Orpheus and Eurydice [Old Greek Folk Stories Told Anew]
WHEN gods and shepherds piped and the stars sang, that was the day of musicians! But the triumph of Phœbus Apollo himself was not so wonderful as the triumph of a mortal man who lived on earth, though some say that he came of divine lineage. This was Orpheus, that best of harpers, who went with the Grecian heroes of the great ship Argo in search of the Golden Fleece.
After his return
from the quest, he won Eurydice for his wife, and they were as happy as people
can be who love each other and every one else. The very wild beasts loved them,
and the trees clustered about their home as if they were watered with music.
But even the gods themselves were not always free from sorrow, and one day
misfortune came upon that harper Orpheus whom all men loved to honor.
Eurydice, his
lovely wife, as she was wandering with the nymphs, unwittingly trod upon a
serpent in the grass. Surely, if Orpheus had been with her, playing upon his
lyre, no creature could have harmed her. But Orpheus came too late. She died of
the sting, and was lost to him in the Underworld.
For days he
wandered from his home, singing the story of his loss and his despair to the
helpless passers-by. His grief moved the very stones in the wilderness, and
roused a dumb distress, in the hearts of savage beasts. Even the gods on Mount
Olympus gave ear, but they held no power over the darkness of Hades.
Wherever Orpheus
wandered with his lyre, no one had the will to forbid him entrance; and at
length he found unguarded that very cave that leads to the Underworld where
Pluto rules the spirits of the dead. He went down without fear. The fire in his
living heart found him a way through the gloom of that place. He crossed the
Styx, the black river that the gods name as their most sacred oath. Charon, the
harsh old ferryman who takes the Shades across, forgot to ask of him the coin
that every soul must pay. For Orpheus sang. There in the Underworld the song of
Apollo would not have moved the poor ghosts so much. It would have amazed them,
like a star far off that no one understands. But here was a human singer, and
he sang of things that grow in every human heart, youth and love and death, the
sweetness of the Earth, and the bitterness of losing aught that is dear to us.
Now the dead, when
they go to the Underworld, drink of the pool of Lethe; and forgetfulness of all
that has passed comes upon them like a sleep, and they lose their longing for
the world, they lose their memory of pain, and live content with that cool
twilight. But not the pool of Lethe itself could withstand the song of Orpheus;
and in the hearts of the Shades all the old dreams awoke wondering. They
remembered once more the life of men on Earth, the glory of the sun and moon,
the sweetness of new grass, the warmth of their homes, all the old joy and
grief that they had known. And they wept.
Even the Furies
were moved to pity. Those, too, who were suffering punishment for evil deeds
ceased to be tormented for themselves, and grieved only for the innocent
Orpheus who had lost Eurydice. Sisyphus, that fraudulent king (who is doomed to
roll a monstrous boulder uphill forever), stopped to listen. The daughters of Danaus
left off their task of drawing water in a sieve. Tantalus forgot hunger and
thirst, though before his eyes hung magical fruits that were wont to vanish out
of his grasp, and just beyond reach bubbled the water that was a torment to his
ears; he did not hear it while Orpheus sang.
So, among a crowd
of eager ghosts, Orpheus came, singing with all his heart, before the king and
queen of Hades. And the queen Proserpina wept as she listened and grew
homesick, remembering the fields of Enna and the growing of the wheat, and her
own beautiful mother, Demeter. Then Pluto gave way.
They called
Eurydice and she came, like a young guest unused to the darkness of the
Underworld. She was to return with Orpheus, but on one condition. If he turned
to look at her once before they reached the upper air, he must lose her again
and go back to the world alone.
Rapt with joy, the
happy Orpheus hastened on the way, thinking only of Eurydice, who was following
him. Past Lethe, across the Styx they went, he and his lovely wife, still
silent as a Shade. But the place was full of gloom, the silence weighed upon
him, he had not seen her for so long; her footsteps made no sound; and he could
hardly believe the miracle, for Pluto seldom relents. When the first gleam of
upper daylight broke through the cleft to the dismal world, he forgot all, save
that he must know if she still followed. He turned to see her face, and the
promise was broken!
She smiled at him
forgivingly, but it was too late. He stretched out his arms to take her, but
she faded from them, as the bright snow, that none may keep, melts in our very
hands. A murmur of farewell came to his ears,—no more. She was gone.
He would have
followed, but Charon, now on guard, drove him back. Seven days he lingered
there between the worlds of life and death, but after the broken promise, Hades
would not listen to his song. Back to the Earth he wandered, though it was
sweet to him no longer. He died young, singing to the last, and round about the
place where his body rested, nightingales nested in the trees. His lyre was set
among the stars; and he himself went down to join Eurydice, unforbidden.
Those two had no
need of Lethe, for their life on earth had been wholly fair, and now that they
are together they no longer own a sorrow.
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