Psyche Part 12

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 hoa.r.s.e. 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 pa.s.sionately, 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, G.o.dlike and beautiful as an image, spotlessly pure in the moonlight, with his n.o.ble 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. "n.o.ble 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 hoa.r.s.e, 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 G.o.ds 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.

CHAPTER 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 gra.s.s; 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.