Psyche

by Louis Couperus

  She put on the mantle as a penance-garb, and whilst, red with shame, she covered herself, the hermit saw on her shoulder-blades two blood-red scar-stripes.

  “Are you wounded?”

  “I was, long ago …”

  “Your eyes glow: have you a fever?”

  “I do not know men’s fever, but my soul is always burning like a cave in hell.”

  “Who are you?”

  “One heavy burdened with sin.”

  “What is your name?”

  “I have no name now, holy father … Oh! ask no more … And let me go.”

  “Whither are you going?”

  “Far, along the way of thistles, to the royal castle. To the Princess Emeralda.”

  “She is proud.”

  “She is the Princess of the Jewel, and I weep jewels. I shed them for her. Once there was a time … that I wept pearls … O father, let me go!”

  “Go, then … And so penance.”

  “Thanks, father … Oh, give me your blessing!”

  The hermit blessed her. She went then as a pilgrim in her penance-garb. The path was steep and covered with thistles.

  In the distance was heard the song of the shepherds.

  XXI

  THE PATH WAS STEEP, and covered with cactus and thistles. It was a narrow path, hewn out of the rocks, winding up the basalt mountain, where, high on the top stood the castle. The castle had three hundred towers, which rose to the sky; along them swept the clouds. In the path were many steps hewn out of stone.

  Heavy masses of cactus grew on the side of the precipice, and over the leaves, prickly and round, Psyche saw the grassy valleys of the Kingdom of the Past, the villages, the towns, the river: a broad silver streak, and there, behind it, opal-like views, lakes in the sky, and quivering lines of ether. Higher and higher she went up the steps, up the path, in the gloomy, chilly shadow, whilst the sun shone over the meadows. She climbed up, and below she saw the shepherds with their sheep, and their song, quite faint, came up to her.

  In the coppice she broke a strong stick for a staff. A lappet of her mantle she had drawn over her head as a hood. And with her staff and her hood, she looked like a pious pilgrim.

  The solitary countryman who was coming down the rocky path, did not throw stones at her, but greeted her reverently.

  She kept climbing up.

  High in the air lay the castle, gloomy and inaccessible, a town of towers, a Babel of pinnacles; along it swept the clouds. As an innocent child, as a naked princess with wings, Psyche had lived there like a butterfly on a rock, had wandered along the dreadful parapets, had longed and hoped and dreamed. Oh! her longings of innocence, her hope to fly through the air to the opal islands, her dreams, pure as the doves that flew round about her! …

  She had wandered through clouds, through desert and wood from the North to the South. She had loved the Chimera, had put questions to the Sphinx; she had been Queen of the Present and the beloved of Bacchus, and now … now she came back, wingless, with a soul that burned her continually, like a scarlet child of hell; now she came back up the steep path …

  Her penance-garb she had borrowed. But the thistles tore her feet, and pale from pain and suffering, from wounded feet, and ever-smarting shoulders, and a soul that burned continually, was her face, that peeped out from under her wide hood.

  Up, up, she went, supporting herself with her staff …

  Oh, the voice of her father, of Eros, in her dream, when the grape-dance was over! Then repentance had begun. Then she had fled through the wood, through the wild beasts. And the lion had licked her feet, and the tigress had allowed her to rest in the warm lair of her whelps …

  Then she went on, climbing higher and higher …

  Would she never get to the top? Would the castle, the Babel of pinnacles, the town of towers remain ever inaccessibly high in the clouds?

  Her step left blood behind on the rocky stone.

  But she did not rest. Rest did not help her.

  She preferred to go on, to climb. If she walked, if she climbed, the sooner would she reach the castle.

  Step by step she advanced. Oh, she was no longer afraid of Emeralda! What could Emeralda do to her to make her afraid? What greater suffering could her sister inflict upon her than the pain of remorse, that was ever with her wherever she went!

  And on she climbed, and the thistles tore her feet, and the solitary man who was coming down the rocky-path greeted her reverently, when he saw the blood of her footstep.

  XXII

  THE NIGHT was pitch dark, when she stood before the awful gate and asked admittance.

  And the guards let her in because she wore a holy dress. The halberdiers took her to the hall, where they slept or kept watch, and invited her to rest.

  Psyche sat down on a rude bench, she ate their brown soldier’s bread and she drank a drop of their wine.

  Then she offered them a ruby for their hospitality and evening meal.

  And while they wondered that a pilgrim possessed such a beautiful jewel, she said in her strange voice, weak, tired, and yet commanding:

  “I have still more topazes and rubies and dark purple carbuncles. Tell the princess that I have come to do her homage and give her my jewels.”

  The message was sent to Emeralda, and the queen asked the pilgrim to come. She sent pages to conduct her to the throne where she sat.

  And Psyche understood that Emeralda was afraid of treachery, afraid of the approach of soul, and therefore was so surrounded by armed men.

  She passed between the pages, up the steps, over passages; then iron gates were opened, and a curtain was drawn aside.

  And Psyche stepped into the golden hall of the tower. There sat Emeralda in the light of a thousand candles, on a throne, under a canopy, surrounded by a great retinue.

  “Holy pilgrim!” said Emeralda, “be welcome! You have come to bring me jewels?”

  A cold shiver ran like a serpent over Psyche’s limbs, when she heard Emeralda’s voice. She had not thought that she would be afraid any more of her proud sister, but now when she saw her and heard her voice, she almost fainted from fear.

  For her look was most terrible.

  Emeralda had grown older, but she was still beautiful. Yet her beauty was horrible. In the hall, lit up with thousands of candles, a hall of gold and enamel, sat Emeralda like an idol on her throne of agate, in a niche of jasper. There was nothing more human about her; she was like a great jewel. She had become petrified, as it were, into a jewel. Her face, that was ivory white, like chalcedony; from her crown of beryl there hung down her face six red plaits of hair, as inflexible as gold-wire, and stiffly interwoven with emeralds. Her mouth was a split ruby, her teeth glittered like brilliants. Her voice sounded harsh and creaking, like the noise of a machine. Her hands and inflexible fingers, stiff with wings, were opal-white, with blue veins such as run through the opal. Her bosom, opal, chalcedonic, was enclosed in a bodice of violet amethyst—and over the bodice she wore a tunic of precious stones. Her dress was no longer brocade, but composed of jewels. All the arabesque was jewels; her mantle was jewelled so stiffly that the stuff could not bend, but hung straight down from her shoulders like a long jewelled clock.

  And she was beautiful, but beautiful as a monster, preciously beautiful as a work of art—made by one, both jeweller and artist, barbarously beautiful, in the incrustations of her crown, the facets of her eyes, the lapis lazuli of her stiffly folded under-garments, and all the gems and cameos which bordered her mantle and dress.

  In the light of thousands of candles she glistened, a barbarous idol, and shot forth rays like a rainbow, representing every colour; dazzling, fear-inspiring was her look, pitiless and soulless.

  Proud she sat and motionless, glistening with lustre, oppressed by the weight of her splendour; and covetous, her grating voice said again eagerly:

  “Holy pilgrim, welcome! You have come to bring me jewels?”

  Psyche gained courage.

  “Yes,” she said in
a firm voice. “Powerful Majesty of the Past, I come to do you homage and bring you jewels. But I beg that we may be left alone.”

  Emeralda hesitated; but when Psyche remained silent, her cupidity got the better of her fear and she gave a sign. She raised her stiff hand. And by that single movement she cracked and creaked with grating jewels, and shot forth rays like the sun, which, like a nimbus, streamed around her. Her retinue disappeared through side-doors. The shield-bearers withdrew. Psyche stood alone before her sister. And then Psyche unfastened the cord round her waist and took off her mantle; her long hair fell about her, and she was naked. Naked she stood before Emeralda, and said:

  “Emeralda, don’t you recognise me? I am Psyche, your sister!”

  A cry escaped the princess. She rose up; she creaked; her splendour and pomp grated, and she glittered so, that Psyche was dazzled.

  “Wretched Psyche!” she exclaimed. “Yes, I know you! I have always hated you, hated as I hate everything that is gentle, I hate doves, children, flowers! So you have deceived me, intruder! You bring me no jewels!”

  Psyche knelt down and showed her open hand.

  “Emeralda, I offer you the homage which I once refused you. I present you with topazes, rubies, and dark purple carbuncles. I kneel in humility before you. I offer you my tears, which have turned into stone, and I ask you humbly: punish me and give me a penance to do. Look! I have lost my wings. I may not go naked any longer. I have committed sin. Emeralda, make me do penance! Inflict on me the heaviest that you can think of. If I can do it, I will do it. Lay a heavy task upon my wingless shoulders.”

  Emeralda looked down at kneeling Psyche. The princess approached her sister, took the jewels, examined them attentively, held them up to the light of the candles, and then dropped them into an open casket. Thoughtfully she continued gazing at Psyche. And she seemed to Psyche like a gigantic jewel-spider, watching from the midst of her glittering web the rays of her own splendour. But whatever she were, princess, sun, spider, or jewel, a woman she was not, a human being she was not, and through the opal of her bosom gleamed her heart of ruby.

  Psyche, kneeling penitent, spoke not, awaiting her fate, and Emeralda watched her.

  Thoughts, mechanical as wheels, rolled through her brain. She thought as a machine. She was inexorable, because she had no feeling; she thought inhumanly because she had no soul. Soulless she was and hard as stone, but she was powerful, the mightiest ruler of the world. She ruled with a movement, she condemned with a look, she could kill with a smile; if she spoke a word, it was terrible; if she appeared in public there was disaster; and if she rode through her kingdom in a triumphal chariot, then everything was scorched by her lustre and crushed under her triumph.

  At last she spoke, motionless like a spider in her web of glittering rays, and her voice sounded like an oracle in a screeching incantation.

  “Psyche, fled from her father’s house, fallen from all princely dignity, dethroned Princess of the Present, immoral Bacchante, corrupt and wingless, weeping tears of scarlet sin—listen!

  “Psyche, who wandered frivolously to purple streaks of sky, who longed for the nothingness of azure and of light, who loved a horse, who forsook her husband, who wandered and sought and asked, in desert and in wood—wander, seek, and ask!

  “Wander, seek, and ask, till you find!

  “Wander along the flaming caves, seek in the fire-vomiting mouths of monsters, ask of the martyred spirits, who roll upon the inky sea.

  “Descend to the Nether-world! Seek the Mystic Jewel, the Philosopher’s Stone that gives the highest omnipotence; seek the Mystic Jewel, the rays of which reach to eternity and penetrate to the Godhead.

  “Descend, wander, ask, seek, and find!”

  Her voice grew terrible, and, screeching, she stepped nearer, and with a look at the casket, said pitilessly:

  “Or … weep for it … suffer for it. I care not how much.”

  She paused, and then in a voice of horrible hypocrisy, continued:

  “And then, if you bring me the Sacred Jewel, the name of which may not be uttered …” She drew still nearer.

  “Then be blessed, Psyche, and share with me, Emeralda, your sister, the divine omnipotence!”

  Like an oracle sounded her hypocritical voice. She felt in Psyche an unknown power; she feared for her soul, and wished to gain that power for herself, to make sure of the two-fold omnipotence of the world, both soul and body. And in the horrible penance which she laid upon Psyche, she feigned tender love. Creaking and cracking, she drew nearer, and in her web of rays shed a sunbeam over her kneeling sister, and with her stiff opal fingers stroked the bent head with its fair, long tresses.

  An ice-cold shiver ran through Psyche, as if her burning soul were being frozen.

  “I obey,” she murmured.

  And she rose up, intoxicated from splendour, stiff from icy coldness. She tottered and shut her eyes. When she opened them, she was in a gloomy ante-chamber, clad in her coarse mantle; and the shield-bearers approached with torches.

  “Conduct me to Astra!” she commanded.

  There was something strange in her voice which made them obey, the voice of a princess, the soft voice of command, which appealed strangely to the men, as if they had heard it when they were pages.

  They conducted Psyche through halls, over passages, up steps, to another tower. They opened low doors, and, through silent vaults, guided the strange pilgrim, rich in rubies.

  “Who comes there?” asked a voice, tired, weak, and faint.

  Then the men left Psyche alone, and she was with Astra, and she saw her sister in the twilight on the terrace, sitting before her telescope, surrounded by globes and rolls of heavy parchment spread out. And Psyche saw Astra, looking very old, with thin grey hair, which hung down her wax-white face, from which two dull eyes stared out; her white dress hung down limp on her sunken shoulders, her withered breast and attenuated limbs. Bitter dejection was in her dull eyes; her thin hand hung down powerless, tired, and incapable of work, and her voice, faint and weak, said:

  “Who comes there?”

  “I, Psyche, your little sister, come back, O Astra, as a penitent! …”

  “As a penitent?”

  “Yes, I fled, committed sin, and now I will do penance …”

  Astra mused.

  “It is true,” she murmured. “I remember, little Psyche. Come nearer. Take my hand, I cannot see you.”

  “The night is dark, Astra: there are few Stars in the sky, and the torches are not yet lit …”

  “No? Is it dark about me? That does not matter, Psyche, for I cannot see, I am blind …”

  Psyche gave a cry.

  “Astra! Poor sister, are you blind? Oh! you who could see so well! are you blind?”

  “Yes, I have gazed myself blind! I have turned my telescope from left to right, to all the points of the universe. I thought to become the centre, the kernel of science, the focus of brilliant knowledge; now I am blind, now I see nothing more, now I know nothing more. The colossal numbers have become confused in my brain since the living Star on my head faded. Do you still see its faint splendour between my grey hair? Ah! now I have your hand.

  “What is that, child? What round things are falling over my fingers?”

  “My tears, Astra, poor Astra!”

  “How hard they are and cold! What hard, cold tears, Psyche! … Sit down here at my feet. Is the night dark? Are the torches not yet lit? Well, let it be dark, for I see nothing; but I feel you, I feel your hair; now stroke your head, round and small. I feel along your shoulders, Psyche, little child with wings … But your wings I do not feel … Have you none now? Have they been cut off? My star has faded, and your wings are cut; Emeralda triumphs alone! Her gift from the fairy has brought her prosperity. Her heart of ruby feels no pain; she is clad in the majesty of precious jewels. She is hard and beautiful, hard as a stone, beautiful as a jewel … Psyche, creep close to me … We can do nothing against her, child. My star is faded, your wings clipped;
we have lost our noble rights … I am old, but you—are you still young? You feel so young, indestructibly young … You have suffered so, asked and wandered … not appreciated your happiness, and murdered Eros! Poor child, you a murderess! … You weep rubies … You will do penance. You are strong, Psyche, and always young … You will do penance after all your sins! Emeralda has laid penance on you … To seek the Philosopher’s Stone in the caverns of flaming hell! O Psyche, the Stone does not exist. The unutterable name is a legend. The Jewel exists only in the pride of man. The universe is limited, the Godhead is not limited; no rays from precious stones can reach the Godhead and rule over God. No looking through lenses of diamond can penetrate the Godhead. It is all pride and vanity. Psyche, there is nothing but resignation. Emeralda is powerful, but more powerful she cannot become …

  “In vain will you seek.”

  “Yet I will seek, Astra, although it be in vain … And do you also, sister, lay penance on me … Let me do penance for Astra, as I do for Emeralda.”

  “No, child, I know no penance. There is nothing but resignation. There is nothing but to wait. Everything else is vanity and pride. But do penance, little Psyche. Penance is illusion, yet illusion is pleasant: illusion ennobles. Believe, poor child, in your penance, believe in your illusion. I have never known it. I have always calculated. The colossal numbers roll through my dull and hazy brain in endless series of figures. However you count, you never come to the sum of the endless … The stars cannot be counted. The farthest sun is incomputable, the divine is limitless. Even the nearest frontier of the Future is beyond computation. There is a sea of unfathomable light … O Psyche, I am tired, I am blind, and I shall soon die. In this place, here I will stay. Psyche, look through the telescope. Is the night too dark? Do you see anything?”

  “The stars give a dim light.”

  “Look through the telescope. What do you see? Tell me, what do you see?”

  “In the glass, right at the top, I see a dark spot, which emits a few rays. Is that a black star?”