YOU may remember reading, at the end of the story of “The Gods and the Giants,” that the quarrels of Jupiter and Juno never ceased to disturb the peace of the sky where the gods dwell. Juno’s temper was terrible, and so was her jealousy, and her pride was beyond all bounds. On the other hand, her character was without reproach, while Jupiter was the worst husband in the whole of heaven. To such a pitch did their quarrels at last reach, that Juno went away to earth, vowing never to see Jupiter again.
I suppose, however, that Jupiter loved Juno in the depth of his heart, or else he was afraid of the scandal that would follow upon a separation between the King and Queen of Heaven. At any rate he consulted his friends as to how the quarrel could be made up, and was advised by one of them, King Cithæron of Platæa, to have it announced that he was about to make some other goddess his queen. On hearing the news, back flew Juno in a rage to the sky to stop the marriage, and finding that there was no marriage to stop, consented to remain, and to forgive her husband once more.
But to quarrel once always makes it easier and easier to quarrel again, and harder and harder to keep love or friendship alive. And before long came another quarrel—the worst of all. Juno scolded furiously, and Jupiter at last said:—
“Enough. You shall destroy the peace of heaven no longer. Out you shall go.”
“All the better,” said Juno. “I will go back to earth as I did before. And I am not going to be tricked by your false stories a second time.”
“No,” said Jupiter; “the happiness of the earth is as dear to me as the happiness of the sky. You shall neither go to earth nor stay in heaven.”
Taking a long golden chain, he fastened it round her, under her shoulders. Then he sent for one of the Cyclopes’ anvils, and fastened it to her feet. Securing the other end of the chain to the keystone of the rainbow, he let her down, so that Juno hung suspended in mid-air, neither upon the earth nor in the sky, while the anvil at her feet prevented her from swinging and from climbing up again by the chain.
It was a terrible position for Juno. Her anger was still at full heat, and such a degradation, in full sight of gods and men, was a heavy wound to her pride, not to speak of the bodily pain which she had helplessly to bear. But she scorned to beg for pardon. So there she hung, plotting revenge, until night came—till Apollo was asleep under the sea, and Diana was away hunting, and Jupiter, making the most of his long-lost quiet, was dozing upon his throne. Then Juno, who certainly could not sleep with an anvil dragging at her legs and a chain at her shoulders, heard a whisper from above, “Hush! Don’t start—don’t scream; keep quite still, and I’ll soon draw your majesty up again.”
Not that Juno had thought of starting or screaming—she was much too dignified. Besides, the whisper, though rather rough and hoarse, was very pleasant to hear just then. For she recognized the voice of Vulcan, her own son, and she knew that he was going to help her.
So she kept quite quiet as she was bidden, and presently she felt herself, anvil and all, being drawn very slowly upwards, just as you may have seen a heavy sack drawn up by a machine to a warehouse window. It must have been rather painful being dragged up while the anvil dragged her down; but she found herself on firm sky at last, and sighed with relief when Vulcan, whipping out his knife, cut the cord at her feet, and let the anvil go thundering down upon the earth below.
You can fancy what a clatter it made. People started out of their sleep—not that that mattered. But it did matter that Jupiter started out of his. He sprang from his throne, and saw at once what had happened. The next moment, with a tremendous kick, he sent Vulcan flying after the anvil.
Vulcan fell and fell, spinning through space, till he lost his senses, and then—
The anvil had fallen upon the island of Lemnos, and the islanders, rushing out of their houses to see what the crash and clatter could be about, were amazed to see what looked like a confused bundle of legs and arms tumbling and whirling through the air. As it came nearer, it seemed to be a human figure. So the people made a sort of network of their arms, to catch it and prevent its being dashed to pieces.
And lucky it was for Vulcan that they did. For when he came to himself he found himself with nothing worse the matter than one leg badly broken.
God though he was, he always remained lame, and he was naturally somewhat deformed. But neither lameness nor deformity prevented his having amazing strength; and he was as clever as he was strong. The people of Lemnos treated him kindly, and he in return taught them to work in metals. They built him a palace, and he set up forges and furnaces, and made all sorts of useful and curious things. He used to work at the forges himself, blowing the fires and wielding the hammer. Among the curious things he made were two mechanical statues, which seemed alive, walked about with him, and even helped him in his work. And at last there came into his head a plan for getting called back into heaven. So he shut himself up in his smithy with his two mechanical workmen, and let nobody know what he was doing there. Those mechanical workmen were among the most useful things he made, for he could trust them to help him in his most secret work without understanding it or being able to tell how it was done.
One day the gods up in heaven were excited by the arrival of a splendid golden throne—a present from the earth for Jupiter. How it came there nobody knew. But there it was, and all agreed that nothing so magnificent in its way had ever been seen before, even in the skies. Jupiter was about to try how it felt to sit upon, when Juno, jealous even of that, went quickly before him and seated herself.
“Ah! that is a comfortable throne!” she exclaimed. “There is nothing like gold to sit upon, after all.”
Jupiter was annoyed with Juno’s behavior, as indeed he was with most things she did. As, however, he did not like to make another scene before all the gods and goddesses, he waited patiently for her to get up again. But she did not move.
At last—“I think that is my throne,” he hinted, in a tone which seemed gentle, but which Juno understood exceedingly well. Still she did not move.
“Thrones are not meant to go to sleep upon,” he said in a yet more meaning way.
And still she did not move.
“Get up!” he thundered at last, his patience gone.
“I can’t!” was all she could say, as she made a vain effort to rise. “The throne is holding me with its arms!”
And so it proved. Juno was held so tightly by the throne that she could scarcely struggle. It was very strange. And presently it became stranger still. Neither the authority of Jupiter, nor all the strength and skill of all Olympus together, could loosen the clutch of the magic throne.
“Ah!” said Mercury—who, you may remember, was Jupiter’s chief messenger, and the quickest and cleverest of all the gods—“if only Vulcan were here! He understands these things.”
“And why is he not here?” asked Jupiter, sternly.
But nobody dared answer, though everybody knew. However, Mercury took the hint, vanished for an instant or two, and, while the gods were vainly tugging at the arms of the throne, reappeared, followed by a limping figure all black and hot from the forge—in short, by Vulcan.
“What is the matter?” asked Vulcan, as innocently as if he had nothing to do with it at all. “Ah! I see. A clever invention; but—By the way, I can’t afford another broken leg: so if I help my mother this time—”
Seeing from the face of Jupiter that he had nothing to fear, he pressed the tip of his grimy finger upon a secret spring—the arms instantly opened, and Juno was free. What they did with the throne I cannot tell you; but you may be certain that nobody ever sat on it again.
After that, Vulcan remained among the gods as the god of Fire, and was the chief blacksmith of nature. He opened vast forges in the middle of the earth, where he made weapons and armor for gods and heroes, and thunderbolts for Jupiter. The Cyclopes, the giants with one eye in the middle of their foreheads, were his workmen. The chimneys of his furnaces are called volcanoes, of which the chief is Mount Ætna in the island of Sicily; and one can tell when some great work is going on by the smoke and flame that bursts out of these. Volcano, you will no doubt notice, is very nearly the same word as Vulcan.
And so things went on quietly till one day a very wonderful thing happened. Nobody has ever been able to account for it or understand it; so I must just tell you the story as it stands. One lovely spring morning, when there was scarcely the softest breeze to stir the sea, shining like a mirror in the sun, a light amber-colored froth that floated upon the ripples was seen, by watchers upon the shore of the island of Cyprus, to gather into a delicate rosy cloud that presently began to tremble as if it were trying to be alive. It still rested lightly upon the water—so lightly that the breeze, soft and gentle as it was, might have blown it away; but its delicate trembling carried it upwards till at last it seemed to breathe, then to take shape, and at last blossomed into the most beautiful woman—if woman it was—that had ever been seen in the world, or even in heaven. With wonderful grace she glided to the shore; and poets have told how the zephyrs, or soft west winds, guided her as she came, and the four seasons received her on the shore. The people of Cyprus could only wonder and worship; and this was the birth of the great goddess Venus, the Queen of Love, whom the Greeks called Aphrodite, which means born of the Foam of the Sea.
And this wonderful goddess of Love and Beauty Jupiter chose to give in marriage to Vulcan, the deformed and limping god of Fire.
PART II.—LOVE AND THE SOUL; OR, THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE.
THE fact was, that Jupiter himself had fallen in love with the beautiful new goddess. But she would have nothing to say to him: and so, just out of anger and revenge, he ordered her to marry Vulcan, because he was ugly, deformed, and always black with working at his forges.
Altogether it was an unlucky day when Venus came into the sky. Her beauty turned the heads of the gods, and filled the goddesses with envy and jealousy. But all that mattered nothing to her, for she had a magic zone, or girdle, called “Cestus” in Latin: and whenever she put it on she became so irresistibly charming that everybody forgave her everything. Not only the gods, but men also, became her lovers, her own favorite among them all being Mars, the god of War—a cruel and savage god, very unlike the rest, delighting in battle and slaughter. Then, on earth, she tried her best to make a very handsome young prince named Adonis fall in love with her. But he—strange to say—cared nothing for her. The only thing he cared for in the world was hunting: he scorned everything else, Venus included. Still, in spite of his scorn for her, she mourned for him miserably when he was killed by a wild boar. She changed him into the flower called Anemone, so that she might still find him upon earth: though some people say her grief was such that Death took pity on her, and allowed him to come to life again for six months at a time every year. This might mean that Adonis is only another name for the beauty of the earth, which comes to life for the six months of spring and summer, and dies for the six months of autumn and winter. For most of these stories have some sort of meaning.
Venus had a child, named Cupid, which means love. You must often have seen pictures and statues of him—a very beautiful boy, with wings, carrying a bow and arrows. They were magic arrows. For if any man was pricked by one of their points, he fell in love with the first woman he saw: or a woman, in like manner, with the first man. And as Cupid was exceedingly mischievous, and fond of aiming his arrows at people for his own amusement, the wrong women were always falling in love with the wrong men, and the wrong men with the wrong women: and so a great deal of fresh trouble came into the world, as if there had not been enough before, without the mischievous tricks of Cupid. Sometimes he went about blindfolded, shooting his arrows about at random: and then, of course, the confusion was worse than ever. It has been said that the bandage over his eyes means that love is blind to faults. But he does not always wear the bandage: and when he does, I believe it is only when he does not choose to see.
Now in a certain city there lived a king and queen, who had three beautiful daughters. The name of the youngest was Psyche, and she was the most beautiful of all. So beautiful and so charming was she that the people worshiped her as a goddess, instead of Venus. This made Venus very angry indeed, that a mortal girl should receive the honor and worship due to the goddess of Beauty. So, in her jealous wrath, she said to Cupid:—
“Do you see that girl yonder? I order you, as your mother, to make her fall in love with the very meanest of mankind—one so degraded that he cannot find his equal in wretchedness throughout the whole wide world.”
Psyche’s elder sisters were both married to kings; but she herself was so marvelously beautiful that no mere mortal dared to ask for her in marriage. This distressed the king, her father, greatly: for it was thought dishonorable for a princess not to marry. So he consulted the oracle of Apollo—an “oracle” being a place where a god’s voice answered questions. And the voice answered him thus:—
“On a cliff the maiden place:
Deck her as you deck the dead.
None that is of mortal race
Shall so fair a maiden wed.
But a being dread and dire,
Feared by earth, by heaven abhorred,
Breathing venom, sword, and fire—
He shall be the lady’s lord.”
This answer made the king more unhappy than ever at the thought of having to give his favorite daughter to be devoured by some terrible monster. However, the oracle had to be obeyed, and the whole city gave itself up to mourning for many days. Then at last a funeral procession set out to conduct the poor princess to her doom. Her father and mother were distracted with grief, and Psyche alone showed cheerfulness and courage, doing all she could to comfort them, and to make them resigned to the will of heaven.
When the procession reached the highest peak of a neighboring mountain, it returned to the city, and Psyche was left there all alone. Then her courage left her, and she threw herself upon the rock all trembling and weeping. But suddenly, in the midst of her distress, she was gently lifted up by the wind, and as gently let down upon the soft turf of a secret valley in the very heart of the hill.
It was a very delightful place, and Psyche fell pleasantly asleep. When she woke she saw a grove, with a fountain of water as clear as crystal, and near the fountain was a splendid palace, built of gold, cedar, and ivory, and paved with precious stones. Psyche approached it timidly, and presently found courage to enter. The beauty of the chambers lured her on and on, until at last she was fairly bewildered with admiration. All the wealth and beauty of the world seemed collected in this wonderful palace, and all without a lock or a chain to guard them.
Suddenly, in the midst of her wonder, she heard a musical voice, saying:—
“Lady, wonder not nor fear;
All is thine thou findest here.
On yon couch let slumber bless thee,
Hands unseen shall bathe and dress thee,
Bring thee meat and pour thee wine—
Thine are we, and all is thine.”
She looked round, but saw nobody. However, she saw the couch, and, being very tired with wandering about the palace and seeing so many wonders, lay down upon it and soon fell asleep. When quite rested, she rose and took a bath, being waited upon by invisible hands. Then she saw dishes of all sorts of dainties, and cups of wine, carried apparently without hands to a table, at which, being by this time exceedingly hungry, she sat down and made a delicious meal, attended by voices for servants. When she had finished eating, another voice sang to an invisible harp, and this performance was followed by a full chorus of such music as is only heard in heaven. And so at last the darkness of night came on.
Then she heard a voice, different from all the rest, whisper close in her ear:—
“I am your husband, Psyche, of whom the oracle foretold. This my palace, with all its delight, is yours, and I shall make you very happy. But you must obey me in two things. You must never see your father or your mother or your sisters again, and you must never seek to see me at all. If you promise this, I swear to you that no harm shall befall your kindred, and that you shall be happy forever.”
The whisper was strangely sweet and gentle for a terrible monster’s. Indeed, it was so loving and so tender that she forgot even to tremble. It went to her heart, and she could only whisper back:—
“I promise you.”
Thenceforth Psyche lived in the palace, every day bringing her fresh surprises and pleasures, the voices keeping her company, and delighting her with their marvelous music. And as soon as it became too dark for her to see him, the lord of the palace, her husband, came to her and stayed with her till nearly daybreak, until at last she forgot everything except how good he was to her, and how much she had learned to love him. It did not even trouble her that she had never seen him, for she thought of nothing but pleasing him and obeying his commands.
But one day Psyche’s sisters, having heard of her fate, and having come all the way from their husbands’ kingdoms to learn all about it, climbed together to the top of the mountain-peak to see if they could find any traces of her. Finding none, they wept and beat their breasts till the rocks resounded with their cries. Nay, their lamentations reached the palace itself; and Psyche, who loved her sisters, ran, forgetful of her promise, to the foot of the mountain, whence she saw them above mourning for her in an agony of woe.
The sight of their grief was too much for Psyche: it seemed so cruel that her sisters should mourn for her as dead while all the while she was alive and happy. Surely the husband who loved her so much did not mean the promise to prevent her from putting their hearts at ease. So she gave a command, and forthwith the invisible hands lifted her sisters, and carried them down safely into the secret valley.
Imagine their surprise! But imagine it still more when their lost sister, after embracing them, led them into her palace, showed them her treasures, entertained them with invisible concerts, and feasted them sumptuously.
“And the lord, your husband,” asked the eldest sister at last, “what manner of man may he be? And does he use you well and make you happy?”
The sudden question took Psyche aback. It seemed so strange to have to answer that she had never seen the face of her husband—that she no more knew what he was like than they. So, to avert their curiosity, she said:—
“He is an excellent husband and makes me very happy indeed—a handsome young man, who has not yet grown a beard: he spends his days in hunting among the mountains, or no doubt you would have seen him.... But it is time for us to part, my sisters, or it will be dark before you get home.”
So, loading them with jewels and golden ornaments, she embraced them, and, calling the invisible hands, had them conveyed safely back to the top of the mountain.
Whether the sisters had been honest in their mourning for Psyche I cannot tell: though I think they made more noise about it than people make who really and truly grieve. Anyhow, they were now filled with envy of Psyche’s wealth and happiness.
“To think of my being married to a bald, miserly old man,” said the eldest sister on their way home, “while that minx has a handsome young husband who squanders untold wealth upon her! And how proud she has grown! Why, she spoke to us as if we were her slaves.”
“And to think,” said the second sister, “of my being married to a gouty cripple! You may take things patiently, sister, and put up with her airs: but not I. I propose that we hit on some plan to take down her pride.”
So they hid the presents that Psyche had given them, redoubled their cries and groans, told their father and mother that Psyche had certainly been devoured, and returned to their own kingdoms for a while. But only for a while. Having arranged a plan, they returned to the top of the mountain: and in such a hurry were they to revisit Psyche that they leapt into the valley and would have come down with broken necks had not a passing breeze, who recognized them as Psyche’s sisters, caught them and made their fall easy. Psyche could not help being glad to see them again, for she loved them very dearly, and, in spite of her happiness, hungered for news from home.
After she had entertained them as before:—
“By the way,” asked the eldest sister, “the lord, your husband—what manner of man is he? You told us; but I have forgotten.”
And so had poor Psyche forgotten what she had told them. So she said, this time:—
“He is a middle-aged man, with a big beard, and a few gray hairs sprinkled here and there. He is a merchant, and travels into distant countries, or no doubt he would have been here to give you welcome.”
“Oh, you poor innocent!” said the sister. “As if he could be young and middle-aged, bearded and beardless, a merchant and a hunter! It’s plain you’ve never seen that husband of yours, and no wonder he wouldn’t let you. For we have—we, who spend our lives in watching over your interests,” she went on, squeezing out a hypocritical tear. “Your husband is an enormous dragon, with many folds and coils, a neck swollen with poison, and huge gaping jaws. Think of the oracle, you poor, dear, deluded girl. He is only feeding you up with delicacies in order to eat you. Well—if you like the prospect, we have done our duty. And when you are eaten up, you won’t be able to say we didn’t tell you so.”
Psyche was aghast with dismay. She trusted her sisters: there was the oracle: and it was certainly mysterious that her husband had never allowed her to look upon him.
“Oh! what shall I do?” she cried.
“Do? Why, there’s only one thing to do. We have thought it all out for you. Here is a lamp. Light it and hide it under a piece of tapestry. When the monster sleeps, uncover the lamp, and throw the light full upon him. Then take this knife, which has been well sharpened, and sever his head from his body. Thus the world will be freed from a curse, and you will be saved.”
Thereupon they left her. And how shall Psyche’s feelings be described? Was it possible she was the wife of a horrible dragon? Promise or no promise, that she must know. So she hid the lighted lamp, as directed. The night came and her husband with it. When he had fallen into a deep sleep, Psyche, with naked feet, crept noiselessly across the floor, drew off the tapestry, and flooded the room with light, and she saw—
A dragon? No—Cupid himself, asleep in all his beauty, with folded wings, and his bow and arrows by his side.
She hung over him in love and wonder. Alas! a drop of oil from the lamp fell upon him, and scalded his shoulder. He woke, cast a look of reproach and sorrow upon poor faithless Psyche, seized his bow and arrows, spread his wings, and flew. She, overwhelmed with penitence for her disobedience and distrust, and desperate at the thought of losing him, clung with both hands to one of his feet, and was thus carried through the window and far away through the night till her strength failed her and she fell fainting to the ground.
When she came to her senses, she found herself on the bank of a river, and, in her despair, threw herself into the stream. But the river took pity on her, and carried her into a bed of reeds, to whom the god Pan was giving a music-lesson. Pan told her how foolish she was to think she could mend matters by killing herself, and advised patience, which was none the worse counsel for being easy to preach and difficult to follow. However, he was very kind, so she thanked him, and wandered out into the world, hoping that she might meet Cupid some day, and beg him to forgive her.
Meanwhile Cupid lay tossing and groaning in his bed in his mother’s palace, for his scalded shoulder gave him great pain. Venus wondered what could possibly have happened, for all her questioning could get nothing from him but moans. And maybe she would never have known, had not a sea-gull come to her with a whole budget of scandal: among the rest, how Cupid was carrying on a love affair with a mortal. And when the gull told her that the girl’s name was said to be Psyche, the rage of the goddess knew no bounds. She hurried to Cupid’s bedside, and gave him such a scolding that he must have forgotten the pain of the scald. Then she went, still storming, to Juno, and demanded the instant arrest and punishment of Psyche. From Juno she went to Jupiter himself, who put Mercury at her service. Mercury received from her a little book in which was written the name and description of Psyche, and with this he went about the world, proclaiming that whoever should seize a certain princess of that name, an escaped handmaid of Venus, should receive seven kisses from the goddess herself for a reward.
Knowing nothing of all this, Psyche wandered on and on till she saw a temple on the top of a mountain. She thought it might be the dwelling of Cupid, so she climbed up to it and found it littered with sheaves of corn, bound and unbound, scythes, sickles, and such things, all lying about in confusion. Shocked at finding a temple in such a state, she set to work to put everything in order. She was in the middle of her work, when a beautiful lady appeared before her, crowned with a wreath of wheat ears, whom she knew to be Ceres, the goddess of harvest.
“Who are you?” said the goddess graciously, “who work so hard to put the floor of my house in order?”
“Psyche,” said she; “and I implore you, great goddess, to grant me shelter for a few days. I will serve you faithfully and well.”
But when the goddess heard the name of Psyche, her face changed. “Willingly would I shelter you,” said she. “But I dare not shelter one whom the wrath of Venus is following through earth and air. Begone! and be thankful that I do not keep you as a prisoner. Not even I dare offend Venus. My poor girl! I am sorry for you. But begone!”
Turned away by the kindest of all the goddesses, Psyche wandered on and on till she came to another temple in a gloomy valley, which proved to be the temple of Juno, to whom Psyche, falling on her knees before the altar, prayed for succour. But Juno, appearing to her, said:—
“Willingly would I help you; but though I am the Queen of Heaven, I must obey the law. Venus claims you as her handmaid, and nobody may give protection to a fugitive slave. Be thankful that I do not deliver you to your mistress. I pity you; but begone!”
So not even the greatest of all the goddesses could help her against the vengeance of Venus. Again she wandered on and on, helpless and despairing, till one of the servants of Venus met her and knew her. Seizing Psyche by the hair, she dragged her into the presence of the terribly beautiful goddess, who broke into a laugh of cruel triumph when she found her rival in her power. Venus delivered her over to her torturers, Anguish and Sorrow. They, having scourged and tormented her, brought her again before Venus, who flew at her like a fury, as if she would tear her limb from limb.
“You ugly slave!” said Venus, as soon as she recovered breath; “you want a lover, do you? Well, perhaps you may get one if you know how to drudge; you certainly won’t any other way. I’ll give you a trial.”
So she took wheat, barley, millet, poppy seed, vetches, lentils, and beans, mixed them up together, and said:—
“Sort out every seed into its proper heap before evening. If you can do that, you shall not be scourged again.”
Psyche sat down before her task in silent despair, crushed in heart, and aching in every limb. She could only pray that death would come to her before nightfall; for she could not bear the thought of those cruel scourges. And so she sat motionless until a little white ant, taking more pity on her than Ceres or Juno, called together his whole tribe, who sorted out the heap, grain by grain, into proper parcels, in no time, and then ran away.
Judge of the surprise of Venus when she found the work done. “Somebody has helped you!” said she. But she could not order her to be scourged, the work being done; so she threw her a piece of coarse bread for supper, and had her shut up in a wretched shed till day.
In the morning Venus came to her again. “Do you see yonder sheep, with golden fleeces, wandering without a shepherd? Go and bring me a piece of their wool, that you may escape another scourging.”
Psyche set out, not to get the wool, but to drown herself in the river that ran along the meadow where the sheep were feeding. She was about to leap into the water, when one of the reeds spoke to her, and said, murmuring:—
“Pollute not these pure waters by thy death, nor yet venture to approach yonder sheep during the heat of the sun; for they are fierce and savage, and they will slay thee with their horns. But when they are resting towards evening, creep into the meadow, and collect the wool that has clung to the bushes.”
Thus Psyche brought to Venus a whole lapful of golden wool. “Somebody has helped you!” again said the goddess, angrily. But she had to keep her word.
Still she could not bring herself to believe that Psyche could have performed these tasks unaided. She strongly suspected Cupid, though she kept him closely shut up in his chamber, making believe that his scalded shoulder still wanted careful nursing, for fear lest he might come across Psyche. She was quite sure he had never left his chamber for a moment. Nevertheless she resolved to send Psyc