat, leering and laughing, tripped nimbly down the hill on his hoofs to meet her.“Who are you?” said Psyche haughtily.“I am the Satyr,” said he deferentially. “And now will you just see me dance?”He piped a waltz, and danced for her to the measure of his tripping music. He turned out his feet, spun round and round, and underneath, on his back, she saw his tiny tail wagging. She laughed, and found him amusing, with his tail, and feet, and horns. Then he turned a somersault, and finished his dance with a bow.“You may not come here,” said Psyche severely. “This is the Kingdom of the Present, and I am the queen, and my husband is Eros, the king of this kingdom. You dance indeed nicely, and you play rather pretty tunes, but you may not come here. We have here the lark and the nightingale, and my husband sings to the lyre.”“That is classical music,” said the Satyr.“I don’t know what you mean byclassical music. But you may not come here and pipe, and disturb me in my afternoon slumber. If my husband knew it, he would be very angry, and have you torn to pieces by two raging griffons.”“I am not afraid of that,” said the Satyr.“Why, I tame panthers, and they are much more dangerous.”“I had pity on you,” continued Psyche severely, raising her head in queenly dignity, “and have not yet said anything to the king. But if you come again to-morrow, I will tell him.”“No, you won’t!” said the Satyr saucily.“You are an ill-mannered boy!” said Psyche, angry and offended. “You must not speak so to a princess. I ought not to condescend to speak to you. I can see very well that you don’t know how people behave at court, and that you come from the wood. And you are ugly, too, with your hairy feet and your tail.”The Satyr looked at her astonished.“I think you very pretty!” he whispered admiringly. “Oh, I think you so pretty! You have such pretty eyes, and such golden hair, and such a white skin! Only, I don’t like your wings. The nymphs haven’t any.”“You may not speak to me like that!” said Psyche vexed. “I am the queen. How dare you? Go away now, else I will call the wild beasts here.”“Well, don’t be angry!” said the Satyr ina low, imploring tone. “That is my way of speaking. We all speak like that in the wood. The Bacchantes, too, are not particular what they say. We are unacquainted with your court language. And we don’t know anything of classical music. But we are always very merry and sociable together; but you must come once....”“Are you going?” said Psyche imperiously, and red with passion, and with her finger she pointed to him to be gone. He crouched down suddenly in the reeds of the brook among the irises and narcissi, and she saw him stealing away through the high grass. When she turned round she beheld the cupids; they were bringing her her crown.“The king is looking for you, Psyche!” they cried out in the distance, and like a cloud they hovered round her.She went back with them and threw herself into the arms of her husband.“Don’t roam so far away, my little Psyche!” said Eros. “In the wood behind the hills are wild beasts....”Night came on; Eros sang, the nightingale filled the air with her sweet notes.“Classical music!” thought Psyche.
Chapter XIV
Next day, when Psyche was sleeping again by the brook, the dark head with the leering eyes of jet appeared again on the horizon. For a long time the eyes leered, full of lust. Then the head rose up higher like a dark sun, behind the hill-slope in the sky.It was a face tanned by the sun, with coal-black hair; round the temples a wreath of vine leaves, and from the wreath protruded two horns like those of a young goat.The eyes looked lustful and young, as though they were jet and gold. The lips laughed in the curly beard, and the sharp teeth were dazzling white; the pointed ears stood up.Then the dark face became perfectly visible in the light; the shoulders rose brown and naked, and two brown hands with long fingers lifted to the lips a pipe of short and long reeds. The pipe played a fanfare, a march of very quick notes. Then it stopped, and the gold-jeteyes leered. Psyche moved in her sleep. Then the pipe sounded again, and Psyche opened her eyes. Astonished, she listened to the notes of the pipe, as they rose and fell so as she had never heard before, lively and wanton, quick and playful. She sat up, leant on her arm, and looked....She started. There, on the horizon, like a dark sun, she saw the brown face and the lips in the curly beard blowing the reeds, short and long. Psyche started and looked on trembling. Then the pipe stopped again, and roguishly the head nodded to her. Psyche was frightened; she woke the boys. She fled away. From the palace Eros came to meet her.At first she meant to speak, but he kissed her; and why, she did not know, but she spoke not. Then she made up her mind to tell Eros that night, but in her husband’s arms she lacked the courage to speak. She did not tell him. The next morning she resolved not to repose again in the moss by the brook. But that afternoon she played with the cupids, and tired, fell asleep in the same place. The pipe awoke her; on the horizon, the brown face stood out against the sun, and roguishly nodded to her.Psyche, indignant, looked up.The head rose, the shoulders rose, and the whole form then rose up: a sunburnt youth, with the legs of a goat, rough-haired and cloven hoofs. There he stood, his dark shadow reflected in the golden rays of the setting sun. He blew his reeds; he piped lustily and merrily, roguishly and joyously and as well as he could, to please Psyche. She listened—about her the boys were sleeping—and she smiled. He saw her smile and smiled too. Then proudly she pointed with her finger for him to go. He went, but the next day he was there again. Then she saw him every day. He stood in the sun, which was going down, and blew his reeds, laughed and nodded to her roguishly. Sometimes Psyche bade him be gone; sometimes she pretended not to see who was playing there; sometimes she listened graciously. When she heard the king call:The SatyrThe Satyr[To face p. 94“Psyche! Psyche!” she woke the cupids, who dressed her in a moment, and went to meet her husband. She kissed him, and wished to tell him that every day a young man with goats’ legs stood on the hill and played upon his pipe. But because she had kept silence so long, she was silent again, and could notopen her lips. It made her sad, and Eros saw her sadness, and often asked her what it was that disturbed the equanimity of her soul. She said “Nothing,” and embraced him and declared that she was happy. But when the lark warbled and the nightingale’s sweet notes were heard, when Eros sang to the lyre and the brook murmured gently, Psyche always heard, between the pleasant sounds, the impudent tunes of the reeds, short and long. She tried not to hear, but she always heard them. They sounded saucily and merrily, like the sounds of a little bird in a wood calling something to her from afar; she heard, but did not yet understand what.One day, when he stood in the same place blowing lustily with puffed-out cheeks, Psyche, indignant, rose with her lips closely pressed together. She put her veil on and wound it tightly round her loins, without waking the boys. Then, with a firm step and innocently, she crossed a little slope, and came into a valley, a valley of grass; there the brook flowed away between multitudes of irises and narcissi. The goat, leering and laughing, tripped nimbly down the hill on his hoofs to meet her.“Who are you?” said Psyche haughtily.“I am the Satyr,” said he deferentially. “And now will you just see me dance?”He piped a waltz, and danced for her to the measure of his tripping music. He turned out his feet, spun round and round, and underneath, on his back, she saw his tiny tail wagging. She laughed, and found him amusing, with his tail, and feet, and horns. Then he turned a somersault, and finished his dance with a bow.“You may not come here,” said Psyche severely. “This is the Kingdom of the Present, and I am the queen, and my husband is Eros, the king of this kingdom. You dance indeed nicely, and you play rather pretty tunes, but you may not come here. We have here the lark and the nightingale, and my husband sings to the lyre.”“That is classical music,” said the Satyr.“I don’t know what you mean byclassical music. But you may not come here and pipe, and disturb me in my afternoon slumber. If my husband knew it, he would be very angry, and have you torn to pieces by two raging griffons.”“I am not afraid of that,” said the Satyr.“Why, I tame panthers, and they are much more dangerous.”“I had pity on you,” continued Psyche severely, raising her head in queenly dignity, “and have not yet said anything to the king. But if you come again to-morrow, I will tell him.”“No, you won’t!” said the Satyr saucily.“You are an ill-mannered boy!” said Psyche, angry and offended. “You must not speak so to a princess. I ought not to condescend to speak to you. I can see very well that you don’t know how people behave at court, and that you come from the wood. And you are ugly, too, with your hairy feet and your tail.”The Satyr looked at her astonished.“I think you very pretty!” he whispered admiringly. “Oh, I think you so pretty! You have such pretty eyes, and such golden hair, and such a white skin! Only, I don’t like your wings. The nymphs haven’t any.”“You may not speak to me like that!” said Psyche vexed. “I am the queen. How dare you? Go away now, else I will call the wild beasts here.”“Well, don’t be angry!” said the Satyr ina low, imploring tone. “That is my way of speaking. We all speak like that in the wood. The Bacchantes, too, are not particular what they say. We are unacquainted with your court language. And we don’t know anything of classical music. But we are always very merry and sociable together; but you must come once....”“Are you going?” said Psyche imperiously, and red with passion, and with her finger she pointed to him to be gone. He crouched down suddenly in the reeds of the brook among the irises and narcissi, and she saw him stealing away through the high grass. When she turned round she beheld the cupids; they were bringing her her crown.“The king is looking for you, Psyche!” they cried out in the distance, and like a cloud they hovered round her.She went back with them and threw herself into the arms of her husband.“Don’t roam so far away, my little Psyche!” said Eros. “In the wood behind the hills are wild beasts....”Night came on; Eros sang, the nightingale filled the air with her sweet notes.“Classical music!” thought Psyche.
Next day, when Psyche was sleeping again by the brook, the dark head with the leering eyes of jet appeared again on the horizon. For a long time the eyes leered, full of lust. Then the head rose up higher like a dark sun, behind the hill-slope in the sky.
It was a face tanned by the sun, with coal-black hair; round the temples a wreath of vine leaves, and from the wreath protruded two horns like those of a young goat.
The eyes looked lustful and young, as though they were jet and gold. The lips laughed in the curly beard, and the sharp teeth were dazzling white; the pointed ears stood up.
Then the dark face became perfectly visible in the light; the shoulders rose brown and naked, and two brown hands with long fingers lifted to the lips a pipe of short and long reeds. The pipe played a fanfare, a march of very quick notes. Then it stopped, and the gold-jeteyes leered. Psyche moved in her sleep. Then the pipe sounded again, and Psyche opened her eyes. Astonished, she listened to the notes of the pipe, as they rose and fell so as she had never heard before, lively and wanton, quick and playful. She sat up, leant on her arm, and looked....
She started. There, on the horizon, like a dark sun, she saw the brown face and the lips in the curly beard blowing the reeds, short and long. Psyche started and looked on trembling. Then the pipe stopped again, and roguishly the head nodded to her. Psyche was frightened; she woke the boys. She fled away. From the palace Eros came to meet her.
At first she meant to speak, but he kissed her; and why, she did not know, but she spoke not. Then she made up her mind to tell Eros that night, but in her husband’s arms she lacked the courage to speak. She did not tell him. The next morning she resolved not to repose again in the moss by the brook. But that afternoon she played with the cupids, and tired, fell asleep in the same place. The pipe awoke her; on the horizon, the brown face stood out against the sun, and roguishly nodded to her.
Psyche, indignant, looked up.
The head rose, the shoulders rose, and the whole form then rose up: a sunburnt youth, with the legs of a goat, rough-haired and cloven hoofs. There he stood, his dark shadow reflected in the golden rays of the setting sun. He blew his reeds; he piped lustily and merrily, roguishly and joyously and as well as he could, to please Psyche. She listened—about her the boys were sleeping—and she smiled. He saw her smile and smiled too. Then proudly she pointed with her finger for him to go. He went, but the next day he was there again. Then she saw him every day. He stood in the sun, which was going down, and blew his reeds, laughed and nodded to her roguishly. Sometimes Psyche bade him be gone; sometimes she pretended not to see who was playing there; sometimes she listened graciously. When she heard the king call:
The SatyrThe Satyr[To face p. 94
The Satyr
[To face p. 94
“Psyche! Psyche!” she woke the cupids, who dressed her in a moment, and went to meet her husband. She kissed him, and wished to tell him that every day a young man with goats’ legs stood on the hill and played upon his pipe. But because she had kept silence so long, she was silent again, and could notopen her lips. It made her sad, and Eros saw her sadness, and often asked her what it was that disturbed the equanimity of her soul. She said “Nothing,” and embraced him and declared that she was happy. But when the lark warbled and the nightingale’s sweet notes were heard, when Eros sang to the lyre and the brook murmured gently, Psyche always heard, between the pleasant sounds, the impudent tunes of the reeds, short and long. She tried not to hear, but she always heard them. They sounded saucily and merrily, like the sounds of a little bird in a wood calling something to her from afar; she heard, but did not yet understand what.
One day, when he stood in the same place blowing lustily with puffed-out cheeks, Psyche, indignant, rose with her lips closely pressed together. She put her veil on and wound it tightly round her loins, without waking the boys. Then, with a firm step and innocently, she crossed a little slope, and came into a valley, a valley of grass; there the brook flowed away between multitudes of irises and narcissi. The goat, leering and laughing, tripped nimbly down the hill on his hoofs to meet her.
“Who are you?” said Psyche haughtily.
“I am the Satyr,” said he deferentially. “And now will you just see me dance?”
He piped a waltz, and danced for her to the measure of his tripping music. He turned out his feet, spun round and round, and underneath, on his back, she saw his tiny tail wagging. She laughed, and found him amusing, with his tail, and feet, and horns. Then he turned a somersault, and finished his dance with a bow.
“You may not come here,” said Psyche severely. “This is the Kingdom of the Present, and I am the queen, and my husband is Eros, the king of this kingdom. You dance indeed nicely, and you play rather pretty tunes, but you may not come here. We have here the lark and the nightingale, and my husband sings to the lyre.”
“That is classical music,” said the Satyr.
“I don’t know what you mean byclassical music. But you may not come here and pipe, and disturb me in my afternoon slumber. If my husband knew it, he would be very angry, and have you torn to pieces by two raging griffons.”
“I am not afraid of that,” said the Satyr.“Why, I tame panthers, and they are much more dangerous.”
“I had pity on you,” continued Psyche severely, raising her head in queenly dignity, “and have not yet said anything to the king. But if you come again to-morrow, I will tell him.”
“No, you won’t!” said the Satyr saucily.
“You are an ill-mannered boy!” said Psyche, angry and offended. “You must not speak so to a princess. I ought not to condescend to speak to you. I can see very well that you don’t know how people behave at court, and that you come from the wood. And you are ugly, too, with your hairy feet and your tail.”
The Satyr looked at her astonished.
“I think you very pretty!” he whispered admiringly. “Oh, I think you so pretty! You have such pretty eyes, and such golden hair, and such a white skin! Only, I don’t like your wings. The nymphs haven’t any.”
“You may not speak to me like that!” said Psyche vexed. “I am the queen. How dare you? Go away now, else I will call the wild beasts here.”
“Well, don’t be angry!” said the Satyr ina low, imploring tone. “That is my way of speaking. We all speak like that in the wood. The Bacchantes, too, are not particular what they say. We are unacquainted with your court language. And we don’t know anything of classical music. But we are always very merry and sociable together; but you must come once....”
“Are you going?” said Psyche imperiously, and red with passion, and with her finger she pointed to him to be gone. He crouched down suddenly in the reeds of the brook among the irises and narcissi, and she saw him stealing away through the high grass. When she turned round she beheld the cupids; they were bringing her her crown.
“The king is looking for you, Psyche!” they cried out in the distance, and like a cloud they hovered round her.
She went back with them and threw herself into the arms of her husband.
“Don’t roam so far away, my little Psyche!” said Eros. “In the wood behind the hills are wild beasts....”
Night came on; Eros sang, the nightingale filled the air with her sweet notes.
“Classical music!” thought Psyche.
Chapter XVPsyche had a secret. Why did she not tell it? She did not know. She could not, after having once kept silent. She knew that she was not doing right by being silent, and yet she did not speak. But she was very sad about it, and felt dissatisfied. Then she wanted to speak with Eros; but because she had said nothing at first, she was afraid. And then she said to herself: “The Satyr does nothing wrong by standing there and piping a little, and it is not worth while thinking much about it....”And yet shedidthink about it, and in her ears she always heard his saucy voice, his coarse words, countrified and funny.Then she laughed about it all.“But what does he do—what is he? a Satyr? What is a Satyr? What are Bacchantes? And what are nymphs? Panthers, too, I have never seen. I should like to seethem. What is their life there in the wood? There are many lives in the world, and most of them are a secret. I only know the courtiers of the Kingdom of the Past.... Here there are the two girls that play on the pipe and the winged children. I should like to see all that there is in the world, and experience all that is in life. There must be strange things, which I never see.... The Chimera was glorious, and deep in my soul I always long for him; but in other respects everything is the same.... No wonders take place in this garden.... Eros is a young prince; then there are the doves, the griffons, the cupids.... That is all so commonplace.... Oh, to seek, to wander! The world is so great! the universe is awful, although it has limits. My father said it had no limits.... Oh, if it had no limits...! Oh,to seek, to wander, to soarin the air!... I shall never see the Chimera again. Never shall I soar in the air again.... He conjured up visions for me, and then let them pass away.... Oh, to soar through the air! When shall I see him again, and when shall I soar again...? Eros I love—he is my husband; but he has no wings. The Chimera had powerful wingsof silver feathers. He has left me for ever....”So, alone with her thought, she wandered in the garden. The cupids she drove away, and, crying, they hid themselves among the roses. When the Satyr appeared, she went to meet him in the valley, where the irises were blooming.“So, you are there again!”“Yes! won’t you just see me dance again?”He danced and frisked his tail.“I have already told you more than once that you may not come here,” said Psyche severely.He winked roguishly; he knew very well that his presence was not disagreeable to her.“You are so beautiful!” he said, in his most flattering tone; “much more beautiful than any of the nymphs.”“And the Bacchantes, then?” said Psyche.“Much more beautiful than the Bacchantes!” he answered. “But they are also very nice. Tell me, wouldn’t you like to see them?”Psyche was very inquisitive, and he noticed it.“Won’t you just see them?” he repeated temptingly.“Where?” said Psyche.“Look ... there!” He pointed in the distance with his finger.On the hill Psyche saw forms madly whirling round in a dance.“Those are the Bacchantes!” said the Satyr. Psyche laughed.“How madly they whirl round!” she exclaimed. “Are they always so merry?”“Oh, we are always dancing,” said the Satyr. “In the wood it is always pleasure. We play at tag with one another, we drink the juice of the grapes, and we dance till nightfall.”“Psyche! Psyche!” called a voice.It was her husband. The Satyr fled through the flags, and Psyche hastened back.She threw herself into Eros’ arms, who asked her where she had been. And without answering him, she began to cry and hid her face in his breast.“What is it, little Psyche?” asked Eros. “Are you in trouble? Amongst the roses the boys cry, and by the brook the queen cries. Is there then sadness in my kingdom? Does not Psyche feel happy?”She wept and shrugged her shoulders, as ifto say that she did not know. And she hid her face in his breast.“Tell me, Psyche, what is the matter?”She would have liked to tell him, but she could not; a stronger power kept her back.“Does not Psyche feel happy? Does she long for the Chimera?”She laid her little hand upon his lips.“Don’t speak about him. I am not worthy of him. I am not worthy of you, Eros.”He kissed her very gently.“What does my Psyche think about? May I not leave her any more, alone by the brook?”“No, no!” said she hastily, and drew his arms round her.... “No,” she continued quickly. “Don’t leave me alone any more. Always stay by me. Protect me from myself, O Eros...!”“Is little Psyche ill?”She nodded in the affirmative, and laid her burning head upon his breast; she nestled against him and shut her feverish eyes.He stayed by her, and all around was still, and the cupids appeared fluttering in the air. That night she slept in Eros’ arms. She awoke for a moment out of her sleep; faraway in the distance through the crystal of the palace she heard the sound of pipes. She raised her head and listened. But she would not hear any more, and hid herself in Eros’ arms and fell asleep on his heart.The next day he stayed by her, and they wandered to the brook. Sadness hung over the garden, the flowers drooped. In the afternoon Psyche became uneasy; she heard the pipe, and in the distance caught a glimpse of vague forms dancing.“Do you see nothing?” she asked Eros.“No....”“Do you hear nothing?” she said again.“No,” he answered. “Poor Psyche is ill. And the flowers are ill too, because she is. Oh, let Eros cure you...!”The following night, in the arms of her husband, she heard the pipe. It played saucy, short, lively tunes. “Come, come, now dance with us; we are drinking the grapes. Come ... come...!”She could resist no longer. Trembling, she loosed herself from her husband’s arms, who was asleep. She got up, stole out of the palace, fled through the garden to the alluring voice.The flowers in the brook seemed to entreather: “Oh, go not away! Oh, go not away!” The nightingale uttered a cry, and she thought it was an owl.She hurried on to the valley, where the irises were in blossom. There, near the brook, in the light of the moon, stood the Satyr, tripping to the sound of his pipe, and round him, hand in hand, madly danced the Bacchantes, naked, a panther’s skin cast about them, their wild streaming hair encircled with vine-leaves. They danced like drunken spectres in the pale moonlight night; they waved their thyrsus, and pelted each other with grapes, which smashed to juice upon their faces.“Come, come!” they cried triumphantly.Psyche was startled by their voices, rough and hoarse. But they opened their circle, two stretched their hand out to Psyche, and they danced round with her. The wild dance excited her; she had never known till then what dancing was, and she danced with sparkling eyes. She waved a thyrsus, and pressed the grapes to her mouth.... Then suddenly the Satyr caught hold of her and kissed her passionately, pressing the grapes to her lips....“Psyche! Psyche!”She started and stood still. The Bacchantes, the Satyr, fled.Psyche hastened back; with her hand she wiped her contaminated, burning lips.“... Psyche!”She ran to meet Eros, but when she saw him, godlike and beautiful as an image, spotlessly pure in the moonlight, with his noble countenance, his deep brown eyes full of love, she was so disgusted with herself that she fell at his feet in a swoon.He lifted her up and laid her on the bed.He watched while she slumbered.The whole night he watched by her....And it seemed as if she were wandering in her mind....Her face glowed with fever, and ever and anon she wiped her lips.Outside in the garden the flowers drooped in sorrow. The lark was silent, and the little angels sat together with their wings drawn in. The sky was ash-coloured and gloomy.That night Psyche slept in Eros’ arms, and afar off the pipe allured her....She extracted herself from Eros’ embrace and got up....She wanted to kiss him for the last time, but durst not, for fear of waking him.“Farewell!” she whispered very gently. “Noble Eros, beloved husband, farewell! I am unworthy of you. The Satyr’s kiss is still burning on my lips; my mouth is on fire from the juice of the grapes. Farewell...! And if you can, forgive me!”She went.The night was sultry and heavy with thunder; the flowers, exhausted, hung their heads; the nightingale uttered a cry, and she thought it was an owl. Bats flitted about with flapping wings.She walked with a firm step. She followed the brook to where it flowed into the valley. Yonder ... with the Satyr in their midst, danced the Bacchantes.“Hurrah! Hurrah!” they cried out, rough and hoarse, and threw at her a bunch of grapes.She hesitated a moment.... She raised her eyes. Through the gloomy night a single star glistened like a cold, proud eye.“Sacred star!” said Psyche, “you who watched over me before, and now leave me for ever ... tell him that I am unworthy of him and beg him to forgive me!”The star hid itself in the darkness.“Come!” cried the Bacchantes.Psyche took a step forward....“Brook!” she then cried, “little stream of the land of the Present, babbling pure and peacefully, in which I never more may cool myself ... oh, tell him that I am unworthy of him and beg him to forgive me!”The brook went murmuring over the stones, and muttered: “No, no....”“Come, come!” cried the Bacchantes.Then Psyche plucked a single violet, white as a maiden’s face.“Sweet violet!” said she, “humble flower, don’t be proud. Your queen, who is forsaking her kingdom, entreats the star and brook in vain. She is no longer a queen. She is no longer obeyed. Sweet violet, hear the prayer of Psyche, who, unworthy, is forsaking the Present....”The BacchantesThe Bacchantes[To face p. 108“Stay, Psyche!” implored the flower in her hand.“Dear little flower!” said Psyche, “born in the moss, withering when you are plucked, what do you know of gods and mortals? What do you know of soul and life and power? Psyche can no longer stay. Butbeg Love to forgive her...! Oh, give him my last message!”She kissed the flower and laid it in the moss.“Psyche! Psyche! Come!” cried the Bacchantes.She sprang forward into the midst of the dance.“Here I am!” she cried wildly. And they dragged her away with them to the wood.
Chapter XV
Psyche had a secret. Why did she not tell it? She did not know. She could not, after having once kept silent. She knew that she was not doing right by being silent, and yet she did not speak. But she was very sad about it, and felt dissatisfied. Then she wanted to speak with Eros; but because she had said nothing at first, she was afraid. And then she said to herself: “The Satyr does nothing wrong by standing there and piping a little, and it is not worth while thinking much about it....”And yet shedidthink about it, and in her ears she always heard his saucy voice, his coarse words, countrified and funny.Then she laughed about it all.“But what does he do—what is he? a Satyr? What is a Satyr? What are Bacchantes? And what are nymphs? Panthers, too, I have never seen. I should like to seethem. What is their life there in the wood? There are many lives in the world, and most of them are a secret. I only know the courtiers of the Kingdom of the Past.... Here there are the two girls that play on the pipe and the winged children. I should like to see all that there is in the world, and experience all that is in life. There must be strange things, which I never see.... The Chimera was glorious, and deep in my soul I always long for him; but in other respects everything is the same.... No wonders take place in this garden.... Eros is a young prince; then there are the doves, the griffons, the cupids.... That is all so commonplace.... Oh, to seek, to wander! The world is so great! the universe is awful, although it has limits. My father said it had no limits.... Oh, if it had no limits...! Oh,to seek, to wander, to soarin the air!... I shall never see the Chimera again. Never shall I soar in the air again.... He conjured up visions for me, and then let them pass away.... Oh, to soar through the air! When shall I see him again, and when shall I soar again...? Eros I love—he is my husband; but he has no wings. The Chimera had powerful wingsof silver feathers. He has left me for ever....”So, alone with her thought, she wandered in the garden. The cupids she drove away, and, crying, they hid themselves among the roses. When the Satyr appeared, she went to meet him in the valley, where the irises were blooming.“So, you are there again!”“Yes! won’t you just see me dance again?”He danced and frisked his tail.“I have already told you more than once that you may not come here,” said Psyche severely.He winked roguishly; he knew very well that his presence was not disagreeable to her.“You are so beautiful!” he said, in his most flattering tone; “much more beautiful than any of the nymphs.”“And the Bacchantes, then?” said Psyche.“Much more beautiful than the Bacchantes!” he answered. “But they are also very nice. Tell me, wouldn’t you like to see them?”Psyche was very inquisitive, and he noticed it.“Won’t you just see them?” he repeated temptingly.“Where?” said Psyche.“Look ... there!” He pointed in the distance with his finger.On the hill Psyche saw forms madly whirling round in a dance.“Those are the Bacchantes!” said the Satyr. Psyche laughed.“How madly they whirl round!” she exclaimed. “Are they always so merry?”“Oh, we are always dancing,” said the Satyr. “In the wood it is always pleasure. We play at tag with one another, we drink the juice of the grapes, and we dance till nightfall.”“Psyche! Psyche!” called a voice.It was her husband. The Satyr fled through the flags, and Psyche hastened back.She threw herself into Eros’ arms, who asked her where she had been. And without answering him, she began to cry and hid her face in his breast.“What is it, little Psyche?” asked Eros. “Are you in trouble? Amongst the roses the boys cry, and by the brook the queen cries. Is there then sadness in my kingdom? Does not Psyche feel happy?”She wept and shrugged her shoulders, as ifto say that she did not know. And she hid her face in his breast.“Tell me, Psyche, what is the matter?”She would have liked to tell him, but she could not; a stronger power kept her back.“Does not Psyche feel happy? Does she long for the Chimera?”She laid her little hand upon his lips.“Don’t speak about him. I am not worthy of him. I am not worthy of you, Eros.”He kissed her very gently.“What does my Psyche think about? May I not leave her any more, alone by the brook?”“No, no!” said she hastily, and drew his arms round her.... “No,” she continued quickly. “Don’t leave me alone any more. Always stay by me. Protect me from myself, O Eros...!”“Is little Psyche ill?”She nodded in the affirmative, and laid her burning head upon his breast; she nestled against him and shut her feverish eyes.He stayed by her, and all around was still, and the cupids appeared fluttering in the air. That night she slept in Eros’ arms. She awoke for a moment out of her sleep; faraway in the distance through the crystal of the palace she heard the sound of pipes. She raised her head and listened. But she would not hear any more, and hid herself in Eros’ arms and fell asleep on his heart.The next day he stayed by her, and they wandered to the brook. Sadness hung over the garden, the flowers drooped. In the afternoon Psyche became uneasy; she heard the pipe, and in the distance caught a glimpse of vague forms dancing.“Do you see nothing?” she asked Eros.“No....”“Do you hear nothing?” she said again.“No,” he answered. “Poor Psyche is ill. And the flowers are ill too, because she is. Oh, let Eros cure you...!”The following night, in the arms of her husband, she heard the pipe. It played saucy, short, lively tunes. “Come, come, now dance with us; we are drinking the grapes. Come ... come...!”She could resist no longer. Trembling, she loosed herself from her husband’s arms, who was asleep. She got up, stole out of the palace, fled through the garden to the alluring voice.The flowers in the brook seemed to entreather: “Oh, go not away! Oh, go not away!” The nightingale uttered a cry, and she thought it was an owl.She hurried on to the valley, where the irises were in blossom. There, near the brook, in the light of the moon, stood the Satyr, tripping to the sound of his pipe, and round him, hand in hand, madly danced the Bacchantes, naked, a panther’s skin cast about them, their wild streaming hair encircled with vine-leaves. They danced like drunken spectres in the pale moonlight night; they waved their thyrsus, and pelted each other with grapes, which smashed to juice upon their faces.“Come, come!” they cried triumphantly.Psyche was startled by their voices, rough and hoarse. But they opened their circle, two stretched their hand out to Psyche, and they danced round with her. The wild dance excited her; she had never known till then what dancing was, and she danced with sparkling eyes. She waved a thyrsus, and pressed the grapes to her mouth.... Then suddenly the Satyr caught hold of her and kissed her passionately, pressing the grapes to her lips....“Psyche! Psyche!”She started and stood still. The Bacchantes, the Satyr, fled.Psyche hastened back; with her hand she wiped her contaminated, burning lips.“... Psyche!”She ran to meet Eros, but when she saw him, godlike and beautiful as an image, spotlessly pure in the moonlight, with his noble countenance, his deep brown eyes full of love, she was so disgusted with herself that she fell at his feet in a swoon.He lifted her up and laid her on the bed.He watched while she slumbered.The whole night he watched by her....And it seemed as if she were wandering in her mind....Her face glowed with fever, and ever and anon she wiped her lips.Outside in the garden the flowers drooped in sorrow. The lark was silent, and the little angels sat together with their wings drawn in. The sky was ash-coloured and gloomy.That night Psyche slept in Eros’ arms, and afar off the pipe allured her....She extracted herself from Eros’ embrace and got up....She wanted to kiss him for the last time, but durst not, for fear of waking him.“Farewell!” she whispered very gently. “Noble Eros, beloved husband, farewell! I am unworthy of you. The Satyr’s kiss is still burning on my lips; my mouth is on fire from the juice of the grapes. Farewell...! And if you can, forgive me!”She went.The night was sultry and heavy with thunder; the flowers, exhausted, hung their heads; the nightingale uttered a cry, and she thought it was an owl. Bats flitted about with flapping wings.She walked with a firm step. She followed the brook to where it flowed into the valley. Yonder ... with the Satyr in their midst, danced the Bacchantes.“Hurrah! Hurrah!” they cried out, rough and hoarse, and threw at her a bunch of grapes.She hesitated a moment.... She raised her eyes. Through the gloomy night a single star glistened like a cold, proud eye.“Sacred star!” said Psyche, “you who watched over me before, and now leave me for ever ... tell him that I am unworthy of him and beg him to forgive me!”The star hid itself in the darkness.“Come!” cried the Bacchantes.Psyche took a step forward....“Brook!” she then cried, “little stream of the land of the Present, babbling pure and peacefully, in which I never more may cool myself ... oh, tell him that I am unworthy of him and beg him to forgive me!”The brook went murmuring over the stones, and muttered: “No, no....”“Come, come!” cried the Bacchantes.Then Psyche plucked a single violet, white as a maiden’s face.“Sweet violet!” said she, “humble flower, don’t be proud. Your queen, who is forsaking her kingdom, entreats the star and brook in vain. She is no longer a queen. She is no longer obeyed. Sweet violet, hear the prayer of Psyche, who, unworthy, is forsaking the Present....”The BacchantesThe Bacchantes[To face p. 108“Stay, Psyche!” implored the flower in her hand.“Dear little flower!” said Psyche, “born in the moss, withering when you are plucked, what do you know of gods and mortals? What do you know of soul and life and power? Psyche can no longer stay. Butbeg Love to forgive her...! Oh, give him my last message!”She kissed the flower and laid it in the moss.“Psyche! Psyche! Come!” cried the Bacchantes.She sprang forward into the midst of the dance.“Here I am!” she cried wildly. And they dragged her away with them to the wood.
Psyche had a secret. Why did she not tell it? She did not know. She could not, after having once kept silent. She knew that she was not doing right by being silent, and yet she did not speak. But she was very sad about it, and felt dissatisfied. Then she wanted to speak with Eros; but because she had said nothing at first, she was afraid. And then she said to herself: “The Satyr does nothing wrong by standing there and piping a little, and it is not worth while thinking much about it....”
And yet shedidthink about it, and in her ears she always heard his saucy voice, his coarse words, countrified and funny.
Then she laughed about it all.
“But what does he do—what is he? a Satyr? What is a Satyr? What are Bacchantes? And what are nymphs? Panthers, too, I have never seen. I should like to seethem. What is their life there in the wood? There are many lives in the world, and most of them are a secret. I only know the courtiers of the Kingdom of the Past.... Here there are the two girls that play on the pipe and the winged children. I should like to see all that there is in the world, and experience all that is in life. There must be strange things, which I never see.... The Chimera was glorious, and deep in my soul I always long for him; but in other respects everything is the same.... No wonders take place in this garden.... Eros is a young prince; then there are the doves, the griffons, the cupids.... That is all so commonplace.... Oh, to seek, to wander! The world is so great! the universe is awful, although it has limits. My father said it had no limits.... Oh, if it had no limits...! Oh,to seek, to wander, to soarin the air!... I shall never see the Chimera again. Never shall I soar in the air again.... He conjured up visions for me, and then let them pass away.... Oh, to soar through the air! When shall I see him again, and when shall I soar again...? Eros I love—he is my husband; but he has no wings. The Chimera had powerful wingsof silver feathers. He has left me for ever....”
So, alone with her thought, she wandered in the garden. The cupids she drove away, and, crying, they hid themselves among the roses. When the Satyr appeared, she went to meet him in the valley, where the irises were blooming.
“So, you are there again!”
“Yes! won’t you just see me dance again?”
He danced and frisked his tail.
“I have already told you more than once that you may not come here,” said Psyche severely.
He winked roguishly; he knew very well that his presence was not disagreeable to her.
“You are so beautiful!” he said, in his most flattering tone; “much more beautiful than any of the nymphs.”
“And the Bacchantes, then?” said Psyche.
“Much more beautiful than the Bacchantes!” he answered. “But they are also very nice. Tell me, wouldn’t you like to see them?”
Psyche was very inquisitive, and he noticed it.
“Won’t you just see them?” he repeated temptingly.
“Where?” said Psyche.
“Look ... there!” He pointed in the distance with his finger.
On the hill Psyche saw forms madly whirling round in a dance.
“Those are the Bacchantes!” said the Satyr. Psyche laughed.
“How madly they whirl round!” she exclaimed. “Are they always so merry?”
“Oh, we are always dancing,” said the Satyr. “In the wood it is always pleasure. We play at tag with one another, we drink the juice of the grapes, and we dance till nightfall.”
“Psyche! Psyche!” called a voice.
It was her husband. The Satyr fled through the flags, and Psyche hastened back.
She threw herself into Eros’ arms, who asked her where she had been. And without answering him, she began to cry and hid her face in his breast.
“What is it, little Psyche?” asked Eros. “Are you in trouble? Amongst the roses the boys cry, and by the brook the queen cries. Is there then sadness in my kingdom? Does not Psyche feel happy?”
She wept and shrugged her shoulders, as ifto say that she did not know. And she hid her face in his breast.
“Tell me, Psyche, what is the matter?”
She would have liked to tell him, but she could not; a stronger power kept her back.
“Does not Psyche feel happy? Does she long for the Chimera?”
She laid her little hand upon his lips.
“Don’t speak about him. I am not worthy of him. I am not worthy of you, Eros.”
He kissed her very gently.
“What does my Psyche think about? May I not leave her any more, alone by the brook?”
“No, no!” said she hastily, and drew his arms round her.... “No,” she continued quickly. “Don’t leave me alone any more. Always stay by me. Protect me from myself, O Eros...!”
“Is little Psyche ill?”
She nodded in the affirmative, and laid her burning head upon his breast; she nestled against him and shut her feverish eyes.
He stayed by her, and all around was still, and the cupids appeared fluttering in the air. That night she slept in Eros’ arms. She awoke for a moment out of her sleep; faraway in the distance through the crystal of the palace she heard the sound of pipes. She raised her head and listened. But she would not hear any more, and hid herself in Eros’ arms and fell asleep on his heart.
The next day he stayed by her, and they wandered to the brook. Sadness hung over the garden, the flowers drooped. In the afternoon Psyche became uneasy; she heard the pipe, and in the distance caught a glimpse of vague forms dancing.
“Do you see nothing?” she asked Eros.
“No....”
“Do you hear nothing?” she said again.
“No,” he answered. “Poor Psyche is ill. And the flowers are ill too, because she is. Oh, let Eros cure you...!”
The following night, in the arms of her husband, she heard the pipe. It played saucy, short, lively tunes. “Come, come, now dance with us; we are drinking the grapes. Come ... come...!”
She could resist no longer. Trembling, she loosed herself from her husband’s arms, who was asleep. She got up, stole out of the palace, fled through the garden to the alluring voice.
The flowers in the brook seemed to entreather: “Oh, go not away! Oh, go not away!” The nightingale uttered a cry, and she thought it was an owl.
She hurried on to the valley, where the irises were in blossom. There, near the brook, in the light of the moon, stood the Satyr, tripping to the sound of his pipe, and round him, hand in hand, madly danced the Bacchantes, naked, a panther’s skin cast about them, their wild streaming hair encircled with vine-leaves. They danced like drunken spectres in the pale moonlight night; they waved their thyrsus, and pelted each other with grapes, which smashed to juice upon their faces.
“Come, come!” they cried triumphantly.
Psyche was startled by their voices, rough and hoarse. But they opened their circle, two stretched their hand out to Psyche, and they danced round with her. The wild dance excited her; she had never known till then what dancing was, and she danced with sparkling eyes. She waved a thyrsus, and pressed the grapes to her mouth.... Then suddenly the Satyr caught hold of her and kissed her passionately, pressing the grapes to her lips....
“Psyche! Psyche!”
She started and stood still. The Bacchantes, the Satyr, fled.
Psyche hastened back; with her hand she wiped her contaminated, burning lips.
“... Psyche!”
She ran to meet Eros, but when she saw him, godlike and beautiful as an image, spotlessly pure in the moonlight, with his noble countenance, his deep brown eyes full of love, she was so disgusted with herself that she fell at his feet in a swoon.
He lifted her up and laid her on the bed.
He watched while she slumbered.
The whole night he watched by her....
And it seemed as if she were wandering in her mind....
Her face glowed with fever, and ever and anon she wiped her lips.
Outside in the garden the flowers drooped in sorrow. The lark was silent, and the little angels sat together with their wings drawn in. The sky was ash-coloured and gloomy.
That night Psyche slept in Eros’ arms, and afar off the pipe allured her....
She extracted herself from Eros’ embrace and got up....
She wanted to kiss him for the last time, but durst not, for fear of waking him.
“Farewell!” she whispered very gently. “Noble Eros, beloved husband, farewell! I am unworthy of you. The Satyr’s kiss is still burning on my lips; my mouth is on fire from the juice of the grapes. Farewell...! And if you can, forgive me!”
She went.
The night was sultry and heavy with thunder; the flowers, exhausted, hung their heads; the nightingale uttered a cry, and she thought it was an owl. Bats flitted about with flapping wings.
She walked with a firm step. She followed the brook to where it flowed into the valley. Yonder ... with the Satyr in their midst, danced the Bacchantes.
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” they cried out, rough and hoarse, and threw at her a bunch of grapes.
She hesitated a moment.... She raised her eyes. Through the gloomy night a single star glistened like a cold, proud eye.
“Sacred star!” said Psyche, “you who watched over me before, and now leave me for ever ... tell him that I am unworthy of him and beg him to forgive me!”
The star hid itself in the darkness.
“Come!” cried the Bacchantes.
Psyche took a step forward....
“Brook!” she then cried, “little stream of the land of the Present, babbling pure and peacefully, in which I never more may cool myself ... oh, tell him that I am unworthy of him and beg him to forgive me!”
The brook went murmuring over the stones, and muttered: “No, no....”
“Come, come!” cried the Bacchantes.
Then Psyche plucked a single violet, white as a maiden’s face.
“Sweet violet!” said she, “humble flower, don’t be proud. Your queen, who is forsaking her kingdom, entreats the star and brook in vain. She is no longer a queen. She is no longer obeyed. Sweet violet, hear the prayer of Psyche, who, unworthy, is forsaking the Present....”
The BacchantesThe Bacchantes[To face p. 108
The Bacchantes
[To face p. 108
“Stay, Psyche!” implored the flower in her hand.
“Dear little flower!” said Psyche, “born in the moss, withering when you are plucked, what do you know of gods and mortals? What do you know of soul and life and power? Psyche can no longer stay. Butbeg Love to forgive her...! Oh, give him my last message!”
She kissed the flower and laid it in the moss.
“Psyche! Psyche! Come!” cried the Bacchantes.
She sprang forward into the midst of the dance.
“Here I am!” she cried wildly. And they dragged her away with them to the wood.
Chapter XVIWhen Eros awoke that morning, he found not Psyche by his side. He got up, thinking that she was in the garden, and went out.The sky was dull and lowering, a mist hung over the hills. The lark had not sung, the cupids were not fluttering about.“Psyche!” cried he, “Psyche!”No answer was returned. No sigh rustled in the leaves of the trees; no insect hummed in the grass; the flowers hung down withered on their limp stems. A deathly chilliness reigned around. A fearful presentiment took possession of Eros. He walked along the flower-beds, along the brook.“Oh! where is Psyche?” he cried. “Oh, tell me, water, flowers, birds, where is Psyche!!”No answer was returned. The brook flowed on murkily and noiselessly, the flowers lay across the path; no bird sang among the leaves. He wrung his hands and hastened on.Then he came to the spot where Psyche was wont to rest in the moss by the brook, in the shade of the shrubs.“Who will tell me where Psyche is?” he exclaimed in despair, and threw himself on the moss and sobbed.“Eros!” cried a weak voice.“Who speaks there?”“I, a white violet, which Psyche plucked.... Hear me quickly, for I feel I am dying, and my elfin voice is scarcely audible to your ear. Listen to me ... I am lying close to you. Take me in your hand....”Eros took the flower.“Psyche has been enticed by the Satyr into the wood. The Bacchantes have taken her away. This was her last word: that she was unworthy of you, and went away praying for forgiveness.... She could not remain, she said; she went...! Eros, forgive her!”The flower shrivelled up in his hand. Eros rose and tottered; he too felt that he was dying.Sad at heart walked Eros, and all along his path the flowers now lay shrivelled. The brook was dry. The lark lay dead before his feet. The cupids lay dead in the withered roses.Eros went into the castle and fell upon the purple bed.A single dove was expiring at the marble basin.The strings of the lyre were all broken....Eros too felt that his life was leaving his body.He raised his eyes, over which the film of death was stealing, and looked about the castle; the crystal crumbled off and split from the top to the bottom.“Sacred powers!” prayed he, “forgive her as I forgive her, and love her till the End, as I shall and for ever. Let her find what she seeks; let her wanderings once come to an end; let her soar through the air, if she must, till she comes to the purest sphere....” This sphere was the earth, the sweet Present, the little resting-point on which she could not wander, and thus felt within her the irresistible desire....“Sacred powers, let her one day find what her happiness is. Then, if it is not I.... Let her find....”His voice failed, his eyes opened as in a vision, and he whispered and finished his prayer: “... find ... in the Future...!”That sacred word was his last. He died.In the Kingdom of the Present, that once had been as a smiling garden, everything was now dead....Then ... in the mist, which hung over the ridge of the mountains, something seemed to be creeping near, something with feet that could only move slowly. From many sides, over the hill-top, the strange creeping came nearer.... Gigantic, hairy feet of monstrous spiders were walking over it; they came nearer and nearer; they were spiders with big, swollen bodies and feet always in motion....They were the sacred spiders of Emeralda, Princess of the Past. Eagerly they ran to the dead garden of the Present....They surrounded the garden and threw out their filaments to the crystal roof of the palace. Then they wove over the Present, that lay dead, one single gigantic web....And whilst they wove, the dead Present went to dust.
Chapter XVI
When Eros awoke that morning, he found not Psyche by his side. He got up, thinking that she was in the garden, and went out.The sky was dull and lowering, a mist hung over the hills. The lark had not sung, the cupids were not fluttering about.“Psyche!” cried he, “Psyche!”No answer was returned. No sigh rustled in the leaves of the trees; no insect hummed in the grass; the flowers hung down withered on their limp stems. A deathly chilliness reigned around. A fearful presentiment took possession of Eros. He walked along the flower-beds, along the brook.“Oh! where is Psyche?” he cried. “Oh, tell me, water, flowers, birds, where is Psyche!!”No answer was returned. The brook flowed on murkily and noiselessly, the flowers lay across the path; no bird sang among the leaves. He wrung his hands and hastened on.Then he came to the spot where Psyche was wont to rest in the moss by the brook, in the shade of the shrubs.“Who will tell me where Psyche is?” he exclaimed in despair, and threw himself on the moss and sobbed.“Eros!” cried a weak voice.“Who speaks there?”“I, a white violet, which Psyche plucked.... Hear me quickly, for I feel I am dying, and my elfin voice is scarcely audible to your ear. Listen to me ... I am lying close to you. Take me in your hand....”Eros took the flower.“Psyche has been enticed by the Satyr into the wood. The Bacchantes have taken her away. This was her last word: that she was unworthy of you, and went away praying for forgiveness.... She could not remain, she said; she went...! Eros, forgive her!”The flower shrivelled up in his hand. Eros rose and tottered; he too felt that he was dying.Sad at heart walked Eros, and all along his path the flowers now lay shrivelled. The brook was dry. The lark lay dead before his feet. The cupids lay dead in the withered roses.Eros went into the castle and fell upon the purple bed.A single dove was expiring at the marble basin.The strings of the lyre were all broken....Eros too felt that his life was leaving his body.He raised his eyes, over which the film of death was stealing, and looked about the castle; the crystal crumbled off and split from the top to the bottom.“Sacred powers!” prayed he, “forgive her as I forgive her, and love her till the End, as I shall and for ever. Let her find what she seeks; let her wanderings once come to an end; let her soar through the air, if she must, till she comes to the purest sphere....” This sphere was the earth, the sweet Present, the little resting-point on which she could not wander, and thus felt within her the irresistible desire....“Sacred powers, let her one day find what her happiness is. Then, if it is not I.... Let her find....”His voice failed, his eyes opened as in a vision, and he whispered and finished his prayer: “... find ... in the Future...!”That sacred word was his last. He died.In the Kingdom of the Present, that once had been as a smiling garden, everything was now dead....Then ... in the mist, which hung over the ridge of the mountains, something seemed to be creeping near, something with feet that could only move slowly. From many sides, over the hill-top, the strange creeping came nearer.... Gigantic, hairy feet of monstrous spiders were walking over it; they came nearer and nearer; they were spiders with big, swollen bodies and feet always in motion....They were the sacred spiders of Emeralda, Princess of the Past. Eagerly they ran to the dead garden of the Present....They surrounded the garden and threw out their filaments to the crystal roof of the palace. Then they wove over the Present, that lay dead, one single gigantic web....And whilst they wove, the dead Present went to dust.
When Eros awoke that morning, he found not Psyche by his side. He got up, thinking that she was in the garden, and went out.
The sky was dull and lowering, a mist hung over the hills. The lark had not sung, the cupids were not fluttering about.
“Psyche!” cried he, “Psyche!”
No answer was returned. No sigh rustled in the leaves of the trees; no insect hummed in the grass; the flowers hung down withered on their limp stems. A deathly chilliness reigned around. A fearful presentiment took possession of Eros. He walked along the flower-beds, along the brook.
“Oh! where is Psyche?” he cried. “Oh, tell me, water, flowers, birds, where is Psyche!!”
No answer was returned. The brook flowed on murkily and noiselessly, the flowers lay across the path; no bird sang among the leaves. He wrung his hands and hastened on.Then he came to the spot where Psyche was wont to rest in the moss by the brook, in the shade of the shrubs.
“Who will tell me where Psyche is?” he exclaimed in despair, and threw himself on the moss and sobbed.
“Eros!” cried a weak voice.
“Who speaks there?”
“I, a white violet, which Psyche plucked.... Hear me quickly, for I feel I am dying, and my elfin voice is scarcely audible to your ear. Listen to me ... I am lying close to you. Take me in your hand....”
Eros took the flower.
“Psyche has been enticed by the Satyr into the wood. The Bacchantes have taken her away. This was her last word: that she was unworthy of you, and went away praying for forgiveness.... She could not remain, she said; she went...! Eros, forgive her!”
The flower shrivelled up in his hand. Eros rose and tottered; he too felt that he was dying.
Sad at heart walked Eros, and all along his path the flowers now lay shrivelled. The brook was dry. The lark lay dead before his feet. The cupids lay dead in the withered roses.
Eros went into the castle and fell upon the purple bed.
A single dove was expiring at the marble basin.
The strings of the lyre were all broken....
Eros too felt that his life was leaving his body.
He raised his eyes, over which the film of death was stealing, and looked about the castle; the crystal crumbled off and split from the top to the bottom.
“Sacred powers!” prayed he, “forgive her as I forgive her, and love her till the End, as I shall and for ever. Let her find what she seeks; let her wanderings once come to an end; let her soar through the air, if she must, till she comes to the purest sphere....” This sphere was the earth, the sweet Present, the little resting-point on which she could not wander, and thus felt within her the irresistible desire....
“Sacred powers, let her one day find what her happiness is. Then, if it is not I.... Let her find....”
His voice failed, his eyes opened as in a vision, and he whispered and finished his prayer: “... find ... in the Future...!”
That sacred word was his last. He died.
In the Kingdom of the Present, that once had been as a smiling garden, everything was now dead....
Then ... in the mist, which hung over the ridge of the mountains, something seemed to be creeping near, something with feet that could only move slowly. From many sides, over the hill-top, the strange creeping came nearer.... Gigantic, hairy feet of monstrous spiders were walking over it; they came nearer and nearer; they were spiders with big, swollen bodies and feet always in motion....
They were the sacred spiders of Emeralda, Princess of the Past. Eagerly they ran to the dead garden of the Present....
They surrounded the garden and threw out their filaments to the crystal roof of the palace. Then they wove over the Present, that lay dead, one single gigantic web....
And whilst they wove, the dead Present went to dust.
Chapter XVIIIn the wood, in the autumn sun, Autumn was keeping festival.The foliage shone resplendent in yellow, bronze, purple, golden-red, and pink; the sulphur-coloured moss looked like antique velvet. With gusts of wind, the branches, madly arrogant, shook off their exuberance of sere and yellow leaves, as if they were strewing the paths with silver and gold and rustling notes.Loudly laughing danced the dryads through the whirling leaves.Out of the foaming stream between moss-covered rocks, rose the white, naked nymphs.“Where is she? Where is she?” cried they inquisitively.“There she comes! there she comes!” shouted the mad dryads, and in handfuls they cast the leaves into the air, which whirled over the nymphs and fell down on the water.The dryads danced past, and the nymphs looked out inquisitively. They stood, a naked group, in their rocky bath; their arms were clasped round one another; green was their hair and white as pearls were their bosoms. The sere and yellow leaves kept whirling about. Trampling feet were approaching and were heard amongst the rustling leaves. Merry-makers were drawing near; the golden foliage quivered like a curtain of thin, fine, gold lace....“There she comes! there she comes!” exclaimed the nymphs with joy.The branches cracked, the leaves whirled about, the tender sprays recoiled from the noisy merry-makers, who were advancing.Nearer they came with the sound of pipe and cymbal. Drunken Bacchantes danced before them, waving the thyrsus, hand in hand with fauns and satyrs; they encircled a triumphal car, drawn by spotted lynxes.High on the car sat a youth, beardless, with a wreath of vine-leaves round his forehead, full of laughter and animal spirits, with blue eyes that showed his love of pleasure. Naked were his godlike limbs, chubbily formed like the tender flesh of a boy, and his legs werelong and slender, his arms rounded like those of a woman. He was the prince of the wood, of divine origin: Prince Bacchus was his name.And next to him on the triumphal car, sat little Psyche enthroned. She too was naked, with nothing on but her veil, and her wings were so strikingly beautiful, crimson and soft yellow and with four peacock’s-feather eyes. Round the car, close together as a bunch of grapes, sported madly a number of wine-gods, tumbling over one another, grape-drunken children.In triumph the procession rushed on through the golden wood. The Bacchantes and satyrs sang and danced; two satyrs drove the lynxes, which, spiteful as cats, spat at them; the wine-gods entwined the vine and bore great heavy bunches of grapes.High up, like a butterfly, which was a goddess, sat Psyche, and laughed with glistening eyes and glowing cheeks, waving to the nymphs.“Live! long live Psyche—Psyche with the splendid wings!” shouted the nymphs.The wind blew, the leaves whirled about; the procession swept past as though hurriedalong by the gale. A little wine-god had fallen and lay in the yellow leaves, playing with his chubby legs, purple-red from the juice of grapes; he was crying because he had been left behind; then he succeeded in getting on to his feet, and tottered after the procession....The nymphs laughed loudly at the little wine-god; they dived under and beneath the rocks.The wind blew, the yellow leaves whirled about.And the wood became still and lonely.
Chapter XVII
In the wood, in the autumn sun, Autumn was keeping festival.The foliage shone resplendent in yellow, bronze, purple, golden-red, and pink; the sulphur-coloured moss looked like antique velvet. With gusts of wind, the branches, madly arrogant, shook off their exuberance of sere and yellow leaves, as if they were strewing the paths with silver and gold and rustling notes.Loudly laughing danced the dryads through the whirling leaves.Out of the foaming stream between moss-covered rocks, rose the white, naked nymphs.“Where is she? Where is she?” cried they inquisitively.“There she comes! there she comes!” shouted the mad dryads, and in handfuls they cast the leaves into the air, which whirled over the nymphs and fell down on the water.The dryads danced past, and the nymphs looked out inquisitively. They stood, a naked group, in their rocky bath; their arms were clasped round one another; green was their hair and white as pearls were their bosoms. The sere and yellow leaves kept whirling about. Trampling feet were approaching and were heard amongst the rustling leaves. Merry-makers were drawing near; the golden foliage quivered like a curtain of thin, fine, gold lace....“There she comes! there she comes!” exclaimed the nymphs with joy.The branches cracked, the leaves whirled about, the tender sprays recoiled from the noisy merry-makers, who were advancing.Nearer they came with the sound of pipe and cymbal. Drunken Bacchantes danced before them, waving the thyrsus, hand in hand with fauns and satyrs; they encircled a triumphal car, drawn by spotted lynxes.High on the car sat a youth, beardless, with a wreath of vine-leaves round his forehead, full of laughter and animal spirits, with blue eyes that showed his love of pleasure. Naked were his godlike limbs, chubbily formed like the tender flesh of a boy, and his legs werelong and slender, his arms rounded like those of a woman. He was the prince of the wood, of divine origin: Prince Bacchus was his name.And next to him on the triumphal car, sat little Psyche enthroned. She too was naked, with nothing on but her veil, and her wings were so strikingly beautiful, crimson and soft yellow and with four peacock’s-feather eyes. Round the car, close together as a bunch of grapes, sported madly a number of wine-gods, tumbling over one another, grape-drunken children.In triumph the procession rushed on through the golden wood. The Bacchantes and satyrs sang and danced; two satyrs drove the lynxes, which, spiteful as cats, spat at them; the wine-gods entwined the vine and bore great heavy bunches of grapes.High up, like a butterfly, which was a goddess, sat Psyche, and laughed with glistening eyes and glowing cheeks, waving to the nymphs.“Live! long live Psyche—Psyche with the splendid wings!” shouted the nymphs.The wind blew, the leaves whirled about; the procession swept past as though hurriedalong by the gale. A little wine-god had fallen and lay in the yellow leaves, playing with his chubby legs, purple-red from the juice of grapes; he was crying because he had been left behind; then he succeeded in getting on to his feet, and tottered after the procession....The nymphs laughed loudly at the little wine-god; they dived under and beneath the rocks.The wind blew, the yellow leaves whirled about.And the wood became still and lonely.
In the wood, in the autumn sun, Autumn was keeping festival.
The foliage shone resplendent in yellow, bronze, purple, golden-red, and pink; the sulphur-coloured moss looked like antique velvet. With gusts of wind, the branches, madly arrogant, shook off their exuberance of sere and yellow leaves, as if they were strewing the paths with silver and gold and rustling notes.
Loudly laughing danced the dryads through the whirling leaves.
Out of the foaming stream between moss-covered rocks, rose the white, naked nymphs.
“Where is she? Where is she?” cried they inquisitively.
“There she comes! there she comes!” shouted the mad dryads, and in handfuls they cast the leaves into the air, which whirled over the nymphs and fell down on the water.
The dryads danced past, and the nymphs looked out inquisitively. They stood, a naked group, in their rocky bath; their arms were clasped round one another; green was their hair and white as pearls were their bosoms. The sere and yellow leaves kept whirling about. Trampling feet were approaching and were heard amongst the rustling leaves. Merry-makers were drawing near; the golden foliage quivered like a curtain of thin, fine, gold lace....
“There she comes! there she comes!” exclaimed the nymphs with joy.
The branches cracked, the leaves whirled about, the tender sprays recoiled from the noisy merry-makers, who were advancing.
Nearer they came with the sound of pipe and cymbal. Drunken Bacchantes danced before them, waving the thyrsus, hand in hand with fauns and satyrs; they encircled a triumphal car, drawn by spotted lynxes.
High on the car sat a youth, beardless, with a wreath of vine-leaves round his forehead, full of laughter and animal spirits, with blue eyes that showed his love of pleasure. Naked were his godlike limbs, chubbily formed like the tender flesh of a boy, and his legs werelong and slender, his arms rounded like those of a woman. He was the prince of the wood, of divine origin: Prince Bacchus was his name.
And next to him on the triumphal car, sat little Psyche enthroned. She too was naked, with nothing on but her veil, and her wings were so strikingly beautiful, crimson and soft yellow and with four peacock’s-feather eyes. Round the car, close together as a bunch of grapes, sported madly a number of wine-gods, tumbling over one another, grape-drunken children.
In triumph the procession rushed on through the golden wood. The Bacchantes and satyrs sang and danced; two satyrs drove the lynxes, which, spiteful as cats, spat at them; the wine-gods entwined the vine and bore great heavy bunches of grapes.
High up, like a butterfly, which was a goddess, sat Psyche, and laughed with glistening eyes and glowing cheeks, waving to the nymphs.
“Live! long live Psyche—Psyche with the splendid wings!” shouted the nymphs.
The wind blew, the leaves whirled about; the procession swept past as though hurriedalong by the gale. A little wine-god had fallen and lay in the yellow leaves, playing with his chubby legs, purple-red from the juice of grapes; he was crying because he had been left behind; then he succeeded in getting on to his feet, and tottered after the procession....
The nymphs laughed loudly at the little wine-god; they dived under and beneath the rocks.
The wind blew, the yellow leaves whirled about.
And the wood became still and lonely.
Chapter XVIII“Psyche, stay!” said Bacchus entreatingly.“No, no, let me alone!”“With you goes all joy from the feast; Psyche, stay!”“I will not always sing, dance, drink. No, no, let me alone!”She pushed him away from her; she pushed the satyrs away from her; she broke the round dance of the Bacchantes, who, drunken, shouted with drunken eyes and wide-open, screaming mouths.“Psyche! Psyche!” screamed all.She laughed loudly and coquettishly, like a spoilt child.“I will come back to-morrow, when you are sober!” she said with a mocking laugh. “Your voices are hoarse, your song is out of tune, your last grapes were sour! I will only have the sweet of your feast, and the bitter I will leave to you. Spread out your pantherskins; go and sleep off your drunkenness. If your feast has to last till winter, you need rest—rest for your hoarse throats, rest for your drunken legs, rest for your heads, muddled with wine.... I will come back to-morrow, when you are sober!”She gave a loud, mocking laugh, and rushed into the wood. It was a moonlight night; in the pale moonbeams she left the wild feast behind. The jealous Bacchantes danced round Bacchus, and embraced him.Psyche hastened on. Her temples throbbed, her heart beat, and her bosom heaved. When she was far enough away, she stopped, pressed both her hands to her bosom, and gave a deep sigh. More slowly she went on to the stream. Fresh was the autumn night, but burning were her naked limbs!The wood was still, save that in the top-most branches the wind moaned. Like a silvery ship the moon sailed forth from the luminous, ethereal sea, and the rushing mountain-stream foamed like snow on the rocks. With a longing desire for coolness and water, Psyche stepped down to the flags on the bank; with her hands she put aside the irises, and made her way throughthe ferns and plunged her foot into the water.Then the nymphs dived up.The NymphsThe Nymphs[To face p. 120“Psyche! Psyche!” cried they joyously, “Psyche with the splendid wings!”Psyche smiled. She threw herself into the water, and the snow-white foam dashed up.“Let me be with you a moment,” entreated Psyche. “Let me cool myself in your stream.”The nymphs pressed round her and carried her on their arms. She lay down at full length.“Cool my forehead, cool my cheeks, cool my heart!” she cried imploringly. “Dear nymphs, oh, cool my soul! Everything burns on me and in me; fire scorches my lips, fire scorches my brain.... O dear nymphs, cool me!”The nymphs sprinkled water on her; Psyche put her arm round the neck of one of them.“Your water-drops hiss on my forehead as on burning metal. Your flakes of foam evaporate on the fire in my breast. And on my soul, O dear nymphs, you cannot sprinkle your coolness!”The nymphs filled their stream-urns and poured them over Psyche.“Pour them all out! Pour them all out!” cried Psyche entreatingly. “But although my hair is dripping, and my wings and my limbs too, my lips are scorched, my poor forehead burns, and within me, O nymphs...! within me, my soul is consumed as in hell-fire...!”The nymphs took her gently in their arms; they dived with her below, they came up again; they kept diving up and down.“Oh, bathe me, bathe me!” cried Psyche imploringly. “Benevolent nymphs, bathe me! Some coolness still hangs about my body ... but my soul, oh, my soul you can never cool!” She wept, and the nymphs caught up her tears in mother-of-pearl shells.“Are you collecting my tears? Oh, no, they are not worth it. Once I wept a brook full; once they were drunk, drunk by Love; once they were pearls, and Love crowned me with them! Now, now they are like drops of wine, drops of fire, and though they should congeal and become rubies or topazes, they may never crown me more. Henceforth my tears I shall always shed ... for Emeralda!”In the shells the nymphs saw glistening pearls, and they understood not.... But all their urns they poured out upon Psyche’s eyes.“My eyes are getting cool, O beloved nymphs; many tears I shall never shed again; never again shall I weep a brook full.... But cool my soul, extinguish deep within me the burning flames!”“We cannot, Psyche....”“No, no, you cannot, O nymphs! Let me lie still, then, still in your arms. Let me rock quietly to and fro on your white-foaming water, then let me sleep quietly.... But in my sleep my soul keeps burning; in my dreams I see it flame up, high up as out of a hole in hell.... Oh!”She uttered a cry, as of pain.... The nymphs rocked her in their entwined arms, as in a cradle of lilies, and softly sang a song....“Nymphs, nymphs....! This is the fire that nothing can extinguish—no, never.... This is remorse....”The nymphs understood her not; they rocked her and sang in a low, soft voice.
Chapter XVIII
“Psyche, stay!” said Bacchus entreatingly.“No, no, let me alone!”“With you goes all joy from the feast; Psyche, stay!”“I will not always sing, dance, drink. No, no, let me alone!”She pushed him away from her; she pushed the satyrs away from her; she broke the round dance of the Bacchantes, who, drunken, shouted with drunken eyes and wide-open, screaming mouths.“Psyche! Psyche!” screamed all.She laughed loudly and coquettishly, like a spoilt child.“I will come back to-morrow, when you are sober!” she said with a mocking laugh. “Your voices are hoarse, your song is out of tune, your last grapes were sour! I will only have the sweet of your feast, and the bitter I will leave to you. Spread out your pantherskins; go and sleep off your drunkenness. If your feast has to last till winter, you need rest—rest for your hoarse throats, rest for your drunken legs, rest for your heads, muddled with wine.... I will come back to-morrow, when you are sober!”She gave a loud, mocking laugh, and rushed into the wood. It was a moonlight night; in the pale moonbeams she left the wild feast behind. The jealous Bacchantes danced round Bacchus, and embraced him.Psyche hastened on. Her temples throbbed, her heart beat, and her bosom heaved. When she was far enough away, she stopped, pressed both her hands to her bosom, and gave a deep sigh. More slowly she went on to the stream. Fresh was the autumn night, but burning were her naked limbs!The wood was still, save that in the top-most branches the wind moaned. Like a silvery ship the moon sailed forth from the luminous, ethereal sea, and the rushing mountain-stream foamed like snow on the rocks. With a longing desire for coolness and water, Psyche stepped down to the flags on the bank; with her hands she put aside the irises, and made her way throughthe ferns and plunged her foot into the water.Then the nymphs dived up.The NymphsThe Nymphs[To face p. 120“Psyche! Psyche!” cried they joyously, “Psyche with the splendid wings!”Psyche smiled. She threw herself into the water, and the snow-white foam dashed up.“Let me be with you a moment,” entreated Psyche. “Let me cool myself in your stream.”The nymphs pressed round her and carried her on their arms. She lay down at full length.“Cool my forehead, cool my cheeks, cool my heart!” she cried imploringly. “Dear nymphs, oh, cool my soul! Everything burns on me and in me; fire scorches my lips, fire scorches my brain.... O dear nymphs, cool me!”The nymphs sprinkled water on her; Psyche put her arm round the neck of one of them.“Your water-drops hiss on my forehead as on burning metal. Your flakes of foam evaporate on the fire in my breast. And on my soul, O dear nymphs, you cannot sprinkle your coolness!”The nymphs filled their stream-urns and poured them over Psyche.“Pour them all out! Pour them all out!” cried Psyche entreatingly. “But although my hair is dripping, and my wings and my limbs too, my lips are scorched, my poor forehead burns, and within me, O nymphs...! within me, my soul is consumed as in hell-fire...!”The nymphs took her gently in their arms; they dived with her below, they came up again; they kept diving up and down.“Oh, bathe me, bathe me!” cried Psyche imploringly. “Benevolent nymphs, bathe me! Some coolness still hangs about my body ... but my soul, oh, my soul you can never cool!” She wept, and the nymphs caught up her tears in mother-of-pearl shells.“Are you collecting my tears? Oh, no, they are not worth it. Once I wept a brook full; once they were drunk, drunk by Love; once they were pearls, and Love crowned me with them! Now, now they are like drops of wine, drops of fire, and though they should congeal and become rubies or topazes, they may never crown me more. Henceforth my tears I shall always shed ... for Emeralda!”In the shells the nymphs saw glistening pearls, and they understood not.... But all their urns they poured out upon Psyche’s eyes.“My eyes are getting cool, O beloved nymphs; many tears I shall never shed again; never again shall I weep a brook full.... But cool my soul, extinguish deep within me the burning flames!”“We cannot, Psyche....”“No, no, you cannot, O nymphs! Let me lie still, then, still in your arms. Let me rock quietly to and fro on your white-foaming water, then let me sleep quietly.... But in my sleep my soul keeps burning; in my dreams I see it flame up, high up as out of a hole in hell.... Oh!”She uttered a cry, as of pain.... The nymphs rocked her in their entwined arms, as in a cradle of lilies, and softly sang a song....“Nymphs, nymphs....! This is the fire that nothing can extinguish—no, never.... This is remorse....”The nymphs understood her not; they rocked her and sang in a low, soft voice.
“Psyche, stay!” said Bacchus entreatingly.
“No, no, let me alone!”
“With you goes all joy from the feast; Psyche, stay!”
“I will not always sing, dance, drink. No, no, let me alone!”
She pushed him away from her; she pushed the satyrs away from her; she broke the round dance of the Bacchantes, who, drunken, shouted with drunken eyes and wide-open, screaming mouths.
“Psyche! Psyche!” screamed all.
She laughed loudly and coquettishly, like a spoilt child.
“I will come back to-morrow, when you are sober!” she said with a mocking laugh. “Your voices are hoarse, your song is out of tune, your last grapes were sour! I will only have the sweet of your feast, and the bitter I will leave to you. Spread out your pantherskins; go and sleep off your drunkenness. If your feast has to last till winter, you need rest—rest for your hoarse throats, rest for your drunken legs, rest for your heads, muddled with wine.... I will come back to-morrow, when you are sober!”
She gave a loud, mocking laugh, and rushed into the wood. It was a moonlight night; in the pale moonbeams she left the wild feast behind. The jealous Bacchantes danced round Bacchus, and embraced him.
Psyche hastened on. Her temples throbbed, her heart beat, and her bosom heaved. When she was far enough away, she stopped, pressed both her hands to her bosom, and gave a deep sigh. More slowly she went on to the stream. Fresh was the autumn night, but burning were her naked limbs!
The wood was still, save that in the top-most branches the wind moaned. Like a silvery ship the moon sailed forth from the luminous, ethereal sea, and the rushing mountain-stream foamed like snow on the rocks. With a longing desire for coolness and water, Psyche stepped down to the flags on the bank; with her hands she put aside the irises, and made her way throughthe ferns and plunged her foot into the water.
Then the nymphs dived up.
The NymphsThe Nymphs[To face p. 120
The Nymphs
[To face p. 120
“Psyche! Psyche!” cried they joyously, “Psyche with the splendid wings!”
Psyche smiled. She threw herself into the water, and the snow-white foam dashed up.
“Let me be with you a moment,” entreated Psyche. “Let me cool myself in your stream.”
The nymphs pressed round her and carried her on their arms. She lay down at full length.
“Cool my forehead, cool my cheeks, cool my heart!” she cried imploringly. “Dear nymphs, oh, cool my soul! Everything burns on me and in me; fire scorches my lips, fire scorches my brain.... O dear nymphs, cool me!”
The nymphs sprinkled water on her; Psyche put her arm round the neck of one of them.
“Your water-drops hiss on my forehead as on burning metal. Your flakes of foam evaporate on the fire in my breast. And on my soul, O dear nymphs, you cannot sprinkle your coolness!”
The nymphs filled their stream-urns and poured them over Psyche.
“Pour them all out! Pour them all out!” cried Psyche entreatingly. “But although my hair is dripping, and my wings and my limbs too, my lips are scorched, my poor forehead burns, and within me, O nymphs...! within me, my soul is consumed as in hell-fire...!”
The nymphs took her gently in their arms; they dived with her below, they came up again; they kept diving up and down.
“Oh, bathe me, bathe me!” cried Psyche imploringly. “Benevolent nymphs, bathe me! Some coolness still hangs about my body ... but my soul, oh, my soul you can never cool!” She wept, and the nymphs caught up her tears in mother-of-pearl shells.
“Are you collecting my tears? Oh, no, they are not worth it. Once I wept a brook full; once they were drunk, drunk by Love; once they were pearls, and Love crowned me with them! Now, now they are like drops of wine, drops of fire, and though they should congeal and become rubies or topazes, they may never crown me more. Henceforth my tears I shall always shed ... for Emeralda!”
In the shells the nymphs saw glistening pearls, and they understood not.... But all their urns they poured out upon Psyche’s eyes.
“My eyes are getting cool, O beloved nymphs; many tears I shall never shed again; never again shall I weep a brook full.... But cool my soul, extinguish deep within me the burning flames!”
“We cannot, Psyche....”
“No, no, you cannot, O nymphs! Let me lie still, then, still in your arms. Let me rock quietly to and fro on your white-foaming water, then let me sleep quietly.... But in my sleep my soul keeps burning; in my dreams I see it flame up, high up as out of a hole in hell.... Oh!”
She uttered a cry, as of pain.... The nymphs rocked her in their entwined arms, as in a cradle of lilies, and softly sang a song....
“Nymphs, nymphs....! This is the fire that nothing can extinguish—no, never.... This is remorse....”
The nymphs understood her not; they rocked her and sang in a low, soft voice.
Chapter XIXThat morning she wandered about in the rosy autumn dawn—a mist between the trees stripped of leaves. Along the path she trod; on a skin she found a satyr and a Bacchante lying in a drunken sleep, tight in each other’s arms; a cup lay on the ground, a broken thyrsus, pressed-out grapes. She hastened on and sought the most lonely spots. The foliage became scantier, the trees grew farther apart, the wood ended in a plain and, violet misty, a perspective of very low hills.Psyche walked on over the plain and climbed the hills.The autumn wind blew and howled between shrubs and bushes, and sang the approach of winter. But Psyche felt not the cold, for her naked limbs glowed: her soul was all on fire.On the highest hill-top she looked out, her hand above her eyes, gazing into the violet mist.... Unconscious to herself, she hopedfor something vague and impossible: that she might see Eros, that he would come to her, that she would fall at his feet, that he would forgive her tenderly, and take her away with him. Impossible. “What was impossible? Could not everything be possible? Had he not followed the track of her tears? had he not found her in the arms of the Sphinx?” Oh, she hoped, she hoped, she hoped more definitely! Her remorse-burned soul longed for the balsam of his love in the palace of crystal, for the sounds of his lyre, for the tender words in the garden of the Present.She hoped, she gazed....In the pale glow of the morning sun, the violet mist cleared up, and parted like violet curtains....She gazed: there was the Present....There Eros would be, mourning for his naughty Psyche!There he would presently forgive her....Oh, how she hoped, how she longed!.... She longed; she stretched out her arms and dared cry in a plaintive voice:“Eros!”The wind blew through bush and shrub and sang the approach of winter. The violetcurtains of mist were drawn aside. The sad autumn morning appeared. There, now visible, lay the Present....And Psyche gazed, screening her eyes with her hand....There she saw her happiness of days gone by, destroyed. In a dead, withered garden, a ruin: crystal pillars crumbling to pieces. And between the pillars, spiders’ webs; all over the garden spiders’ webs, web upon web, and in them spiders with bloated bodies and lazy-moving feet....Then she saw that Emeralda was reigning!Then she felt that Eros was dead!She had murdered him!Oh, how her limbs glowed, how her soul burned! Oh, the burning pain within her, deep within—a pain which no grape-juice could allay, which no mad dance could deaden and the nymphs could not cool, though they poured over her all their urns! Oh, that hell in her soul, for the irretrievable desolation, for the murdered one, past recall! Oh, that suffering, not for herself, but for him—for another! that repentance, that burning remorse!....She fell to the ground and sobbed.The pale sunbeams faded away, thick grey clouds came sweeping along, a shower of hail rattled down, flinging handfuls of icy-cold stones....She felt a touch on her shoulder. She looked up.It was the Satyr who had allured her with his pipe, there, on that very spot.“Psyche!” said he, “what are you doing here, so far away from all of us? Winter is coming, Psyche; listen to the whistling winds, feel the rattling hail; the last leaves are being blown away. We are going to the South, and Prince Bacchus is seeking for you.... What are you doing here, and why are you crouching down and weeping?“We are having a feast and are fleeing the winter; come!”“I feel no cold; I am burning.... Let me stay here, and weep, and die....”“Why should you die, O Psyche, Psyche, so pretty and so gay—Psyche, the prettiest and gayest, who can dance the maddest, who can dance out all the Bacchantes? Come!....”She laughed through her tears, a laugh like a piercing shriek.“But Psyche, do you know what it is?”said the Satyr, whispering confidentially. “Do you know what it is that prevents you from being happy, and why you are not like all of us? I told you before, Psyche: it is on account of your wings. Your wings prevent you from putting a beast’s skin round you, and entwining your hair with vine. The nymphs find your wings pretty, but what do you want with things that are pretty, yet of no use whatever? If you could only fly with those wings!”... “If I could only fly with those wings!” said Psyche, sighing. “No, I have never been able to fly with them, my poor, weak wings!”“The nymphs think your wings pretty, but the nymphs are sentimental. The Bacchantes think them ugly, and laugh at you in secret. Prince Bacchus does not like wings either; he cannot embrace you well with those things on your back. Psyche, dear Psyche, listen: shall I tell you something....? You must let me cut those wings off with a pair of grape-scissors. For when you have got rid of your wings, then you can throw a panther’s skin round you, and put a vine-wreath round your hair, and you will be altogether one of us....”The wind blew, the hail rattled down: winter was coming on.... “Eros is dead!” murmured Psyche, “Spring is past, the Present is withered, Emeralda reigns.... ‘What are you doing with things that are pretty, and have no use at all...?’“If I cannot possibly get cool, if I keep burning deep within me ... it is better, perhaps, to renounce my princess’s rights, to go naked no longer, to have no wings....”“Tell me, Psyche, may I cut them off?”“Yes, clip them! Cut them right off, my wings, which are only pretty!” she cried fiercely. “Cut them off!!”His eyes glowed jet and gold, his breath came quickly from joy. He produced his sharp scissors....And whilst she knelt, he cut off both her wings.They fell on the ground and shrivelled up.“Oh, that pains, that pains!... Oh, that pains!” cried Psyche.“It is a little wound, it will soon heal,” said the Satyr soothingly, but grinning with pleasure.Then he threw a panther’s skin round her,put a wreath of vine-leaves on her head, and she was like a fair Bacchante still very young and tender, with her white skin, with her tender eyes of soul-innocence, in which, deep down, dejection reigned.“Psyche!” cried he delighted, “Psyche! How pretty you are!”She uttered her shrill laugh, her laugh of bitter irony. He led her away down the hills. She looked about: yonder lay the Present, reduced to dust and spider-webs. She looked about: in the wind, which was blowing, her wings whirled away, shrivelled up, whirled away like dry leaves.She laughed and put her arm round his neck, and they hastened back to the wood.The wind blew; the first snowflakes fell.
Chapter XIX
That morning she wandered about in the rosy autumn dawn—a mist between the trees stripped of leaves. Along the path she trod; on a skin she found a satyr and a Bacchante lying in a drunken sleep, tight in each other’s arms; a cup lay on the ground, a broken thyrsus, pressed-out grapes. She hastened on and sought the most lonely spots. The foliage became scantier, the trees grew farther apart, the wood ended in a plain and, violet misty, a perspective of very low hills.Psyche walked on over the plain and climbed the hills.The autumn wind blew and howled between shrubs and bushes, and sang the approach of winter. But Psyche felt not the cold, for her naked limbs glowed: her soul was all on fire.On the highest hill-top she looked out, her hand above her eyes, gazing into the violet mist.... Unconscious to herself, she hopedfor something vague and impossible: that she might see Eros, that he would come to her, that she would fall at his feet, that he would forgive her tenderly, and take her away with him. Impossible. “What was impossible? Could not everything be possible? Had he not followed the track of her tears? had he not found her in the arms of the Sphinx?” Oh, she hoped, she hoped, she hoped more definitely! Her remorse-burned soul longed for the balsam of his love in the palace of crystal, for the sounds of his lyre, for the tender words in the garden of the Present.She hoped, she gazed....In the pale glow of the morning sun, the violet mist cleared up, and parted like violet curtains....She gazed: there was the Present....There Eros would be, mourning for his naughty Psyche!There he would presently forgive her....Oh, how she hoped, how she longed!.... She longed; she stretched out her arms and dared cry in a plaintive voice:“Eros!”The wind blew through bush and shrub and sang the approach of winter. The violetcurtains of mist were drawn aside. The sad autumn morning appeared. There, now visible, lay the Present....And Psyche gazed, screening her eyes with her hand....There she saw her happiness of days gone by, destroyed. In a dead, withered garden, a ruin: crystal pillars crumbling to pieces. And between the pillars, spiders’ webs; all over the garden spiders’ webs, web upon web, and in them spiders with bloated bodies and lazy-moving feet....Then she saw that Emeralda was reigning!Then she felt that Eros was dead!She had murdered him!Oh, how her limbs glowed, how her soul burned! Oh, the burning pain within her, deep within—a pain which no grape-juice could allay, which no mad dance could deaden and the nymphs could not cool, though they poured over her all their urns! Oh, that hell in her soul, for the irretrievable desolation, for the murdered one, past recall! Oh, that suffering, not for herself, but for him—for another! that repentance, that burning remorse!....She fell to the ground and sobbed.The pale sunbeams faded away, thick grey clouds came sweeping along, a shower of hail rattled down, flinging handfuls of icy-cold stones....She felt a touch on her shoulder. She looked up.It was the Satyr who had allured her with his pipe, there, on that very spot.“Psyche!” said he, “what are you doing here, so far away from all of us? Winter is coming, Psyche; listen to the whistling winds, feel the rattling hail; the last leaves are being blown away. We are going to the South, and Prince Bacchus is seeking for you.... What are you doing here, and why are you crouching down and weeping?“We are having a feast and are fleeing the winter; come!”“I feel no cold; I am burning.... Let me stay here, and weep, and die....”“Why should you die, O Psyche, Psyche, so pretty and so gay—Psyche, the prettiest and gayest, who can dance the maddest, who can dance out all the Bacchantes? Come!....”She laughed through her tears, a laugh like a piercing shriek.“But Psyche, do you know what it is?”said the Satyr, whispering confidentially. “Do you know what it is that prevents you from being happy, and why you are not like all of us? I told you before, Psyche: it is on account of your wings. Your wings prevent you from putting a beast’s skin round you, and entwining your hair with vine. The nymphs find your wings pretty, but what do you want with things that are pretty, yet of no use whatever? If you could only fly with those wings!”... “If I could only fly with those wings!” said Psyche, sighing. “No, I have never been able to fly with them, my poor, weak wings!”“The nymphs think your wings pretty, but the nymphs are sentimental. The Bacchantes think them ugly, and laugh at you in secret. Prince Bacchus does not like wings either; he cannot embrace you well with those things on your back. Psyche, dear Psyche, listen: shall I tell you something....? You must let me cut those wings off with a pair of grape-scissors. For when you have got rid of your wings, then you can throw a panther’s skin round you, and put a vine-wreath round your hair, and you will be altogether one of us....”The wind blew, the hail rattled down: winter was coming on.... “Eros is dead!” murmured Psyche, “Spring is past, the Present is withered, Emeralda reigns.... ‘What are you doing with things that are pretty, and have no use at all...?’“If I cannot possibly get cool, if I keep burning deep within me ... it is better, perhaps, to renounce my princess’s rights, to go naked no longer, to have no wings....”“Tell me, Psyche, may I cut them off?”“Yes, clip them! Cut them right off, my wings, which are only pretty!” she cried fiercely. “Cut them off!!”His eyes glowed jet and gold, his breath came quickly from joy. He produced his sharp scissors....And whilst she knelt, he cut off both her wings.They fell on the ground and shrivelled up.“Oh, that pains, that pains!... Oh, that pains!” cried Psyche.“It is a little wound, it will soon heal,” said the Satyr soothingly, but grinning with pleasure.Then he threw a panther’s skin round her,put a wreath of vine-leaves on her head, and she was like a fair Bacchante still very young and tender, with her white skin, with her tender eyes of soul-innocence, in which, deep down, dejection reigned.“Psyche!” cried he delighted, “Psyche! How pretty you are!”She uttered her shrill laugh, her laugh of bitter irony. He led her away down the hills. She looked about: yonder lay the Present, reduced to dust and spider-webs. She looked about: in the wind, which was blowing, her wings whirled away, shrivelled up, whirled away like dry leaves.She laughed and put her arm round his neck, and they hastened back to the wood.The wind blew; the first snowflakes fell.
That morning she wandered about in the rosy autumn dawn—a mist between the trees stripped of leaves. Along the path she trod; on a skin she found a satyr and a Bacchante lying in a drunken sleep, tight in each other’s arms; a cup lay on the ground, a broken thyrsus, pressed-out grapes. She hastened on and sought the most lonely spots. The foliage became scantier, the trees grew farther apart, the wood ended in a plain and, violet misty, a perspective of very low hills.
Psyche walked on over the plain and climbed the hills.
The autumn wind blew and howled between shrubs and bushes, and sang the approach of winter. But Psyche felt not the cold, for her naked limbs glowed: her soul was all on fire.
On the highest hill-top she looked out, her hand above her eyes, gazing into the violet mist.... Unconscious to herself, she hopedfor something vague and impossible: that she might see Eros, that he would come to her, that she would fall at his feet, that he would forgive her tenderly, and take her away with him. Impossible. “What was impossible? Could not everything be possible? Had he not followed the track of her tears? had he not found her in the arms of the Sphinx?” Oh, she hoped, she hoped, she hoped more definitely! Her remorse-burned soul longed for the balsam of his love in the palace of crystal, for the sounds of his lyre, for the tender words in the garden of the Present.
She hoped, she gazed....
In the pale glow of the morning sun, the violet mist cleared up, and parted like violet curtains....
She gazed: there was the Present....
There Eros would be, mourning for his naughty Psyche!
There he would presently forgive her....
Oh, how she hoped, how she longed!.... She longed; she stretched out her arms and dared cry in a plaintive voice:
“Eros!”
The wind blew through bush and shrub and sang the approach of winter. The violetcurtains of mist were drawn aside. The sad autumn morning appeared. There, now visible, lay the Present....
And Psyche gazed, screening her eyes with her hand....
There she saw her happiness of days gone by, destroyed. In a dead, withered garden, a ruin: crystal pillars crumbling to pieces. And between the pillars, spiders’ webs; all over the garden spiders’ webs, web upon web, and in them spiders with bloated bodies and lazy-moving feet....
Then she saw that Emeralda was reigning!
Then she felt that Eros was dead!
She had murdered him!
Oh, how her limbs glowed, how her soul burned! Oh, the burning pain within her, deep within—a pain which no grape-juice could allay, which no mad dance could deaden and the nymphs could not cool, though they poured over her all their urns! Oh, that hell in her soul, for the irretrievable desolation, for the murdered one, past recall! Oh, that suffering, not for herself, but for him—for another! that repentance, that burning remorse!....
She fell to the ground and sobbed.
The pale sunbeams faded away, thick grey clouds came sweeping along, a shower of hail rattled down, flinging handfuls of icy-cold stones....
She felt a touch on her shoulder. She looked up.
It was the Satyr who had allured her with his pipe, there, on that very spot.
“Psyche!” said he, “what are you doing here, so far away from all of us? Winter is coming, Psyche; listen to the whistling winds, feel the rattling hail; the last leaves are being blown away. We are going to the South, and Prince Bacchus is seeking for you.... What are you doing here, and why are you crouching down and weeping?
“We are having a feast and are fleeing the winter; come!”
“I feel no cold; I am burning.... Let me stay here, and weep, and die....”
“Why should you die, O Psyche, Psyche, so pretty and so gay—Psyche, the prettiest and gayest, who can dance the maddest, who can dance out all the Bacchantes? Come!....”
She laughed through her tears, a laugh like a piercing shriek.
“But Psyche, do you know what it is?”said the Satyr, whispering confidentially. “Do you know what it is that prevents you from being happy, and why you are not like all of us? I told you before, Psyche: it is on account of your wings. Your wings prevent you from putting a beast’s skin round you, and entwining your hair with vine. The nymphs find your wings pretty, but what do you want with things that are pretty, yet of no use whatever? If you could only fly with those wings!”
... “If I could only fly with those wings!” said Psyche, sighing. “No, I have never been able to fly with them, my poor, weak wings!”
“The nymphs think your wings pretty, but the nymphs are sentimental. The Bacchantes think them ugly, and laugh at you in secret. Prince Bacchus does not like wings either; he cannot embrace you well with those things on your back. Psyche, dear Psyche, listen: shall I tell you something....? You must let me cut those wings off with a pair of grape-scissors. For when you have got rid of your wings, then you can throw a panther’s skin round you, and put a vine-wreath round your hair, and you will be altogether one of us....”
The wind blew, the hail rattled down: winter was coming on.
... “Eros is dead!” murmured Psyche, “Spring is past, the Present is withered, Emeralda reigns.... ‘What are you doing with things that are pretty, and have no use at all...?’
“If I cannot possibly get cool, if I keep burning deep within me ... it is better, perhaps, to renounce my princess’s rights, to go naked no longer, to have no wings....”
“Tell me, Psyche, may I cut them off?”
“Yes, clip them! Cut them right off, my wings, which are only pretty!” she cried fiercely. “Cut them off!!”
His eyes glowed jet and gold, his breath came quickly from joy. He produced his sharp scissors....
And whilst she knelt, he cut off both her wings.
They fell on the ground and shrivelled up.
“Oh, that pains, that pains!... Oh, that pains!” cried Psyche.
“It is a little wound, it will soon heal,” said the Satyr soothingly, but grinning with pleasure.
Then he threw a panther’s skin round her,put a wreath of vine-leaves on her head, and she was like a fair Bacchante still very young and tender, with her white skin, with her tender eyes of soul-innocence, in which, deep down, dejection reigned.
“Psyche!” cried he delighted, “Psyche! How pretty you are!”
She uttered her shrill laugh, her laugh of bitter irony. He led her away down the hills. She looked about: yonder lay the Present, reduced to dust and spider-webs. She looked about: in the wind, which was blowing, her wings whirled away, shrivelled up, whirled away like dry leaves.
She laughed and put her arm round his neck, and they hastened back to the wood.
The wind blew; the first snowflakes fell.