Journeys Through Bookland Volume Ii Part 59

Proserpina's only reply was "My mother! O, my poor mother!" And truly Ceres deserved pity. She had hastened at evening back to her home in Sicily, happy in the thought of seeing her daughter, only to find that daughter gone. The nymphs had retreated, long before, to their beds of seaweed in the green ocean, and no one else could give the poor distracted mother any news. When black night had really settled over the earth, Ceres closed the door of her home, vowing never to open it until she returned with Proserpina. Then, lighting a torch, she set forth, alone and on foot, to seek her daughter.

From country to country she roamed, all over the earth, neither eating nor sleeping, but spending day and night in her search. Of every one she met she demanded, "Have you seen my daughter?"

No one recognized her; and small wonder, for her grief had changed her in appearance from a radiant G.o.ddess to a haggard, sad-eyed old woman.

"Mad," whispered people as they pa.s.sed her; for her clothes were ragged and flapping about her, and always, even in the brightest sunlight, she bore in her hand the lighted torch.

One day, weary and hopeless, she sank upon a stone by the roadside, and sat there with her head in her hands, wondering to what land she could next turn her footsteps.

A soft, pitying voice broke in upon her grief, and she raised her head to see two young girls standing before her.

"Poor old woman," said one, "why are you so sad?"

"Ah," cried Ceres, "when I look upon you I am sadder still, for I have lost my only child."

Impulsively the older girl held out her hand. "Come with us," she urged.

"We are the daughters of the king of this country, and were but now seeking through the city for a nurse for our baby brother, Triptolemus.

You, who have lost the child you loved--will you not take charge of our brother and bestow on him some of your love?"

Touched by their kindness, Ceres followed them; and indeed, she felt the first joy she had known since the disappearance of her daughter when the little prince was put into her arms. But such a weak, puny, wailing princelet as he was! Ceres smiled down at him, and bent her head and kissed him; when, to the utter amazement of those gathered about, he ceased the crying which he had kept up for days, smiled, and clapped his little hands.

And, unless their eyes much deceived them, he began to grow round and rosy and well!

"Will you give this child entirely into my keeping?" asked Ceres.

"Gladly, gladly!" exclaimed the mother, Metanira. For who would not have been glad to engage a nurse whose mere touch worked such wonders?

But as the child's bedtime drew near, Metanira became worried and restless. No one but herself had ever tended him before--was it really safe to trust this stranger? At least, she would watch; and quietly she stole to the door which separated her own apartment from that which had been given to Ceres. The stranger sat before the hearth, with the crowing, happy baby on her knee. Gently she drew off his clothing, gently she anointed him with some liquid, the delicious perfume of which reached Metanira. Then, murmuring some sounding, rhythmic words, she leaned forward and placed him on the glowing coals.

Shrieking, Metanira rushed into the room and caught up her baby, burning herself badly in the act; and furiously she turned to the aged nurse.

"How dare you--" she began; but there she stopped; for before her stood, not the ragged stranger, but a woman taller than mortal, with flowing yellow hair, bound with a wreath of wheat ears and red poppies. And from her face shone a light so bright that Metanira was well-nigh blinded.

"O queen," she said gravely, "thy curiosity and thy lack of faith have cost thy son dear. Immortality was the gift I meant to bestow upon him, but now he shall grow old and die at last as other men." And with these words the G.o.ddess vanished. [Footnote: Although Ceres was unable to do all she wished for Triptolemus, she did not forget him. When he grew up she loaned him her dragon-car and sent him about the world teaching people how to till the soil, and, in particular, to use the plow. It was Triptolemus who inst.i.tuted the great festival at Eleusis which was held in honor of Ceres.]

Still finding no trace of her daughter, Ceres cursed the earth and forbade it to bring forth fruit until Proserpina should be found.

"Then on all lands She cast the spell of barrenness; the wheat Was blighted in the ear, the purple grapes Blushed no more on the vines."

Great indeed must have been the anguish of this kindest of all G.o.ddesses when she could bring herself to adopt such measures. Even the grief and want of the people among whom she moved could not waken her pity.

One day, when her wanderings had brought her back to Italy, Ceres came to the bank of the Cyane River, and there, glittering at her feet, was the girdle which she had watched her daughter put on the last day she saw her. Torn between hope and fear, Ceres s.n.a.t.c.hed it up. Had Proserpina, then, been drowned in this raging river? At any rate, it was much, after all these months, to find something which her dear daughter had touched, and with renewed energy she started on. As she rested, late in the day, by the side of a cool, sparkling fountain, she fancied she heard words mingling with the splas.h.i.+ng of the water. Holding her breath, she listened:

"O Ceres," came the words, scarcely distinguishable, "I made a long journey underground, to cool my waters ere they burst forth at this point. As I pa.s.sed through the lower world, I saw, seated beside Pluto on his gloomy throne, a queen, crowned with stars and poppies. Strangely like Proserpina she looked."

The words died away, and Ceres, knowing well that none but the king of G.o.ds could help her now, hastened to Olympus and cast herself at the feet of Jupiter.

"Listen, O father of G.o.ds and men," she said. "What is that sound which you hear rising from the earth?"

"It sounds to me," replied Jupiter, "like the wailing of men, joined with the bleating of sheep and the lowing of cattle. Who is afflicting my people on earth?"

"It is I," replied Ceres sternly; "I, of old their best friend. Never shall spear of gra.s.s or blade of corn show above the ground, never shall blossom or fruit appear on any tree, until my beloved daughter is brought back to me from the realm of Pluto."

Then indeed there was consternation on Olympus; for Jupiter did not wish to anger his brother, and yet, how could he let the earth continue to be barren? There was much consulting of the Fates, those three dread sisters whose decrees even Jupiter could not break, and finally Jupiter called Mercury to him, and said:

"Hasten to the lower world, and lead thence Proserpina, the daughter of Ceres. Only, if during her stay there she have allowed food to pa.s.s her lips, she shall not return."

Meanwhile, Proserpina had been dwelling in gloom. How could one whose chief care had been the flowers, whose chief joy had been to stray abroad in the suns.h.i.+ne with gay companions, be happy in a realm where the sun never shone, where no flowers ever grew save the white, sleep- bringing poppies, where she had no companions except the gloomy king of the dead? Pluto was kind to her, he showered jewels upon her, and gorgeous raiment; but what meant such things to her when she could not delight with them the eyes of her mother and her friends? The dead over whom she reigned she could not even make happy, and the only one who seemed to have profited at all by her coming to Hades was Pluto, who was of a certainty somewhat less stern and gloomy.

Of all the food that had been set before Proserpina since she entered Hades, nothing had tempted her but a pomegranate, and of that she had eaten but six seeds. This one taste of food, however, she soon had reason to regret, for ere long Mercury, Jupiter's messenger, stood before Pluto and cried with a flourish:

"Hear the decree of mighty Jupiter and of the Fates, powerful over all.

The Lady Proserpina shall return with me, the messenger of mighty Jupiter, to the upper world. Only, if she have allowed food to pa.s.s her lips, she shall not return, but shall remain queen of the dead forever."

Proserpina turned pale--paler than her months underground had made her-- but she said nothing. Then, from the throng of spirits who had crowded round to see the messenger of the G.o.ds, stepped forth one, Ascalaphus.

No pity for the white-faced, sad-eyed queen moved him as he told how he had seen Proserpina eat of the pomegranate. Poor Proserpina felt that she would never see her beloved mother again, and was overwhelmed with grief when the messenger of the G.o.ds, the first cheerful personage she had seen since leaving earth, turned to depart.

Mercury was a kindly G.o.d, and he described to his father and the Fates most touchingly the grief of Proserpina. Ceres joined her tears with those of her daughter, and the Fates finally decreed that while Proserpina must spend underground one month of every year for each pomegranate seed she had eaten, she might spend the rest of her time on earth. Back hastened Mercury with the new decree, and Pluto unwillingly let his wife go. She bade him an almost affectionate farewell, for after all, he had been good to her, and she might quite have loved him had his abode been a less gloomy place. Up the dark and dangerous pa.s.sages to earth Mercury conducted her, and it was strange to see how, as she stepped forth into the suns.h.i.+ne, her pallor and her sadness left her, and she became the bright-eyed, happy Proserpina of old. And not only in her did the change appear. About her, on all sides, the gra.s.s and corn came shooting through the dry brown earth. Violets, hyacinths, daisies were everywhere, and Proserpina stooped and caressed them, with a gay laugh. But what was her joy when she saw at the door of her home Mother Ceres, with arms outstretched to greet her! Not even the thought of the separation which must surely come again could sadden their meeting. For that day they sat together and talked of all that had happened in the weary months gone by; but the next morning Ceres mounted her dragon-car for the first time in many, many days, and set forth to the fields to tend the new grain, while Proserpina ran to the seash.o.r.e and with a happy shout called the nymphs, her old companions, from their seaweed beds.

Each year thereafter, when Proserpina was led by Mercury to Pluto's kingdom, Ceres, in grief and anger, shut herself up and would not attend to her duties, so that the earth was barren and drear. Each year, with the return of Proserpina, the flash of green ran across the fields and announced her coming before she appeared in sight. And all the people, weary and depressed after the hard, bitter months, joyed with Ceres at her daughter's approach, and cried with her, "She comes! She comes!

Proserpina!"

This story, like that of Phaethon, is a nature myth; that is, it accounts for natural phenomena which the Greeks saw about them. As they conceived of Ceres, the earth G.o.ddess, as the kindest of the immortals, and of her daughter, Proserpina, the G.o.ddess of flowers and beautifying vegetation, as always young and happy, they found it hard to explain the barrenness of the winter months. Why should Ceres and Proserpina neglect the earth during a part of the year, so that it would bring forth nothing, no matter how much care was bestowed upon it?

We must remember that the people who invented these stories really believed that the earth produced grain and fruit because some G.o.ddess bestowed upon it her care. They even fancied, sometimes, as they entered their fields, that they saw Ceres, with her dragon-car and her crown of wheat ears, vanis.h.i.+ng before them. And they did not say, during winter months, "The ground is hard and frozen, and thus cannot give food to the plants;" or, "The seed must lie underground for a time before it can send its roots down and its leaves up, and bring forth fruit." They said, "Mother Ceres is neglecting the earth."

What more natural, then, than that they should imagine that the earth G.o.ddess was mourning for the loss of something and refusing to attend to her duties? And since the flowers, the special care of Ceres's daughter, disappeared at the same time, it seemed most likely that it was this daughter who had disappeared, stolen and held captive underground. When, each year, the time of her captivity was at an end, Ceres went joyfully back to her work, the flowers and gra.s.s once more appeared--in a word, it was spring.

Looked at in a slightly different way, Proserpina represented the seed which is placed underground. For a time it is held there, apparently gone forever; but at last it appears above the earth in fresher, brighter guise, just as the daughter of Ceres reappeared.

It is held by some that this myth is a symbol or allegory of the death of man and his ultimate resurrection. That, however, does not seem extremely likely, as the ancients, although they believed in the life of the soul after death, conceived of that life as something far from pleasant, even for those who had led good lives.

The story of Proserpina has been used as a subject for many paintings.

One of the best-known of these is Rosetti's "Persephone," which shows her as she stands, sad-eyed, with the bitten fruit in her hand.

ORIGIN OF THE OPAL

A dewdrop came, with a spark of flame He had caught from the sun's last ray, To a violet's breast, where he lay at rest Till the hours brought back the day.

The rose looked down, with a blush and frown; But she smiled all at once, to view Her own bright form, with its coloring warm, Reflected back by the dew.

Then the stranger took a stolen look At the sky, so soft and blue; And a leaflet green, with its silver sheen, Was seen by the idler too.

A cold north wind, as he thus reclined, Of a sudden raged around; And a maiden fair, who was walking there, Next morning, an OPAL found.