Mythos (2019 Re-Issue)

by Stephen Fry

  “You lied to me,” she shrieked. “You made me look a fool!”

  Hera grasped the bird by the beak so that he could hardly breathe and was about to punish him in some strange and dreadful way that would forever have altered our conception of chaffinches, when his mate fluttered about her ears and hair bravely calling out. “But dread queen, he told you true! I saw King Zeus there myself. Even as you were talking to that nymph Echo, he was lying with a naiad not half a mile away. If you don’t believe me, the butterflies and herons can tell you. Ask the priestesses at the temple at Thespiae when he last visited them. He hasn’t been there for three moons!”

  Hera relaxed her grip and the bird, who had gone almost scarlet, breathed again, but male chaffinches still sport pink breasts to this very day.

  Echo was paddling playfully in a stream when Hera and her peacock carriage descended once more. The nymph splashed and skipped her way up the riverbank to greet the goddess, a wide and welcoming grin splitting her perfectly dimpled features. The smile of welcome quickly turned to a rounded “O” of fear when she saw the look of rage on Hera’s face.

  “So,” said the goddess, with icy calm. “You say my husband has not been here. You say he was not here yesterday. You say he was in Thespiae sanctifying a temple.”

  “That’s—that’s certainly my understanding,” stammered a frightened Echo.

  “You foolish, gossiping, chattering, scheming liar! How dare you try to deceive the Queen of Heaven? Who do you think you are?”

  “I—. . .” For once in her life Echo could think of nothing to say.

  “Well may you stutter and stammer. You love the sound of your voice, don’t you? Hear this . . .”

  Hera drew herself up and raised her arms high. Her eyes seemed to shine with a purple light. Echo quailed before the grandeur of the sight and wished the ground could swallow her up.

  “I command your wicked, lying powers of speech to be still. From this moment you will be mute unless spoken to. You will have no power to reply except to repeat the last thing that has been said to you. None can undo this curse. Only I can. Understand?”

  “. . . . can understand!” cried Echo.

  “That’s what happens when you disobey the gods.”

  “. . . obey the gods!”

  “I do not forgive. No mercy.”

  “. . . give no mercy!”

  With a snort and sneer of triumph Hera whisked herself away, leaving the unhappy nymph shivering in fear and frustration. No matter how much she tried to speak, no words would come. Her throat seemed to catch and tighten every time. One of her sisters came upon her wordlessly retching and spluttering. “Hello, Echo—what are you doing?”

  “What are you doing?” said Echo.

  “I asked first.”

  “I asked first.”

  “No I did.”

  “No I did!”

  “Well, if you’re going to be like that, go to hell.”

  “Go to hell!” Echo cried after her, wild with misery.

  One by one all her friends and all her family shunned her. The curse inflicted upon one who had lived her life for gleeful gossip, who valued nothing above cheerful chatter, and who had derived all her pleasure from prattling repartee was so terrible that Echo now wished for nothing more than to be left alone to welter in silent agony.

  ECHO AND NARCISSUS

  Into the painful solitude of Echo’s private hell there crashed one day all the laughter, shouting, and boisterous clamor of a hunt. The youths of Thespiae had chased a boar all the way into the wood, and one of the huntsmen had become separated. He was a youth of such transcendent beauty that Echo, whom the tender passion had passed over all her life, was instantly lovestruck.

  The youth was Narcissus, now older and more dazzling than ever. He had never fallen victim to the tender passion either. He had become so used to girls and boys, men and women, fauns and satyrs, nymphs and dryads, oreads and centaurs, and all manner of beings, sentient and non-sentient, shrieking and sighing and fainting away in his presence that he thought the whole business of love absurd. It turned sensible people stupid. Narcissus hated being mooned and swooned over. It maddened him to see the unmistakable look of love leaping into the eyes of others. There was something so angry and ugly about that look. Something so hungry, lost, and despairing, so brooding, haunted, and unhappy.

  To Narcissus love and desire were sicknesses. He had been taught that lesson in the worst way possible a year before, when a boy called AMEINIAS had declared his love to him. Narcissus had replied, as kindly as he could, that he did not return his love. But Ameinias would not accept “no” for an answer and took to haunting Narcissus’s every step. He joined him on his morning walk to school, tagging along and gazing at him like a lost and adoring puppy until Narcissus could stand it no longer and yelled at him to go away and never come near him again.

  That night Narcissus had been awoken by a strange sound outside his bedroom. He looked out of his window and saw in the moonlight Ameinias hanging from a pear tree, a rope around his neck. He choked out a curse before he died.

  “May you be as unlucky in love as I have been, beautiful Narcissus!”184

  Since then Narcissus had got into the habit of keeping his head down, covering his body as much as possible, and being short and gruff to strangers, never meeting them in the eye. But now, as he looked about him, he saw that the rest of the hunting party had gone and that he was splendidly alone. He decided to take advantage of the cool waters of the stream and its inviting mossy banks. He slipped out of his clothes and plunged into the water.

  As soon as she caught sight of that lissom and golden form, half sunlit, half dappled by the shade, and all streaming with water, Echo caught her breath. And when, peeping through the leaves she saw the face, the beautiful, beautiful face of Narcissus, she could no longer control her senses. Were it not for Hera’s curse she would have cried out there and then. Instead she gazed in silent wonder as the naked youth laid his clothes and bow and arrows on the grass and stretched himself out to sleep.

  When love comes late it comes like a tornado. Poor Echo’s whole being was swept up by her feelings for this impossibly beautiful youth. Nothing, not even the horror of Hera’s curse, had ever caused her heart to hammer so violently inside her. The blood pounded and surged in her ears. It was as if she was swirling in the center of a great cyclone. She simply had to take a closer look at this lovely youth. If she felt such tumultuous passions swirling inside her at the sight of him, then perhaps it was in the nature of things that he would feel the same at the sight of her? Surely that must be so? She crept forward, hardly daring to breathe. With each step she found herself more and more thrilled until she was quivering and trembling all over with excitement. The stories of love at first sight that she had heard sung all her life were true after all! This beautiful boy would be bound to return her love. Cosmos and creation would not make sense otherwise.

  Of course, you and I know that Cosmos and creation make no sense at all and never have. Poor Echo was about to discover the truth of this.

  Whether it was her pounding heart or the cry of a bird, something made the sleeping Narcissus open his eyes just as Echo drew near.

  His eyes met hers.

  Echo was a pretty nymph, lovely in fact. But it was only her eyes that Narcissus saw. That look again! That haggard, hungry, haunted look. Those needing, pleading eyes. Ugh!

  “Who are you?” he said, turning away.

  “Who are you?”

  “Never you mind. That’s my business.”

  “That’s my business!”

  “No it isn’t. You woke me.”

  “You woke me!”

  “I suppose like all the others you’ve fallen in love with me.”

  “Love with me!”

  “Love! I’m fed up with love.”

  “Up with love!”

  “It’ll never happen. Never. Go away!”

  “Never go away!”

  “I don’t care
how much you wail at me. I hate the sight of you.”

  “The sight of you!”

  “Stop it, will you? Just don’t!” cried Narcissus. “Go away!”

  “Don’t go away!”

  “You’re driving me crazy.”

  “Driving me crazy!”

  “Go away before I do something so desperate . . .”

  “So desperate!”

  “Don’t tempt me, now.”

  “Tempt me now!”

  Narcissus picked up his hunting sling and loaded it with a stone. “Go. Just go. I’ll hurt you if you don’t. Understand?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  The first stone missed her, but Echo turned and fled before Narcissus could reload and try again. As she ran he called out after her.

  “And never come back!”

  “Never come back,” she cried.

  She ran from him and kept running until she fell weeping to the ground, her heart bursting with grief and shame.

  THE BOY IN THE WATER

  Narcissus watched her go. He shook his head angrily. Would he never be free of these silly wailing people and their whining, clutching madness? Love and beauty! Words, just words.

  Hot and thirsty from all the stress and drama he knelt down to drink from the stream. He caught his breath in astonishment when in its waters, he saw the loveliest face he had ever laid eyes upon, the sweet and surprised face of a most beautiful young man. He had golden hair and soft red lips. Narcissus recognized with a thrill that the youth’s beguiling and loving eyes had the hungry, needy look he had always found so repellent in others. But the very same expression on the gorgeous face of this mysterious stranger made Narcissus’s chest swell and heart thump with joy. It must mean that the glorious creature in the river felt the same way as he did! Narcissus leaned down to kiss the lovely lips and the lovely lips came up to kiss his, but just as Narcissus lowered his face, the stranger’s features broke into a thousand dancing, rippling pieces until he could see them no longer and Narcissus found he was kissing nothing but cold water.

  “Stay still, lovely one,” he breathed, and the boy seemed to whisper the same to him.

  Narcissus raised a hand. The boy raised his hand in reply. Narcissus wanted to stroke the boy’s lovely cheek and the boy wanted to do the same. But the face fractured and dissolved the moment Narcissus got close.

  Again and again each one tried.

  Meanwhile, in the bushes behind them, Echo—fired and strengthened by her great love—had returned to try her luck again. Her heart skipped a beat when she heard him say:

  “I love you!”

  “I love you!” she called back.

  “Stay with me!”

  “Stay with me!”

  “Never leave me!”

  “Never leave me!”

  But when she came closer Narcissus turned with a snarl and hissed at her—

  “Go away! Leave us alone. Never come back! Never, never, never!”

  “Never, never, never!” wailed Echo.

  With a savage roar Narcissus picked up a stone and hurled it at her. Echo ran and tripped. Narcissus then grabbed his bow and would surely have shot her dead had she not scrambled to her feet and disappeared into the wood.

  Narcissus looked anxiously back to the stream, frightened that perhaps the marvelous boy had gone. But there he was—a worried and flushed look on his face—but as beautiful and loving as ever and with a wonderful gleam in his deep blue eyes. Narcissus lay down again and brought his face closer to the water . . .

  THE GODS TAKE PITY

  Echo ran and ran up the hillside, sobbing with grief and desolation. She hid in a cave high above the river by whose banks the lovely Narcissus lay.

  Inside her head Echo framed the words of a prayer to her favorite goddess, Aphrodite. In mute despair she begged to be relieved of the pain of love and the intolerable burden of her cursed existence.

  Aphrodite answered the nymph’s prayers as best she could. She freed the nymph of her body and most of her physical self. She did not have the power to lift Hera’s curse, so the voice remained. The voice that had got Echo into all that trouble in the first place, the voice that was doomed to repeat and repeat. Nothing more was left of the once beautiful nymph, just the answering voice. You can hear Echo still, returning your last few words when you call out near caves, canyons, cliffs, hills, streets, squares, temples, monuments, ruins, and empty rooms.

  And Narcissus? Day after day he lay by the river, passionately and hopelessly in love with his own reflection, gazing at himself, filled with love for himself and longing for himself, with eyes only for himself, and consideration for no one and nothing but himself. He drooped down over the water, pining and pining until at last the gods turned him into the delicate and beautiful daffodil that bears his name and whose lovely head always bows down to look at itself in puddles, pools, and streams.

  You can choose to think of the characteristics these doomed young people have bequeathed us and our language as common human traits or as problematic afflictions. Narcissistic personality disorder and echolalia (the apparently mindless repetition of what is said) are both classified in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, which medically and legally defines mental illnesses. Narcissistic personality disorder, much talked about these days, is marked by vanity, self-importance, a grandiose hunger for admiration, acclaim, and applause, and above all an obsession with self-image. The feelings of others are railroaded and stampeded, while such considerations as honesty, truthfulness, or integrity are blithely disregarded. Bragging, boasting, and delusional exaggeration are common signs. Criticism or belittlement is intolerable and can provoke aggressive and explosively strange behaviors.185

  Perhaps narcissism is best defined as a need to look on other people as mirrored surfaces who satisfy us only when they reflect back a loving or admiring image of ourselves. When we look into another’s eyes, in other words, we are not looking to see who they are, but how we are reflected in their eyes. By this definition, which of us can honestly disown our share of narcissism?

  181. Note the similarity of the offence to Actaeon’s crime of spying on Artemis. The modesty of the gods while bathing was prodigious.

  T. S. Eliot makes memorable reference to Tiresias in “The Fire Sermon” section of his poem The Waste Land:

  I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,

  Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see . . .

  I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs

  Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest . . .

  And I Tiresias have foresuffered all . . .

  182. The honor of being asked to adjudicate amongst the gods might seem great for a mortal, but as this story shows, and as the Trojan prince Paris was to discover, the results could be catastrophic.

  183. The Moirai, you will remember, were the Fates. The Greeks felt that for every individual there was a personal, singular moira that could be expressed as a mixture of necessity, doom, justice, and fortune. Something between luck and kismet.

  184. Ameinias, according to some sources, became a sweet-smelling herb. Possibly dill. Perhaps cumin. Maybe anise.

  185. No one we know, of course . . .

  LOVERS

  Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet, Heathcliff and Catherine, Sue Ellen and J.R.—the doomed lovers we know all owe a great debt to the tragic Greek tradition that preceded them.

  PYRAMUS AND THISBE

  When we hear the name “Babylon” we think of a Middle Eastern civilization famed for ribaldry and excess. Its Hanging Gardens were one of the original Seven Wonders of the World and for a time Babylon was the largest city in the world.186 The Babylonian Empire took in much of Asia Minor, indeed some believe that this story really took place in Cilicia, the kingdom that Cilix founded before he joined Cadmus and the other sons of Agenor in their quest for Europa. Ovid, however, in his version of the tale, is happy to locate the action plum in the center of Babylon and so th
at is where I have placed it too.

  In Babylon, then, lived two families who had been feuding, no one quite remembers why, for generations. Their great palaces stood next to each other on the main street of the city, but the children of each household were raised as enemies, forbidden so much as to speak, write, or sign to one another.

  One of the families had a son called PYRAMUS and the other a daughter called THISBE who somehow fell in love with each other despite the obstacles in their way. They had discovered a small hole in a shared wall between their adjoining homes. Through this aperture they whispered, swapping views of life, poetry, and music until they found themselves falling very deeply in love. The hole in the wall was too small to allow them to touch, but the heat of their young and ardent passion could be breathed from one mouth to another through that benevolent chink, intensified by the forbidden nature of their feelings and their thrillingly unbridgeable proximity.

  This exchange of hot, youthful breath enflamed them so much that one night, maddened beyond endurance, they arranged each to escape their respective palaces and meet at night in the grounds of the tomb of Pyramus’s ancestor, the Assyrian King NINUS, founder of the great city of Nineveh.

  And so, the following evening, the nimble and quickwitted Thisbe slips past the guardians of her room and the sentries on duty outside her father’s palace and is soon beyond the city walls, built all those years ago by her ancestor, Queen SEMIRAMIS. When she reaches the trysting-place, Thisbe encounters not her lover Pyramus, but a savage lion whose jaws drip with the blood of its recent prey, an ox. Frightened by its roars, Thisbe runs from the cemetery. In the hurry and panic of her flight she drops her veil. The lion approaches the veil, snuffles it, takes it between its jaws and shakes it from side to side, staining it with some of the oxblood on its muzzle before letting it fall back to the ground, giving one last roar, and padding off into the night.

  A little later Pyramus arrives on the scene and sets himself to wait for his beloved under a tall mulberry tree loaded with its heavy summer burden of snow-white fruit. A shaft of moonlight shoots between the tree’s branches and illuminates Thisbe’s veil, which is lying on the ground all smeared and dabbled with gore. Pyramus snatches it up. Horrorstruck, he can make out the embroidered crest of Thisbe’s family in the bloodstained linen, and more than that, he recognizes the scent of the girl with whom he has exchanged the fierce fever of love’s breath so many times. Paw prints on the ground bear witness to the presence of a lion.