Psyche (Couperus)/Chapter 15

CHAPTER 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 worth while 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?” he 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’ 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’ 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’ 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 asked 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 moonlight 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’ arms, and afar off the pipe allured her. . . .

She extracted herself from Eros’ embrace and got up. . . . She wanted to kiss him for the last time, but durst 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

The Bacchanies

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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.