A vanity! Thy vanity is this:
What proof hast thou this plague is due to thee?
Thou asked me once if I did think thee mad--
I told thee then, I did not. But shouldst thou go,
Shouldst thou fling thee from the mountaintop,
In hope—quite Vain!—that never shall another
Foolish lover die in quarrel vain,
By passions vain, by frowning parents vain,
By unrequited moping love—quite vain!
Then thou art mad indeed.
And if thou thinkest that in thy going, I
More happier would be, or longer life
At last enjoy, then I will tell thee plainly:
I’d rather perish by thy lover’s hands
Than see thee, daughter, perish by thine own.
For nothing but untimely death could move
My own vain heart from loving, madly, thee.
[Extended Speech] Act III, Scene 4 – Perfidious Dagger
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A note to all future playwrights: if your actors are giggling at a serious line you wrote, even if they’re giggling out of love—cut the line.
When I first started writing in verse, I was bound and determined that there would be no stage directions except the occasional (Exeunt omnes) and perhaps an (Alarum).
Hence, if I wanted Psyche to pick up a dagger and hold it to her heart, I would have her say something to that effect. Being determined as well (in the first iteration) to keep everything in verse, I was looking for six million dollar words to fill up my syllable count.
This is what Psyche used to say:
PSYCHE.
He does not speak. I’ll draw him forth to me.
Here do I wrench the perfidious dagger
From out my father’s back—O God, the blood!
Called I this dagger traitorous? No, no.
It is but metal and cannot desire harm.
Poor dagger, blameless steel and point, with thee
I’ll take my life and thus will end the curse.
The entire cast used to giggle uproariously at the “perfidious” dagger—let alone the fact that Psyche is once again not giving into the play, but taking a highly inappropriate moment to consider whether blame ought to go to the instrument of death or the person wielding said instrument.
Oy.
We have stage directions now.
Perfidious daggers can stay at home.
[Alternate Scene] Act IV, Scene 2 – All You Who Witness
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This scene, as has been chronicled elsewhere, is hands down the most revised scene in the entire play. What impeded me at first, was actually the one soliloquy from the first iteration that we all fell in love with, and which I fought tooth and nail against cutting.
It’s gone now, as is Psyche’s responding speech, but I have some hopes to perhaps restore it in The Rape of Persephone, where Hades takes Cupid’s lines, and Persephone gets Psyche’s. Otherwise, here you go.
CUPID.
All you who witness, silent, at this act
Now call me monstrous, for so I am.
She screamed.
O, Hell, what have I become? See how she seems
To sleep upon her side, curled like a bud
Caught too late in Winter; like a bird
Within a frozen nest, beneath a frozen wing—
Quite, quite dead.
Within a chrysalis of bloodied snow
Hath she wrapt her ravaged body, shivering
Should I breathe too near. Yet in that tremor,
Life.
I dare not touch her. So rude and warm my hand,
I fear her hair like frost would melt beneath it;
Her skin resolve to dew, that with a sigh
Would perish. Her parted lips, two sanguine stains
Upon this field of white, invite my lips
To breathe new life within them. But O, what life
Have I to give, who has taken life away?
Can it be that with my kisses, she has died?
Or is it that she stole my life from me
When first we met—so I reclaimed my life
In taking hers…
No. These are words a murderer might use:
“I had no other choice. The fault’s not mine.”
So, too, do lovers in their passions speak,
But know their words are false, as oaths of love
When the body’s spent, may be called to question.
I said I cannot love. I spoke the truth.
Deceived her with no cordial word of mine.
Then wherefore do I stinging nettles feel
Encrownèd round my restless heart?
O, there are splinters in my soul, rebellious
To command, though I press my will against it.
Some arrow hath pierced my very breast,
And I fear, by God!, its tip is black envenomed.
For I know what righteous hand hath slain me—
She. She, with a look.
See how close beside me lies she still;
My thorny heartbeat is not nearer—yet
No nearer, she, than the furthest brink of space,
Where bright unbounded stars are pulled to tatters,
And Time’s deep pockets picked of our tomorrows.
Thought I in knowing her, I would be known?
Thought I in seeing her, I would be seen
As other than the monster I’ve become?
She stirs. I would not be seen.
Blow out night’s candle and cover me, you clouds.
How is’t with thee, my wife?
PSYCHE.
Have you killed my sisters yet?
Or did you keep your word as I kept mine?
CUPID.
I keep my word.
PSYCHE.
That’s well. Did I please you?
Are you happy now you’ve wracked me?
CUPID.
No.
PSYCHE.
That’s also well. I do not wish you happy.
You who ravish what you love.
CUPID.
But married none.
PSYCHE.
The greater honoured I! For they may leave
When you have done with them. But I must stay,
With nothing but my word to hold me here.
CUPID.
Then break your word.
PSYCHE.
As you have broken me?
I’ll keep my word to keep your own in trust.
I will not give you cause again to kill.
CUPID.
You have no need: your coldness murders me.
PSYCHE.
My coldness?
CUPID.
Aye. That will not let thee move
Except by force. Within your heart is winter,
So all hoarfrosted that the summer sun
Would sooner hang with icicles than you
Could melt into it. Do you not hate me, Psyche?
Will you not weep? Or scream or rail aloud:
“This man hath done me wrong!’
PSYCHE.
And wherefore should I scream or rail or weep?
My jealous sisters can do me no more harm;
My father suffers not in an honourable grave;
The Beast through my own body have I vanquished.
I am mistress of all that I can see,
Only yourself excepted—and wherefore should I weep?
Tell me, O husband most divine and wise,
Will my tears release my Father from his tomb?
Or give another life to those you’ve killed?
If I could weep, O husband most courageous,
Should you then, bending, restore to me my maidenhead?
Can my tears do that? For if they can,
Then I should have made the Trojan women’s
Noisome wail sound smaller than the fly’s complaint.
So thunderous wo
uld my hail of tears have been,
That Zeus should cede the lightning bolt to me.
The children of Pompeii with ashen hands
Eternally outstretched should witness to my grief.
O, I could fell Colossus with my tears.
And so I will not weep lest I flood the world.
And the scene went on bitterly from there, concluding with:
PSYCHE.
And I alone in such a cold and dismal
Home as this. Every surface marble
To my touch: cold, unyielding, to perfect
For much comfort. O God! Is this a tomb?
Have I, in truth, been ta’en for Hades’ second wife?
But, no. There is no Father here to greet me.
No murdered lovers to accuse me of their deaths.
No ferryman, no Sisyphus, no God.
Back, back you tears. In faith, I will be strong.
Night cannot last forever. I’ll wait for tardy Dawn.
[Deleted Scene] Act IV, Scene 4 – How Long Have I Been Here?
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In the most recent draft, there was an entire scene here between Cupid and Psyche. It was tough to lose some of the early poetry and snuggle-time between the lovers, but the dramatic action just stopped. So, since there was only one plot point (sending Cupid on his way to find Psyche’s sisters), the scene was cut and the plot point left as a few vestigial lines.
Here’s the original scene in full.
PSYCHE.
You come too early, lord. It’s not yet night.
CUPID.
I couldn’t wait. You’ll pardon me?
PSYCHE.
I will.
If you’ll remain—
CUPID.
I would not dare to trespass
On your sight. What have you done today?
PSYCHE.
I languished in the buttercups. And you?
CUPID.
Joined fiery Apollo as he thundered through the sky.
PSYCHE.
You didn’t go to earth?
CUPID.
What have I to do with earth, now that Psyche’s in my Heaven?
PSYCHE.
You have more to do with earth, my lord, now that your wife can die!
CUPID.
I’ll make of thee Immortal.
PSYCHE.
I would not wish it.
CUPID.
What do you wish?
PSYCHE.
For your friend, Apollo,
To put away his horses and leave the night to us.
CUPID.
There will be other nights. And if thou wert
Immortal, thou couldst look on me and live.
PSYCHE.
I’m well, I thank you, no. I’ll cling to my mortality a while longer. It reminds me what I am. Will this sun never set? How long, Husband, have I been here?
CUPID.
Ten thousand years. One minute. Not long enough. Forever.
PSYCHE.
Nay, but how old should I be? I try to count the nights, but they slip out from my fingertips like feathers on a storm. How long will I live here, Husband, before the crooked nail of Time draws scars upon my cheek? Has my hair turned white already? Are there bags beneath my eyes? I’m sure my elbow’s wrinkled…
CUPID.
Peace, peace!
Thou art as lovely, Wife, as when first we met.
Nay, I’ll swear it: Lovelier. For then
You hated Love, which was most ugly on you.
But now, although your hair is grey…
PSYCHE.
What’s that?
CUPID.
And there are spots upon your arms…
PSYCHE.
What? No!
O!—you are wicked, blind-boy. To make me think that I had aged past even your endurance! But when, my lord, will stern Death come for me? As surely, she must come—for sure, I still am mortal. How many nights do we have left?
CUPID.
As many as may fit inside an eggshell.
PSYCHE.
That is no answer.
CUPID.
As many, then, as
Drops within an endless sea that, as one falls,
The swift winds catch it up again to Heaven.
What questioning, Wife, is this? There is no Time,
As you perceive it, can encompass us!
You mortals live within his heavy chain;
Not we. We play hopscotch with the dial,
And keep our beauties cased within his glass.
Nor can the cold hand of Persephone
Touch you in this place.
PSYCHE.
O, there you’re wrong.
For I have felt her breath upon my shoulderblades,
As I bent to pick a bud; She’s often here.
CUPID.
I swear it, love: you’re safe.
PSYCHE.
The vows that mortals make are: “’Til Death do we part.” My nights, my lord, are numbered—
CUPID.
Persephone cannot enter here—
PSYCHE.
Nor am I sad to go, for every weary day’s more lonely than the last. And should I cede my soul from out this…prison; if I could see my Father once again, I should at last be happy. But these are idle thoughts. I pray you, Husband, speak.
CUPID.
What should I say?
PSYCHE.
Why, anything!
CUPID.
Don’t go.
PSYCHE.
My lord, I must. All things must end.
CUPID.
There’s nothing I’ve lost yet.
PSYCHE.
I am no thing.
CUPID.
No person, then. I prithee, Wife: what can I do to keep thee here?
PSYCHE.
I am not yours to keep, but mine to give.
CUPID.
What can I give thee then? When all my company is not enough? What more have I to give?
PSYCHE.
The world! O, Husband—can you bring to me my Father?
CUPID.
Your Father?
PSYCHE.
Aye. His soul is sure in Heaven. Can you fetch him?
If you did this thing, O Husband most divine,
If brought to life the man that you had murdered,
If you did this…then I would look on thee.
CUPID.
I can—I cannot go to Hell.
PSYCHE.
O, faith, no! Bring his soul to Heaven!
CUPID.
It lies beyond my stunted reach. Whom else?
PSYCHE.
My Father.
CUPID.
One living, or I’ll none.
PSYCHE.
My Father.
CUPID.
It cannot be!
PSYCHE.
(Overlapping.) My sisters, then. If they still live.
CUPID.
Who left you to my clutches?
PSYCHE.
There is aught I’d ask of them.
CUPID.
Your sisters, then. As you have sworn—
PSYCHE.
To look on you. And tell you what you are. I gave my word, will keep it.
CUPID.
Myself as well. Good night. (He begins to descend.) Psyche?
PSYCHE.
Aye?
CUPID.
It may be you’ll find me hateful. When you see my naked face. It may be you long for Earth…
PSYCHE.
I shall not stir, but wait for thee in Paradise.
CUPID.
(Kissing PSYCHE’S foot.) I shall not fail, but follow thee to Heaven. (Exits.)
[Deleted Scenes] Act IV, Scenes 2-4 – In Heaven and In Hell
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The following three scenes in the 2009 draft were three different soliloquies between two characters. Interestingly, they actually worked in performance. But the scenes that exist now
are, unsurprisingly, more dynamic than three back-to-back solos. You can see how they wove their way into the existing script, or were lost as the story solidified around the idea of Love’s redemption.
Act IV, Scene 2 (Original)
APHRODITE.
Lost! Lost! Lost!
O, I am worn down to a very thread!
What beauty once surrounded me is gone;
My temples lost and home to humble mice.
Columns wayward topple and with them I,
Too, fall. There are none left to worship me,
Or even use my name in swears. All’s lost.
Myself, my son, Adonis—gone.
And who will love me now? Tattered, as I am.
Four months have I scoured the world for Adonis.
Four months when Adonis should be mine.
Four months and he cannot be found. Some say
He’s died, is dead, is slain, is gone—is murdered.
But by whom? Immortal life we granted him;
For love of his manly beauty, th’ambrosial cup
We tipped into his fruitful mouth…
He cannot die! Yet Nature cries: “He’s dead!
Adonis now rots in Persephone’s bed.”
None but another god could curse him thus.
I have my suspicions, and will pursue them.
Act IV, Scene 3 (Original)
PSYCHE.
Love. Love? Love!
I have called him, but he does not come—
Love, I say! Would I knew his name, he’d follow.
Cupid and Psyche Page 17
