He immediately flew to the castle, and just as Psyche’s sisters were coming into the courtyard, he aimed his golden arrows at the first two suitors he saw. That very evening the king and queen were delighted to receive offers of marriage for their two eldest daughters.
“Now Psyche can marry,” they said to each other joyfully. “And peace will return to the kingdom.” Peace came, but not in the way they expected.
Cupid did not want anyone to court Psyche. He cast an invisible hedge of thorns around the girl so that no suitor could come near. Psyche welcomed being alone. No man or boy she had ever met matched her secret idea of what a husband should be. Now, behind the hedge of thorns, she could dream about him.
But the king and queen were very troubled. They could not understand why no one was asking to marry their most beautiful daughter. They understood even less why she didn’t seem to care. They went to an oracle, who said:
“Psyche is not meant for mortal man. She is to be the bride of the one who lives on the mountain and conquers both man and god. Take her to the mountain, and say farewell.”
When the king and queen heard this they thought their daughter was meant for some monster. They feared that she would be devoured, as so many other princesses had been devoured, to feed the mysterious appetite of evil. But they had to obey the oracle, and so they dressed Psyche in bridal garments, hung her with jewels, and led her to the mountain. The whole court followed, mourning as though it were a funeral instead of a wedding.
Psyche herself did not weep, but had a strange dreaming look on her face. She spoke no word of fear, wept no tear, as she kissed her mother and father good-bye. She stood tall on the mountain, her white bridal gown blowing about her, her arms full of flowers.
Soon the wedding party returned to the castle. When the last sound of their voices faded, Psyche stood alone listening to a great silence. Then the wind blew so hard that her hair came loose. Her gown was whipped about her like a flag and she felt a great pressure that she did not understand. She heard the wind itself whispering in her ear, saying: “Fear not, princess. I am the West Wind, the groom’s messenger. I have come to take you home.”
Psyche listened to the wind and believed what she heard. She was not afraid, even though she felt herself being lifted off the mountain and carried through the air like a leaf. She felt herself gliding down steps of air. She was carried through the failing light, through purple clumps of dusk, toward another castle, gleaming like silver on a hilltop. She was set down gently within the courtyard. It was empty, and there were no sentries, no dogs, nothing but shadows and the moon-pale stones of the castle. A carpet unreeled itself and rolled out to her feet. She walked over the carpet and through the doors. They closed behind her.
A torch burned in the air and floated in front of her. She followed it. It led her through a great hallway into a room. The torch whirled. Three more torches whirled in to join it, then stuck themselves in the wall and burned there, lighting the room. It was a smaller room, beautifully furnished. Psyche stepped onto the terrace which looked out over the valley toward the moonlit sea.
A table floated into the room, and set itself down solidly on its three legs. A chair placed itself at the table. Invisible hands began to set the table with dishes of gold and goblets of crystal. Food appeared on the plates, and the goblets were filled with purple wine.
“Why can’t I see you?” she cried to the invisible servants.
A courteous voice said, “It is so ordered.”
“And my husband? Where is he?”
“Journeying far. Coming near. I must say no more.”
Psyche was very hungry after her windy ride, and she finished the delicious meal. The torch then led her out of the room to another room that was an indoor pool full of fragrant warm water. After she bathed herself, fleecy towels were offered to her, and a flask of perfume that smelled like a summer garden at dawn. Then Psyche went back to her room, and awaited her husband.
Presently she heard a voice in the room. A powerful voice speaking very softly, so softly that the words were like her own thoughts.
“You are Psyche. I am your husband. You are the most beautiful girl in the world, beautiful enough to make the goddess of love herself grow jealous.”
Psyche could not see anyone. She felt the voice press hummingly upon her as if she were in the center of a huge bell.
“Where are you?”
“Here.”
Psyche reached out her arms and heard the voice speak again. “Welcome home.”
When she awoke next morning, Psyche was alone, but she was so happy she didn’t care. She went dancing from room to room, exploring the castle, singing as she went. She explored the courtyard, and the woods nearby as well, and found only one living creature — a silvery greyhound, dainty as a squirrel and fierce as a panther. Psyche knew it was hers. The greyhound went exploring the woods with her, and showed her how he could outrace the deer. Psyche laughed with joy to see him run.
At the end of the day she returned to the castle. Her meal was served by the same invisible servants. She again bathed and put on fresh clothes. At midnight her husband came to her again, and she wondered how it was that of all the girls in the world she had been chosen to live in this magical place.
Day after day went by like this, and night after night. And each night he asked her, “Are you happy, lovely girl?”
“Yes, but I want to see you. I know you are beautiful, but I want to see for myself.”
“That will be, but not yet. It is not yet time!”
“Whatever you say, dear heart. But then, can you not stay with me by day as well, invisible or not?”
“That too will change, perhaps. But not yet. It is too soon.”
“But the day grows so long without you.”
“You are lonely. You want company. Would you like your sisters to visit you?”
“My sisters! I had almost forgotten them. How strange.”
“Shall I send for them?”
“I don’t really care. It is you I want. I want to see you.”
“You may expect your sisters tomorrow.”
The next day the West Wind bore Psyche’s two sisters to the castle, and set them down in the courtyard, windblown and bewildered. They were fearful, having been snatched away from their own gardens, but were relieved to find themselves floating so gently to this strange courtyard. How amazed they were then to see their own sister, whom they thought long dead, running out of the strange castle. She was more beautiful than ever — blooming with happiness, and more richly garbed than any queen. Psyche swept her sisters into her arms. She embraced and kissed them, and made them greatly welcome.
Then she led them inside. The invisible servants bathed them and helped them dress, then served them a delicious meal. With every new wonder they saw, with every treasure their sister showed them, they grew more and more jealous. They, too, had married kings, but little local ones. This castle made theirs look like dog kennels. They did not eat off golden plates and drink out of jeweled goblets. And their servants were the plain old visible kind. As they ate and drank, with huge appetites, they grew more and more displeased with every bite.
“Where is your husband?” asked the eldest sister. “Why is he not here to welcome us? Perhaps he didn’t want us to come?”
“Oh, yes he did,” cried Psyche. “It was his idea. He sent his servant, the West Wind, for you.”
“Oho,” sniffed the second sister. “So he’s the one we have to thank for being taken by force and hurled through the air. A rough way to travel.”
“But so swift,” said Psyche. “Don’t you like riding the wind? I love it.”
“Yes, you seem to have changed in many ways,” said the eldest. “But you’re still not telling us where your husband is. It is odd that he doesn’t want to meet us — very odd.”
“Not odd at all,” said Psyche. “He — he is rarely here by day. He — has things to do.”
“What sort of things?”
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br /> “Oh, you know. Wars, peace treaties, hunting …you know the things men do.”
“Is he often away then?”
“Oh, no. That is, only by day. At night he returns.”
“Ah, then we shall meet him tonight. At dinner, perhaps.”
“No… well… he will not be here. I mean — he will, but you will not see him.”
“Just what I thought,” cried the eldest. “Too proud to meet us. My dear, I think we had better go home.”
“Yes, indeed!” said the second sister. “If your husband is too high and mighty to let himself be seen, then we are plainly not wanted here.”
“Oh, no,” said Psyche. “Please listen. You don’t understand.”
“We certainly do not.”
And poor Psyche, unable to bear her sisters’ cruel words, told them how things were. The two sisters sat at the table, listening. They were so fascinated they even forgot to eat, which was unusual for them.
“Oh, my heavens!” cried the eldest. “It’s worse than I thought.”
“Much, much worse,” said the second. “The oracle was right. You have married a monster.”
“Oh, no, no,” cried Psyche. “Not a monster! But the most beautiful creature in the world!”
“Beautiful creatures like to be seen,” said the eldest. “It is the nature of beauty to be seen. Only ugliness hides itself away. You have married a monster.”
“A monster,” said the second. “Yes, a monster — a dragon — some scaly creature with many heads that devours young maidens once they’re fattened. No wonder he feeds you so well.”
“That’s it!” said the elder. “He’s trying to fatten you up. You’d better eat lightly.”
“Poor child — how can we save her?”
“We cannot save her. He’s too powerful, this monster. She must save herself.”
“I won’t listen to another word!” cried Psyche, leaping up. “You are wicked, evil-minded shrews, both of you! I’m ashamed of you. Ashamed of myself for listening to you. I never want to see you again. Never!”
Psyche struck a gong and the table was snatched away. A window flew open and the West Wind swept in. He curled his arms about the two sisters and swept them out of the castle and back to their own homes. Psyche was left alone, frightened, bitterly unhappy, longing for her husband. But there were still many hours till nightfall. All that long hideous afternoon she brooded over what her sisters had said. The words stuck in her mind like poison thorns. They festered in her head, throwing her into a fever of doubt.
She knew that her husband was good. She knew he was beautiful. But still — why didn’t he let her see him? What did he do during the day? Other words of her sisters came back to her: “How do you know what he does when he’s not here? Perhaps he has a dozen castles scattered about the countryside, a bride in each one. Perhaps he visits them all.”
Then jealousy, more terrible than fear, began to gnaw at Psyche. She was not really afraid that her husband was a monster. Nor was she at all afraid of being devoured. If he did not love her, she wanted to die anyway. But the idea that he might have other brides, other castles, clawed at her. It sent her almost mad. She knew she had to settle her doubts once and for all.
So as soon as dusk began to fill the room, she took a lamp, trimmed the wick, and poured in the oil. Then she lit the lamp, and hid it in a niche of the wall, where its light could not be seen.
Late that night, when her husband had fallen asleep, Psyche crept out of bed and took the lamp out of its hiding place. She tiptoed back to where he slept and held the light over him. There in the dim wavering glow she saw a god sleeping. It was Cupid himself, the archer of love, youngest and most beautiful of the gods. He wore a quiver of golden darts even as he slept. Her heart sang at the sight of his beauty. She leaned over to kiss his face, still holding the lamp, and a drop of hot oil fell on his bare shoulder.
He started up and seized the lamp, dousing its light. Psyche reached for him, but she felt him push her away. She heard his voice saying:
“Wretched girl, you are not ready to accept love. Yes, I am love itself, and I cannot live where I am not trusted. Farewell, Psyche.”
The voice was gone. Psyche rushed into the courtyard, calling after him, calling, “Husband! Husband!” She heard a dry crackling sound, and when she looked back the castle was gone too. The courtyard was gone. Everything was gone. Psyche stood among weeds and brambles. All the good things that had belonged to her had vanished with her love.
From that night on, she roamed the woods, searching. And some say she still searches the woods and the dark places. Some say that Venus, the goddess of love, turned her into an owl who sees best in the dark, and cries, “Who…? Who…?”
Others say she was turned into a bat that haunts old ruins and sees only by night.
Others say that Cupid forgave her, finally. That he came back for her, and took her up to Mount Olympus. It is Psyche’s special task, they say, to undo the mischief done to a marriage by the families of the bride and groom. When they visit, and say, “This, this, this…that, that, that… better look for yourself…seeing’s believing, seeing’s believing,” then Psyche calls the West Wind who whisks the in-laws away — and she herself, invisible, whispers to the bride and groom that only those who love know the secret of love, that believing is seeing.
The Man Who Overcame Death
Orpheus was a young poet with the most beautiful singing voice in the memory of man or god. He had been taught to play the lyre by Apollo, god of music, and there were those who said that the pupil played better than the teacher.
Orpheus wrote his own songs, both words and music. The fishermen used to coax him to go sailing with them, for the fish would come up from the depths of the sea to hear him. They would sit on their tails and listen to him play, and so they became easy for the fishermen to catch. But they were not always caught, for as soon as Orpheus began to play, the fishermen forgot all about their nets. They sat on deck and listened, their mouths open — just like the fish. And when Orpheus had finished, the fish dived, the fishermen awoke, and all was as before.
When Orpheus played in the fields, animals followed him — sheep and cows and goats. Not only the tame animals, but the wild ones too — the shy deer, and wolves and bears. They all followed him. They streamed across the fields, so busy listening that the bears and wolves did not think of eating the sheep until the music had stopped, and it was too late. Then they went off, growling to themselves about the chance they had missed.
The older he grew, the more beautifully Orpheus played. Soon not only animals but trees followed him as he walked. They wrenched themselves out of the earth and hobbled after him on their twisted roots. Where Orpheus played you can still see circles of trees that stood listening.
People followed him too, as he strolled about playing and singing. Men and women, boys and girls — especially girls. But as time passed and faces changed, Orpheus noticed that one face was always there. It was always there in front, listening when he played. The girl not only came to listen when he played for people, she also appeared among the animals and trees that followed him as he played. Finally he knew that wherever he might be, wherever he might strike up his lyre and raise his voice in song — whether among people, or animals, or trees and rocks — she would be there, very slender and still, with huge dark eyes and long black hair and a face like a rose.
One day Orpheus took her aside and spoke to her. Her name was Eurydice. She said she wanted to do nothing but be where he was, always. She said she knew she could not hope for him to love her, but that would not stop her from following him and serving him in any way she could.
Now this is the kind of thing any man likes to hear in any age, particularly a poet. And although Orpheus was admired by many women and could have had his choice, he decided that he must have Eurydice. And so he married her.
They lived happily, very happily, for a year and a day. They lived in a little house near the river in a grove of
trees, and they were so happy that they rarely left home. People began to wonder why Orpheus was never seen about, why his wonderful lyre was never heard. They began to gossip, as people do. Some said Orpheus was dead, killed by the jealous Apollo for playing so well. Others said he had married a river nymph, and lived now at the bottom of the river, coming up only at dawn to blow tunes upon the reeds that grew thickly near the shore. Still others said that he had married dangerously, that he lived with a sorceress, who made herself so beautiful that Orpheus was chained to her side, and would not leave her even for a moment.
It was this last rumor that people chose to believe. Among them was a stranger, a young prince of Athens, who was a mighty hunter. The prince decided that he must see this beautiful enchantress, and stationed himself in a grove of trees to watch the house. At last he saw a girl come out of the house and make her way through the trees and down the path to the river. He followed. When he got close enough to see how beautiful she was, he hurtled toward her, crashing like a wild boar through the trees. Eurydice looked up, and saw a stranger charging toward her. Swiftly she ran toward the house, but she could hear the stranger close behind her. She doubled back toward the river and ran. Heedless of where she was going, she stepped full on a nest of coiled and sleeping snakes. They awoke immediately and bit her leg in so many places that she was dead before she fell. The prince, rushing up, found her lying in the reeds.
He left her body where he found it. There it lay until Orpheus, looking for her, came at dusk and saw her glimmering whitely like a fallen birch. By this time, Mercury had come and gone, taking her soul with him to the land of the dead, called Tartarus. Orpheus stood looking down at Eurydice. He did not weep. He touched a string of his lyre once, and it sobbed. He did not touch it again. He kept looking at his dead wife. She was pale and thin, her hair was tangled, her legs streaked with mud. She seemed so childlike. She did not belong dead. He would have to correct this. He turned abruptly, and set off across the field.
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