A Book of Myths
geraniums, Proserpine turned one morning with a cry of gladness, for
there stood before her beside a little stream, on one erect, slim
stem, a wonderful narcissus, with a hundred blossoms. Her eager hand
was stretched out to pluck it, when a sudden black cloud overshadowed
the land, and the nymphs, with shrieks of fear, fled swiftly away. And
as the cloud descended, there was heard a terrible sound, as of the
rushing of many waters or the roll of the heavy wheels of the chariot
of one who comes to slay. Then was the earth cleft open, and from it
there arose the four coal-black horses of Pluto, neighing aloud in
their eagerness, while the dark-browed god urged them on, standing
erect in his car of gold.
"'The coal-black horses rise--they rise,
O mother, mother!' low she cries--
Persephone--Persephone!
'O light, light, light!' she cries, 'farewell;
The coal-black horses wait for me.
O shade of shades, where I must dwell,
Demeter, mother, far from thee!'"[5]
In cold, strong arms Pluto seized her--in that mighty grasp that will
not be denied, and Proserpine wept childish tears as she shivered at
his icy touch, and sobbed because she had dropped the flowers she had
picked, and had never picked the flower she most desired. While still
she saw the fair light of day, the little oddly-shaped rocky hills,
the vineyards and olive groves and flowery meadows of Sicily, she did
not lose hope. Surely the King of Terrors could not steal one so
young, so happy, and so fair. She had only tasted the joy of living,
and fain she would drink deeper in the coming years. Her mother must
surely save her--her mother who had never yet failed her--her mother,
and the gods.
But ruthless as the mower whose scythe cuts down the seeded grass and
the half-opened flower and lays them in swathes on the meadow, Pluto
drove on. His iron-coloured reins were loose on the black manes of his
horses, and he urged them forward by name till the froth flew from
their mouths like the foam that the furious surf of the sea drives
before it in a storm. Across the bay and along the bank of the river
Anapus they galloped, until, at the river head, they came to the pool
of Cyane. He smote the water with his trident, and downward into the
blackness of darkness his horses passed, and Proserpine knew no more
the pleasant light of day.
"What ails her that she comes not home?
Demeter seeks her far and wide,
And gloomy-browed doth ceaseless roam
From many a morn till eventide.
'My life, immortal though it be,
Is nought,' she cries, 'for want of thee,
Persephone--Persephone!'"
So, to the great Earth Mother came the pangs that have drawn tears of
blood from many a mortal mother's heart for a child borne off to the
Shades.
"'My life is nought for want of thee,--
Persephone! Persephone!'" ...
The cry is borne down through the ages, to echo and re-echo so long as
mothers love and Death is still unchained.
Over land and sea, from where Dawn, the rosy-fingered, rises in the
East, to where Apollo cools the fiery wheels of his chariot in the
waters of far western seas, the goddess sought her daughter. With a
black robe over her head and carrying a flaming torch in either hand,
for nine dreary days she sought her loved one. And yet, for nine more
weary days and nine sleepless nights the goddess, racked by human
sorrow, sat in hopeless misery. The hot sun beat upon her by day. By
night the silver rays from Diana's car smote her more gently, and the
dew drenched her hair and her black garments and mingled with the
saltness of her bitter tears. At the grey dawning of the tenth day her
elder daughter, Hecate, stood beside her. Queen of ghosts and shades
was she, and to her all dark places of the earth were known.
"Let us go to the Sun God," said Hecate. "Surely he hath seen the god
who stole away the little Proserpine. Soon his chariot will drive
across the heavens. Come, let us ask him to guide us to the place
where she is hidden."
Thus did they come to the chariot of the glorious Apollo, and standing
by the heads of his horses like two grey clouds that bar the passage
of the sun, they begged him to tell them the name of him who had
stolen fair Proserpine.
"No less a thief was he," said Apollo, "than Pluto, King of Darkness
and robber of Life itself. Mourn not, Demeter. Thy daughter is safe in
his keeping. The little nymph who played in the meadows is now Queen
of the Shades. Nor does Pluto love her vainly. She is now in love with
Death."
No comfort did the words of the Sun God bring to the longing soul of
Demeter. And her wounded heart grew bitter. Because she suffered,
others must suffer as well. Because she mourned, all the world must
mourn. The fragrant flowers spoke to her only of Persephone, the
purple grapes reminded her of a vintage when the white fingers of her
child had plucked the fruit. The waving golden grain told her that
Persephone was as an ear of wheat that is reaped before its time.
Then upon the earth did there come dearth and drought and barrenness.
"The wheat
Was blighted in the ear, the purple grapes
Blushed no more on the vines, and all the gods
Were sorrowful ..."
Lewis Morris.
Gods and men alike suffered from the sorrow of Demeter. To her, in
pity for the barren earth, Zeus sent an embassy, but in vain it came.
Merciless was the great Earth Mother, who had been robbed of what she
held most dear.
"Give me back my child!" she said. "Gladly I watch the sufferings of
men, for no sorrow is as my sorrow. Give me back my child, and the
earth shall grow fertile once more."
Unwillingly Zeus granted the request of Demeter.
"She shall come back," he said at last, "and with thee dwell on earth
forever. Yet only on one condition do I grant thy fond request.
Persephone must eat no food through all the time of her sojourn in the
realm of Pluto, else must thy beseeching be all in vain."
Then did Demeter gladly leave Olympus and hasten down to the darkness
of the shadowy land that once again she might hold, in her strong
mother's arms, her who had once been her little clinging child.
But in the dark kingdom of Pluto a strange thing had happened. No
longer had the pale-faced god, with dark locks, and eyes like the
sunless pools of a mountain stream, any terrors for Proserpine. He was
strong, and cruel had she thought him, yet now she knew that the touch
of his strong, cold hands was a touch of infinite tenderness. When,
knowing the fiat of the ruler of Olympus, Pluto gave to his stolen
bride a pomegranate, red in heart as the heart of a man, she had taken
it from his hand, and, because he willed it, had eaten of the sweet
seeds. Then, in truth, it was too late for Demeter to save her child.
She "had eaten of Love's seed" and "changed into another."
"He takes the cleft pomegranate seeds:
'Love, eat with me this parting day;'
Then bids them fetch the coal-black steeds--
'Demeter's daughter, wouldst away?'
The gates of Hades set her free;
'She will return full soon,' saith he--
'My wife, my wife Persephone.'"
Ingelow.
Dark, dark was the kingdom of Pluto. Its rivers never mirrored a
sunbeam, and ever moaned low as an earthly river moans before a coming
flood, and the feet that trod the gloomy Cocytus valley were the feet
of those who never again would tread on the soft grass and flowers of
an earthly meadow. Yet when Demeter had braved all the shadows of
Hades, only in part was her end accomplished. In part only was
Proserpine now her child, for while half her heart was in the
sunshine, rejoicing in the beauties of earth, the other half was with
the god who had taken her down to the Land of Darkness and there had
won her for his own. Back to the flowery island of Sicily her mother
brought her, and the peach trees and the almonds blossomed snowily as
she passed. The olives decked themselves with their soft grey leaves,
the corn sprang up, green and lush and strong. The lemon and orange
groves grew golden with luscious fruit, and all the land was carpeted
with flowers. For six months of the year she stayed, and gods and men
rejoiced at the bringing back of Proserpine. For six months she left
her green and pleasant land for the dark kingdom of him whom she
loved, and through those months the trees were bare, and the earth
chill and brown, and under the earth the flowers hid themselves in
fear and awaited the return of the fair daughter of Demeter.
And evermore has she come and gone, and seedtime and harvest have
never failed, and the cold, sleeping world has awaked and rejoiced,
and heralded with the song of birds, and the bursting of green buds
and the blooming of flowers, the resurrection from the dead--the
coming of spring.
"Time calls, and Change
Commands both men and gods, and speeds us on
We know not whither; but the old earth smiles
Spring after spring, and the seed bursts again
Out of its prison mould, and the dead lives
Renew themselves, and rise aloft and soar
And are transformed, clothing themselves with change,
Till the last change be done."
Lewis Morris.
FOOTNOTE:
[5] Jean Ingelow.
LATONA AND THE RUSTICS
Through the tropic nights their sonorous, bell-like booming can be
heard coming up from the marshes, and when they are unseen, the song
of the bull-frogs would suggest creatures full of solemn dignity. The
croak of their lesser brethren is less impressive, yet there is no
escape from it on those evenings when the dragon-flies' iridescent
wings are folded in sleep, and the birds in the branches are still,
when the lilies on the pond have closed their golden hearts, and even
the late-feeding trout have ceased to plop and to make eddies in the
quiet water. "Krroak! krroak! krroak!" they go--"krroak! krroak!
krroak!"
It is unceasing, unending. It goes on like the whirr of the wheels of
a great clock that can never run down--a melancholy complaint against
the hardships of destiny--a raucous protest against things as they
are.
This is the story of the frogs that have helped to point the gibes of
Aristophanes, the morals of AEsop, and which have always been, more or
less, regarded as the low comedians of the animal world.
Latona, or Leto, was the goddess of dark nights, and upon her the
mighty Zeus bestowed the doubtful favour of his errant love. Great was
the wrath of Hera, his queen, when she found that she was no longer
the dearest wife of her omnipotent lord, and with furious upbraidings
she banished her rival to earth. And when Latona had reached the place
of her exile she found that the vengeful goddess had sworn that she
would place her everlasting ban upon anyone, mortal or immortal, who
dared to show any kindness or pity to her whose only fault had been
that Zeus loved her. From place to place she wandered, an outcast even
among men, until, at length, she came to Lycia.
One evening, as the darkness of which she was goddess had just begun
to fall, she reached a green and pleasant valley. The soft, cool grass
was a delight to her tired feet, and when she saw the silvery gleam of
water she rejoiced, for her throat was parched and her lips dry and
she was very weary. By the side of this still pond, where the lilies
floated, there grew lithe grey willows and fresh green osiers, and
these were being cut by a crowd of chattering rustics.
Humbly, for many a rude word and harsh rebuff had the dictum of Hera
brought her during her wanderings, Latona went to the edge of the
pond, and, kneeling down, was most thankfully about to drink, when the
peasants espied her. Roughly and rudely they told her to begone, nor
dare to drink unbidden of the clear water beside which their willows