Chapter IV: Introduction (3)

As soon as Proserpina saw the pomegranate on the golden plate, she told the servant to take it away again. "I shall not touch it, I can assure you," she said. "If I were ever so hungry, I should not think of eating such a dried-up miserable pomegranate as that."

"It is the only one in the world," said the servant, and he set down the plate and went away.

When he had gone, Proserpina could not help coming close to the table and looking at the dried-up pomegranate with eagerness. To tell the truth, when she saw something that really suited her taste, she felt all her six months' hunger come back at once.

To be sure it was a very poor-looking pomegranate, with no more juice in it than in an oyster-shell. But there was no choice of such things in King Pluto's palace, and this was the first fresh fruit Proserpina had ever seen there, and the last she was ever likely to see, and unless she ate it up at once, it would only get drier and drier and be quite unfit to eat.

"At least I may smell it," she thought, so she took up the pomegranate and held it to her nose, and somehow, being quite near to her mouth, the fruit found its way into that little red cave.

Before Proserpina knew what she was about, her teeth had actually bitten it of their own accord.

Just as this fatal deed was done, the door of the hall opened and King Pluto came in, followed by Mercury, who had been begging him to let his little prisoner go.

At the first noise of their coming, Proserpina took the pomegranate from her mouth.

Mercury, who saw things very quickly, noticed that Proserpina looked a little uncomfortable, and when he saw the gold plate empty, he was sure she had been eating something.

As for King Pluto, he never guessed the secret.

"My dear little Proserpina," said the King, sitting down and drawing her gently between his knees, "here is Mercury, who tells me that a great many sad things have happened to innocent people because I have kept you a prisoner down here. And to confess the truth I have been thinking myself that I really had no right to take you away from your mother. It was very stupid of me, but I thought this palace was so dull, and that I should be much happier if I just had a merry little girl to play in it, and I hoped you would take my crown for a toy and let me be your playmate. It was very foolish of me, I know."

"No, it was not foolish," said Proserpina, "you have been very kind to me, and I have often been quite happy here with you."

"Thank you, dear," said King Pluto, "but I cannot help seeing that you think my palace a dark prison and me the hard-hearted jailor, and I should, indeed, be hard-hearted if I were to keep you longer than six months. So I give you your liberty. Go back, dear, with Mercury, to your mother."

Now, although you might not think so, Proserpina found it impossible to say good-by to King Pluto without being sorry, and she felt she ought to tell him about tasting the pomegranate. She even cried a little when she thought how lonely and dull the great palace with its jeweled lamps would be after she had left.

She would like to have thanked him many times, but Mercury hurried her away. "Come along quickly," he said, "as King Pluto may change his mind, and take care above all things that you say nothing about the pomegranate which the servant brought you on the gold plate."

In a short time they had passed the great gateway with the golden pillars, leaving Cerberus barking and growling with all his three heads at once, and beating his dragon tail on the ground. Along the dark, rocky road they went very quickly, and soon they reached the upper world again.

You can guess how excited and happy Proserpina was to see the bright sunshine. She noticed how green the grass grew on the path behind and on each side of her. Wherever she set her foot at once there rose a flower: violets and roses bloomed along the wayside; the grass and the corn began to grow with ten times their usual quickness to make up for the dreary months when Mother Ceres had forbidden them to appear above ground.

The hungry cattle began to eat, and went on eating all day after their long fast. And, I can assure you, it was a busy time with all the farmers when they found that summer was coming with a rush.

As to the birds, they hopped about from tree to tree among the fresh, sweet blossoms, and sang for joy that the dreary days were over and the world was green and young again.

Mother Ceres had gone back to her empty cottage, and was sitting very sadly on the doorstep with her burning torch in her hand. She had been looking wearily at the flame for some moments, when all at once it flickered and went out.

"What does this mean?" she thought. "It was a magic torch, and should have gone on burning till Proserpina was found."

She looked up, and was surprised to see the bare brown fields suddenly turning green, just as you sometimes see them turn golden when the sun comes from behind a dark cloud.

"Does the Earth dare to disobey me?" exclaimed Mother Ceres angrily. "Did I not forbid it to be green until my child should be sent back to me?"

"Then open your arms, mother dear," cried a well-known voice, "and take me back again." And Proserpina came running along the pathway and flung herself on her mother's bosom.

It would be impossible to tell how happy they were; so happy that they cried a little, for people cry when they are very glad as well as when they are unhappy.

After a little while Mother Ceres looked anxiously at Proserpina. "My child," she said, "did you taste any food while you were in King Pluto's palace?"

"Dearest mother," answered Proserpina, "I will tell you the whole truth. Until this morning not a morsel of food had passed my lips. But a servant brought me a pomegranate on a golden-plate, a very dry pomegranate, with no juice inside, nothing but seeds and skin; and I was so hungry, and had not tasted any food for such a long time, that I took just one bite. The moment I tasted it King Pluto and Mercury came into the room. I had not swallowed a morsel, but O mother! I hope it was no harm, six pomegranate seeds remained in my mouth and I swallowed them."

"O miserable me!" said Mother Ceres. "For each of these six pomegranate seeds you must spend a month every year in King Pluto's palace. You are only half restored to me; you will be six months with me and then six months with the King of Darkness!"

"Do not be so vexed, mother dear," said Proserpina. "It was very unkind of King Pluto to carry me off, but then, as he says, it was such a dismal life for him to lead in that great palace all alone: and he says he has been much happier since he had me to run about the big rooms and to play beside him. If only he will let me spend six months every year with you, I think I can bear to spend the other six months beside him. After all, he was as kind as he knew how to be, but I am very glad he cannot keep me the whole year round."

THE STORY OF ATALANTA

ADAPTED BY ANNA KLINGENSMITH

Atalanta was a maiden whose face you might truly say was boyish for a girl, yet too girlish for a boy. Her fortune had been told, and it was to this effect: "Atalanta, do not marry; marriage will be your ruin." Terrified by this oracle, she fled the society of men, and devoted herself to the sports of the chase. To all suitors (for she had many) she imposed a condition which was generally effectual in relieving her of their persecutions, "I will be the prize of him who shall conquer me in the race; but death must be the penalty of all who try and fail." In spite of this hard condition some would try. Hippomenes was to be judge of the race. "Can it be possible that any will be so rash as to risk so much for a wife?" said he. But when he saw her ravishing beauty as she prepared for the race, he changed his mind, and said, "Pardon me, youths, I knew not the prize you were competing for." As he surveyed them he wished them all to be beaten, and swelled with envy of anyone that seemed at all likely to win. While such were his thoughts, the virgin darted forward. As she ran she looked more beautiful than ever. The breezes seemed to give wings to her feet; her hair flew over her shoulders, and the gay fringe of her garment fluttered behind her. A ruddy hue tinged the whiteness of her skin, such as a crimson curtain casts on a marble wall. All her competitors were distanced, and were put to death without mercy. Hippomenes, not daunted by this result, fixing his eyes on the virgin, said, "Why boast of beating those laggards? I offer myself for the contest." Atalanta looked at him with a pitying countenance, and hardly knew whether she would rather conquer him or not. "What god can tempt one so young and handsome to throw himself away? I pity him, not for his beauty (yet he is beautiful), but for his youth. I wish he would give up the race, or if he will be so mad, I hope he may outrun me." While she hesitates, revolving these thoughts, the spectators grow impatient for the race, and her father prompts her to prepare. Then Hippomenes addressed a prayer to Venus: "Help me, Venus, for you have led me on." Venus heard and was propitious.

In the garden of her temple, in her own island of Cyprus, is a tree with yellow leaves and yellow branches and golden fruit. Hence she gathered three golden apples, and, unseen by any one else, gave them to Hippomenes, and told him how to use them. The signal is given; each starts from the goal and skims over the sand. So light their tread, you would almost have thought they might run over the river surface or over the waving grain without sinking. The cries of the spectators cheered Hippomenes,--"Now, now, do your best! haste, haste! you gain on her! relax not! one more effort!" It was doubtful whether the youth or the maiden heard these cries with the greater pleasure. But his breath began to fail him, his throat was dry, the goal yet far off. At that moment he threw down one of the golden apples. The virgin was all amazement. She stopped to pick it up. Hippomenes shot ahead. Shouts burst forth from all sides. She redoubled her efforts, and soon overtook him. Again he threw an apple. She stopped again, but again came up with him. The goal was near; one chance only remained. "Now, goddess," said he, "prosper your gift!" and threw the last apple off at one side. She looked at it, and hesitated; Venus impelled her to turn aside for it. She did so, and was vanquished. The youth carried off his prize.

PYRAMUS AND THISBE

ADAPTED BY ALICE ZIMMERN

In Babylon, the great and wonderful city on the Euphrates, there lived in two adjoining houses a youth and a maiden named Pyramus and Thisbe. Hardly a day passed without their meeting, and at last they came to know and love one another. But when Pyramus sought Thisbe in marriage, the parents would not hear of it, and even forbade the lovers to meet or speak to each other any more. But though they could no longer be openly together, they saw each other at a distance and sent messages by signs and tokens.

One day to their great delight they discovered a tiny crack in the wall between the two houses, through which they could hear each other speak. But a few words whispered through a chink in the wall could not satisfy two ardent lovers, and they tried to arrange a meeting. They would slip away one night unnoticed and meet somewhere outside the city. A spot near the tomb of Ninus was chosen, where a mulberry tree grew near a pleasant spring of water.

At nightfall Thisbe put on a thick veil, slipped out of the house unobserved and made her way in haste to the city gates. She was first at the trysting-place and sat down under the tree to wait for her lover. A strange noise made her look up, and she saw by the clear moonlight a lioness with bloody jaws coming to drink at the spring. Thisbe sprang up, and dropping her cloak in her haste ran to hide herself in a neighboring cave. The lioness, who had already eaten, did not care to pursue her, but finding the cloak lying on the ground, pulled it to bits and left the marks of blood on the torn mantle. Now Pyramus in his turn came to the place and found no Thisbe, but only her torn and bloodstained cloak. "Surely," he thought, "some beast must have devoured her, for here lies her cloak, all mangled and bloodstained. Alas, that I came too late! Her love for me led Thisbe to brave the perils of night and danger, and I was not here to protect and save her. She dies a victim to her love, but she shall not perish alone. One same night will see the end of both lovers. Come, ye lions, and devour me too, 'tis my one prayer. Yet 'tis a coward's part to pray for death when his own hands can give it."

With these words he drew Thisbe's cloak towards him, and covered it with kisses. "My blood too shall stain you," he cried, and plunged his sword with true aim in his breast. The blood spouted forth as from a fountain and stained the white fruit of the mulberry overhead.

While Pyramus lay dying under the tree, Thisbe had recovered from her fright, and now stole forth from her hiding-place, hoping that her lover might be at hand. What was her dismay when she saw Pyramus stretched lifeless on the ground. Kneeling down beside him, she washed his wound with her tears, and kissed his cold lips, calling on him in vain to speak. "Speak to me, Pyramus," she cried, "'tis your beloved Thisbe that calls."

At the sound of her voice Pyramus opened his failing eyes, and gave his love one last look, then he closed them for ever. When Thisbe saw her own cloak and the empty sheath, she guessed that, thinking her dead, he had sought death himself.

"'Twas by your own hand you fell," she cried, "a victim to love, and love will give my hand strength to do the like. Since those who were parted in life are united in death, perhaps our sorrowing parents will grant us the boon of a common tomb. May we rest side by side, even as we have fallen, and may this tree, which has witnessed our despair and our death, bear the traces for evermore. Let its fruit be clothed in mourning garb for the death of two hapless lovers."

With these words she threw herself on the sword of Pyramus. Her last prayer was granted, for one urn held the ashes of the faithful pair. And since that night the mulberry tree bears purple fruit to recall to all generations of lovers the cruel fate of Pyramus and Thisbe.

ORPHEUS

ADAPTED BY ALICE ZIMMERN

Orpheus, the Thracian singer, was the most famous of all the musicians of Greece. Apollo himself had given him his golden harp, and on it he played music of such wondrous power and beauty that rocks, trees and beasts would follow to hear him. Jason had persuaded Orpheus to accompany the Argonauts when they went to fetch back the golden fleece, for he knew that the perils of the way would be lightened by song. To the sound of his lyre the Argo had floated down to the sea, and he played so sweetly when they passed the rocks of the Sirens that the dreadful monsters sang their most alluring strains in vain.

Orpheus wedded the fair nymph Eurydice, whom he loved dearly, and who returned his love. But at their marriage the omens were not favorable. Hymen, the marriage god, came to it with a gloomy countenance and the wedding torches smoked and would not give forth a cheerful flame.

Indeed the happiness of Orpheus and Eurydice was to be but short-lived. For as the new-made bride wandered through the woods with the other nymphs a poisonous serpent stung her heel, and no remedy availed to save her. Orpheus was thrown into most passionate grief at his wife's death. He could not believe that he had lost her for ever, but prayed day and night without ceasing to the gods above to restore her to him. When they would not listen, he resolved to make one last effort to win her back. He would go down to the Lower World and seek her among the dead, and try whether any prayer or persuasion could move Pluto to restore his beloved.

Near Taenarum, in Laconia, was a cave among dark and gloomy rocks, through which led one of the entrances to the Lower World. This was the road by which Hercules descended when he went to carry off Cerberus, the three-headed dog that guards the threshold of Pluto. Undaunted by the terrors of the place, Orpheus passed through this gate and down a dark and dismal road to the kingdom of the dead. Here he came in safety through the crowd of ghosts and phantoms, and stood at last before the throne of Pluto and Proserpina. Then he touched the chords of his lyre and chanted these words:

"Great lords of the world below the earth, to which all we mortals must one day come, grant me to tell a simple tale and declare unto you the truth. Not to look upon the blackness of Tartarus have I come hither, nor yet to bind in chains the snaky heads on Cerberus. It is my wife I seek. A viper's sting has robbed her of the years that were her due. I should have borne my loss, indeed I tried to bear it, but I was overcome by Love, a god well known in the world above, and I think not without honor in your kingdom, unless the story of Proserpina's theft be a lying tale. I beseech you, by the realms of the dead, by mighty Chaos and the silence of your vast kingdom, revoke the untimely doom of Eurydice. All our lives are forfeit to you. 'Tis but a short delay, and late or soon we all hasten towards one goal. Hither all our footsteps tend. This is our last home, yours is the sole enduring rule over mankind. She too, when she shall have lived her allotted term of years, will surely come under your sway. Till then, I implore you, let her be mine. But if the Fates refuse a husband's prayers, I am resolved never to return hence. My death shall give you a double boon."

Thus he prayed and touched his harp in tune with his words. All around him the lifeless ghosts came flocking, and as they heard they wept. Tantalus forgot his hunger and thirst. Ixion's wheel stood still, the Danaids set aside their leaky urns and Sisyphus sat on his stone to listen. Never yet had such sweet strains been heard in the world of gloom. Then, for the first time, tears moistened the cheeks of the Furies, and even the king and queen of the dead were moved to pity. They summoned Eurydice, and she came, yet halting from her recent wound.

"Take her," says Pluto, "and lead her back to the light. But she must follow you at a distance, nor must you once turn round to look upon her till you have passed beyond these realms. Else the boon we grant you will be but vain."

A steep path led upward from the realm of darkness, and the way was hard to find through the gloom. In silence Orpheus led on, till the goal was close at hand and the welcoming light of the upper air began to penetrate the darkness. Then a sudden fear struck his heart. Had Eurydice really followed his steps, or had she turned back, and was all his toil in vain? Tom with anxiety and longing, he turned to gaze on his beloved. Dimly he saw her, but for the last time, for a power she could not resist drew her back. Orpheus stretched out his arms and tried to seize her, but he only clasped the empty air. "Farewell, a last farewell," she murmured, and vanished from his sight.

In vain Orpheus tried to follow her, in vain he besought Charon to carry him a second time across the waters of Acheron. Seven days he sat on the further bank without food or drink, nourished by his tears and grief. Then at last he knew that the gods below were pitiless; and full of sorrow he returned to the upper earth.

For three years he wandered among the mountains of Thrace, finding his only consolation in the music of his lyre, for he shunned all men and women and would have no bride after Eurydice.

One day he sat down to rest on a grassy hill in the sunshine, and played and sang to beguile his sorrow. As he played, the coolness of shady branches seemed all about him, and looking up he found himself in the midst of a wood. Oak, poplar, lime, beech, laurel, ash, pine, plane and maple and many another tree had gathered together here, drawn from their distant forest homes by the sounds of Orpheus's lyre. Yes, and the beasts and the birds of the field came too, and Orpheus sat in their midst and sang and played the tunes of sorrow.

Suddenly a great noise was heard of laughter and shouting and merry-making. For this was one of the feasts of Bacchus, and the women were celebrating his rites, wandering over the mountains with dance and revel. When they saw Orpheus they set up a shout of derision. "See," they cried, "the wretched singer who mocks at women and will have no bride but the dead. Come, let us kill him, and show that no man shall despise us unpunished."

With these words they began to throw wands and stones at him, but even the lifeless objects were softened by the music, and fell harmlessly to the ground. Then the women raised a wild shout and made such a clamor with trumpets and cymbals, that the soft tones of the harp were drowned by the noise. Now at last the shots took effect, and in their fury the women fell upon him, dealing blow on blow. Orpheus fell lifeless to the ground.

But he was not to die unwept. The little birds of the forest mourned for him, even the stony rocks wept, the trees shed their leaves with grief, and the dryads and naiads tore their hair and put on the garb of sorrow. Only the pitiless revelers knew no remorse. They seized the singer's head and threw it with his lyre into the river Hebrus. There it floated down stream and, strange to tell, the chords gave forth a lament, and the lifeless tongue uttered words. "Eurydice, Eurydice," it cried, till head and lyre were carried down to the sea, and on to Lesbos, the isle of sweet song, where in after years Alcaeus and Sappho tuned afresh the lyre of Orpheus.

But the shade of the dead singer went down to Hades, and found entrance at last. Thus Orpheus and Eurydice were re-united, and won in death the bliss that was denied them in life.

MYTHS OF SCANDINAVIA

BALDUR

ADAPTED FROM A, AND E. KEARY'S VERSION