Psyche

by Louis Couperus

  “That is classical music,” said the Satyr.

  “I don’t know what you mean by classical music. But you may not come here and pipe, and disturb me in my afternoon slumber. If my husband knew it, he would be very angry, and have you torn to pieces by two raging griffons.”

  “I am not afraid of that,” said the Satyr. “Why, I tame panthers, and they are much more dangerous.”

  “I had pity on you,” continued Psyche severely, raising her head in queenly dignity, “and have not yet said anything to the king. But if you come again tomorrow, I will tell him.”

  “No, you won’t!” said the Satyr saucily.

  “You are an ill-mannered boy!” said Psyche, angry and offended. “You must not speak so to a princess. I ought not to condescend to speak to you. I can see very well that you don’t know how people behave at court, and that you come from the wood. And you are ugly, too, with your hairy feet and your tail.”

  The Satyr looked at her astonished.

  “I think you very pretty!” he whispered admiringly. “Oh, I think you so pretty! You have such pretty eyes, and such golden hair, and such a white skin! Only, I don’t like your wings. The nymphs haven’t any.”

  “You may not speak to me like that!” said Psyche vexed. “I am the queen. How dare you? Go away now, else I will call the wild beasts here.”

  “Well, don’t be angry!” said the Satyr in a low, imploring tone. “That is my way of speaking. We all speak like that in the wood. The Bacchantes, too, are not particular in what they say. We are unacquainted with your court language. And we don’t know anything of classical music. But we are always very merry and sociable together; but you must come once …”

  “Are you going?” said Psyche imperiously, and red with passion, and with her finger she pointed to him to be gone. He crouched down suddenly in the reeds of the brook among the irises and narcissi, and she saw him stealing away through the high grass. When she turned round she beheld the cupids; they were bringing her her crown.

  “The king is looking for you, Psyche!” they cried out in the distance, and like a cloud they hovered round her.

  She went back with them and threw herself into the arms of her husband.

  “Don’t roam so far away, my little Psyche!” said Eros. “In the wood behind the hills are wild beasts …”

  Night came on; Eros sang, the nightingale filled the air with her sweet notes.

  “Classical music!” thought Psyche.

  XV

  PSYCHE HAD A SECRET. Why did she not tell it? She did not know. She could not, after having once kept silent. She knew that she was not doing right by being silent, and yet she did not speak. But she was very sad about it, and felt dissatisfied. Then she wanted to speak with Eros; but because she had said nothing at first, she was afraid. And then she said to herself: “The Satyr does nothing wrong by standing there and piping a little, and it is not worthwhile thinking much about it …”

  And yet she did think about it, and in her ears she always heard his saucy voice, his coarse words, countrified and funny.

  Then she laughed about it all.

  “But what does he do—what is he? A Satyr? What is a Satyr? What are Bacchantes? And what are nymphs? Panthers, too, I have never seen. I should like to see them. What is their life there in the wood? There are many lives in the world, and most of them are a secret. I only know the courtiers of the Kingdom of the Past … Here there are the two girls that play on the pipe and the winged children. I should like to see all that there is in the world, and experience all that is in life. There must be strange things, which I never see … The Chimera was glorious, and deep in my soul I always long for him; but in other respects everything is the same … No wonders take place in this garden … Eros is a young prince; then there are the doves, the griffons, the cupids … That is all so commonplace … Oh, to seek, to wander! The world is so great! The universe is awful, although it has limits. My father said it had no limits … Oh, if it had no limits! … Oh, to seek, to wander, to soar in the air! … I shall never see the Chimera again. Never shall I soar in the air again … He conjured up visions for me, and then let them pass away … Oh, to soar through the air! When shall I see him again, and when shall I soar again? … Eros I love—he is my husband; but he has no wings. The Chimera had powerful wings of silver feathers. He has left me for ever …”

  So, alone with her thought, she wandered in the garden. The cupids she drove away, and, crying, they hid themselves among the roses. When the Satyr appeared, she went to meet him in the valley, where the irises were blooming.

  “So, you are there again!”

  “Yes! Won’t you just see me dance again?”

  He danced and frisked his tail.

  “I have already told you more than once that you may not come here,” said Psyche severely.

  He winked roguishly; he knew very well that his presence was not disagreeable to her.

  “You are so beautiful!” he said, in his most flattering tone; “much more beautiful than any of the nymphs.”

  “And the Bacchantes, then?” said Psyche.

  “Much more beautiful than the Bacchantes!” he answered. “But they are also very nice. Tell me, wouldn’t you like to see them?”

  Psyche was very inquisitive, and he noticed it.

  “Won’t you just see them?” the Satyr repeated temptingly.

  “Where?” said Psyche.

  “Look … there!” He pointed in the distance with his finger.

  On the hill Psyche saw forms madly whirling round in a dance.

  “Those are the Bacchantes!” said the Satyr. Psyche laughed.

  “How madly they whirl round!” she exclaimed. “Are they always so merry?”

  “Oh, we are always dancing,” said the Satyr. “In the wood it is always pleasure. We play at tag with one another, we drink the juice of the grapes, and we dance till nightfall.”

  “Psyche! Psyche!” called a voice.

  It was her husband. The Satyr fled through the flags, and Psyche hastened back.

  She threw herself into Eros’s arms, who asked her where she had been. And without answering him, she began to cry and hid her face in his breast.

  “What is it, little Psyche?” asked Eros. “Are you in trouble? Amongst the roses the boys cry, and by the brook the queen cries. Is there then sadness in my kingdom? Does not Psyche feel happy?”

  She wept and shrugged her shoulders, as if to say that she did not know. And she hid her face in his breast.

  “Tell me, Psyche, what is the matter?”

  She would have liked to tell him, but she could not; a stronger power kept her back.

  “Does not Psyche feel happy? Does she long for the Chimera?”

  She laid her little hand upon his lips.

  “Don’t speak about him. I am not worthy of him. I am not worthy of you, Eros.”

  He kissed her very gently.

  “What does my Psyche think about? May I not leave her any more, alone by the brook?”

  “No, no!” said she hastily, and drew his arms round her … “No,” she continued quickly. “Don’t leave me alone any more. Always stay by me. Protect me from myself, O Eros! …”

  “Is little Psyche ill?”

  She nodded in the affirmative, and laid her burning head upon his breast; she nestled against him and shut her feverish eyes.

  He stayed by her, and all around was still and the cupids appeared fluttering in the air. That night she slept in Eros’s arms. She awoke for a moment out of her sleep; far away in the distance through the crystal of the palace she heard the sound of pipes. She raised her head and listened. But she would not hear any more, and hid herself in Eros’s arms and fell asleep on his heart.

  The next day he stayed by her, and they wandered to the brook. Sadness hung over the garden, the flowers drooped. In the afternoon Psyche became uneasy; she heard the pipe, and in the distance caught a glimpse of vague forms dancing.

  “Do you see nothing?” she ask
ed Eros.

  “No …”

  “Do you hear nothing?” she said again.

  “No,” he answered. “Poor Psyche is ill. And the flowers are ill too, because she is. Oh, let Eros cure you! …”

  The following night, in the arms of her husband, she heard the pipe. It played saucy, short, lively tunes. “Come, come, now dance with us; we are drinking the grapes. Come … come! …”

  She could resist no longer. Trembling, she loosed herself from her husband’s arms, who was asleep. She got up, stole out of the palace, fled through the garden to the alluring voice.

  The flowers in the brook seemed to entreat her: “Oh, go not away! Oh, go not away!” The nightingale uttered a cry, and she thought it was an owl.

  She hurried on to the valley, where the irises were in blossom. There, near the brook, in the light of the moon, stood the Satyr, tripping to the sound of his pipe, and round him, hand in hand, madly danced the Bacchantes, naked, a panther’s skin cast about them, their wild streaming hair encircled with vine-leaves. They danced like drunken spectres in the pale moonlit night; they waved their thyrsus, and pelted each other with grapes, which smashed to juice upon their faces.

  “Come, come!” they cried triumphantly.

  Psyche was startled by their voices, rough and hoarse. But they opened their circle, two stretched their hand out to Psyche, and they danced round with her. The wild dance excited her; she had never known till then what dancing was, and she danced with sparkling eyes. She waved a thyrsus, and pressed the grapes to her mouth … Then suddenly the Satyr caught hold of her and kissed her passionately, pressing the grapes to her lips …

  “Psyche! Psyche!”

  She started and stood still. The Bacchantes, the Satyr, fled.

  Psyche hastened back; with her hand she wiped her contaminated, burning lips.

  “… Psyche!”

  She ran to meet Eros, but when she saw him, godlike and beautiful as an image, spotlessly pure in the moonlight, with his noble countenance, his deep brown eyes full of love, she was so disgusted with herself that she fell at his feet in a swoon.

  He lifted her up and laid her on the bed.

  He watched while she slumbered.

  The whole night he watched by her …

  And it seemed as if she were wandering in her mind … Her face glowed with fever, and ever and anon she wiped her lips.

  Outside in the garden the flowers drooped in sorrow. The lark was silent, and the little angels sat together with their wings drawn in. The sky was ash-coloured and gloomy.

  That night Psyche slept in Eros’s arms, and afar off the pipe allured her …

  She extracted herself from Eros’s embrace and got up …

  She wanted to kiss him for the last time, but dared not, for fear of waking him.

  “Farewell!” she whispered very gently. “Noble Eros, beloved husband, farewell! I am unworthy of you. The Satyr’s kiss is still burning on my lips; my mouth is on fire from the juice of the grapes. Farewell! … And if you can, forgive me!”

  She went.

  The night was sultry and heavy with thunder; the flowers, exhausted, hung their heads; the nightingale uttered a cry, and she thought it was an owl. Bats flitted about with flapping wings.

  She walked with a firm step. She followed the brook to where it flowed into the valley. Yonder … with the Satyr in their midst, danced the Bacchantes.

  “Hurrah! Hurrah!” they cried out, rough and hoarse, and threw at her a bunch of grapes.

  She hesitated a moment … She raised her eyes.

  Through the gloomy night a single star glistened like a cold, proud eye.

  “Sacred star!” said Psyche, “you who watched over me before, and now leave me for ever … tell him that I am unworthy of him and beg him to forgive me!”

  The star hid itself in the darkness.

  “Come!” cried the Bacchantes.

  Psyche took a step forward …

  “Brook!” she then cried, “little stream of the land of the Present, babbling pure and peacefully, in which I never more may cool myself … oh, tell him that I am unworthy of him and beg him to forgive me!”

  The brook went murmuring over the stones, and muttered: “No, no …”

  “Come, come!” cried the Bacchantes.

  Then Psyche plucked a single violet, white as a maiden’s face.

  “Sweet violet!” said she, “humble flower, don’t be proud. Your queen, who is forsaking her kingdom, entreats the star and brook in vain. She is no longer a queen. She is no longer obeyed. Sweet violet, hear the prayer of Psyche, who, unworthy, is forsaking the Present …”

  “Stay, Psyche!” implored the flower in her hand.

  “Dear little flower!” said Psyche, “born in the moss, withering when you are plucked, what do you know of gods and mortals? What do you know of soul and life and power? Psyche can no longer stay. But beg Love to forgive her! … Oh, give him my last message!”

  She kissed the flower and laid it in the moss.

  “Psyche! Psyche! Come!” cried the Bacchantes.

  She sprang forward into the midst of the dance.

  “Here I am!” she cried wildly. And they dragged her away with them to the wood.

  XVI

  WHEN EROS AWOKE that morning, he found not Psyche by his side. He got up, thinking that she was in the garden, and went out. The sky was dull and lowering, a mist hung over the hills. The lark had not sung, the cupids were not fluttering about.

  “Psyche!” cried he, “Psyche!”

  No answer was returned. No sigh rustled in the leaves of the trees; no insect hummed in the grass; the flowers hung down withered on their limp stems. A deathly chilliness reigned around. A fearful presentiment took possession of Eros. He walked along the flower-beds, along the brook.

  “Oh! where is Psyche?” he cried. “Oh, tell me, water, flowers, birds, where is Psyche!”

  No answer was returned. The brook flowed on murkily and noiselessly, the flowers lay across the path; no bird sang among the leaves. He wrung his hands and hastened on. Then he came to the spot where Psyche was wont to rest in the moss by the brook, in the shade of the shrubs.

  “Who will tell me where Psyche is?” he exclaimed in despair, and threw himself on the moss and sobbed.

  “Eros!” cried a weak voice.

  “Who speaks there?”

  “I, a white violet, which Psyche plucked … Hear me quickly, for I feel I am dying, and my elfin voice is scarcely audible to your ear. Listen to me … I am lying close to you. Take me in your hand …”

  Eros took the flower.

  “Psyche has been enticed by the Satyr into the wood. The Bacchantes have taken her away. This was her last word: that she was unworthy of you, and went away praying for forgiveness. She could not remain, she said; she went! … Eros, forgive her!”

  The flower shrivelled up in his hand. Eros rose and tottered; he too felt that he was dying.

  Sad at heart walked Eros, and all along his path the flowers now lay shrivelled. The brook was dry. The lark lay dead before his feet. The cupids lay dead in the withered roses.

  Eros went into the castle and fell upon the purple bed.

  A single dove was expiring at the marble basin.

  The strings of the lyre were all broken …

  Eros too felt that his life was leaving his body.

  He raised his eyes, over which the film of death was stealing, and looked about the castle; the crystal crumbled off and split from top to bottom.

  “Sacred powers!” prayed he, “forgive her as I forgive her, and love her till the End, as I shall and for ever. Let her find what she seeks; let her wanderings once come to an end; let her soar through the air, if she must, till she comes to the purest sphere …” This sphere was the earth, the sweet Present, the little resting-point on which she could not wander, and thus felt within her the irresistible desire …

  “Sacred powers, let her one day find what her happiness is. Then, if it is not I … Let her
find …”

  His voice failed, his eyes opened as in a vision, and he whispered and finished his prayer: “… find … in the Future! …”

  That sacred word was his last. He died.

  In the Kingdom of the Present, that once had been as a smiling garden, everything was now dead …

  Then … in the mist, which hung over the ridge of the mountains, something seemed to be creeping near, something with feet that could only move slowly. From many sides, over the hill-top, the strange creeping came nearer … Gigantic hairy feet of monstrous spiders were walking over it; they came nearer and nearer; they were spiders with big, swollen bodies and feet always in motion …

  They were the sacred spiders of Emeralda, Princess of the Past. Eagerly they ran to the dead garden of the Present …

  They surrounded the garden and threw out their filaments to the crystal roof of the palace. Then they wove over the Present, that lay dead, one single gigantic web …

  And whilst they wove, the dead Present went to dust.

  XVII

  IN THE WOOD, in the autumn sun, Autumn was keeping festival.

  The foliage shone resplendent in yellow, bronze, purple, golden-red, and pink; the sulphur-coloured moss looked like antique velvet. With gusts of wind, the branches, madly arrogant, shook off their exuberance of sere and yellow leaves, as if they were strewing the paths with silver and gold and rustling notes.

  Loudly laughing danced the dryads through the whirling leaves.

  Out of the foaming stream between moss-covered rocks, rose the white, naked nymphs.

  “Where is she? Where is she?” cried the dryads inquisitively.

  “There she comes! There she comes!” shouted the mad dryads, and in handfuls they cast the leaves into the air, which whirled over the nymphs and fell down on the water.

  The dryads danced past, and the nymphs looked out inquisitively. They stood, a naked group, in their rocky bath; their arms were clasped round one another; green was their hair and white as pearls were their bosoms. The sere and yellow leaves kept whirling about. Trampling feet were approaching and were heard amongst the rustling leaves. Merry-makers were drawing near; the golden foliage quivered like a curtain of thin, fine, gold lace …