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<pre>
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Psyche, by Louis Couperus
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Psyche
Author: Louis Couperus
Illustrator: Dion Clayton Calthrop
Translator: B. S. Berrington
Release Date: November 13, 2011 [EBook #38005]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PSYCHE ***
Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously
made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
</pre>
<div class="front">
<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first"></p>
<div class="figure xd20e109width"><img src="images/frontcover.jpg" alt=
"Original Front Cover." width="525" height="720"></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first"></p>
<div class="figure xd20e116width"><img src="images/p000.jpg" alt=
"Psyche and the Sphinx" width="482" height="720">
<p class="figureHead">Psyche and the Sphinx</p>
<p class="first">[<i>Frontispiece</i></p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first"></p>
<div class="figure xd20e127width"><img src="images/titlepage.gif" alt=
"Original Title Page." width="430" height="720"></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="titlePage">
<div class="docTitle">
<div class="mainTitle">Psyche</div>
</div>
<div class="byline">By<br>
<span class="docAuthor">Louis Couperus</span><br>
Translated from the Dutch, with the author’s permission,<br>
By<br>
<span class="docAuthor">B. S. Berrington, B.A.</span><br>
<i>With Twelve Illustrations by Dion Clayton Calthrop</i></div>
<div class="docImprint">London: Alston Rivers, Ltd.<br>
Brooke Street, Holborn Bars, E.C.<br>
<span class="docDate">1908</span></div>
</div>
<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">“Cry no more now and go to sleep, and if you
cannot sleep, I will tell you a story, a pretty story of flowers and
gems and birds, of a young prince and a little princess. ... For in the
world there is nothing more than a story.” <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb1" href="#pb1" name="pb1">1</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="body">
<div id="ch1" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e171" class="super">Psyche</h2>
<h2 class="main">Chapter I</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">Gigantically massive, with three hundred towers, on
the summit of a rocky mountain, rose the king’s castle high into
the clouds.</p>
<p>But the summit was broad, and flat as a plateau, and the castle
spread far out, for miles and miles, with ramparts and walls and
pinnacles.</p>
<p>And everywhere rose up the towers, lost in the clouds, and the
castle was like a city, built upon a lofty rock of basalt.</p>
<p>Round the castle and far away lay the valleys of the kingdom,
receding into the horizon, one after the other, and ever and ever.</p>
<p>Ever changing was the horizon: now pink, then silver; now blue, then
golden; now grey, then white and misty, and gradually fading away, and
never could the last be seen. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb2" href=
"#pb2" name="pb2">2</a>]</span></p>
<p>In clear weather there loomed behind the horizon always another
horizon. They circled one another endlessly, they were lost in the
dissolving mists, and suddenly their silhouette became more sharply
defined.</p>
<p>Over the lofty towers stretched away at times an expanse of
variegated clouds, but below rushed a torrent, which fell like a
cataract into a fathomless abyss, that made one dizzy to look at.</p>
<p>So it seemed as if the castle rose up to the highest stars and went
down to the central nave of the earth.</p>
<p>Along the battlements, higher than a man, Psyche often wandered,
wandered round the castle from tower to tower, from wall to wall, with
a dreamy smile on her face, then she looked up and stretched out her
hands to the stars, or gazed below at the dashing water, with all the
colours of the rainbow, till her head grew dizzy, and she drew back and
placed her little hands before her eyes. And long she would sit in the
corner of an embrasure, her eyes looking far away, a smile on her face,
her knees drawn up and her arms entwining them, and her tiny wings
spread out against the mossy stone-work, like a butterfly that sat
motionless. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb3" href="#pb3" name=
"pb3">3</a>]</span></p>
<p>And she gazed at the horizon, and however much she gazed, she always
saw more.</p>
<p>Close by were the green valleys, dotted with grazing sheep, soft
meadows with fat cattle, waving corn-fields, canals covered with ships,
and the cottage roofs of a village. Farther away were lines of woods,
hill-tops, mountain-ridges, or a mass of angular, rough-hewn
basalt.</p>
<p>Still farther off, misty towers with minarets and domes, cupolas and
spires, smoking chimneys, and the outline of a broad river. Beyond, the
horizon became milk-white, or like an opal, but not a line more was
there, only tint, the reflection of the last glow of the sun, as if
lakes were mirrored there; islands rose, low, in the air, aerial
paradises, watery streaks of blue sea, oceans of ether and light
quivering nothingness!...</p>
<p>And Psyche gazed and mused.... She was the third princess, the
youngest daughter of the old king, monarch of the <i>Kingdom of the
Past</i>.... She was always very lonely. Her sisters she seldom saw,
her father only for a moment in the evening, before she went to bed;
and when she had the chance she fled from the mumbling old nurse, and
wandered along <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb4" href="#pb4" name=
"pb4">4</a>]</span>the battlements and dreamed, with her eyes far away,
gazing at the vast kingdom, beyond which was nothingness....</p>
<p>Oh, how she longed to go farther than the castle, to the meadows,
the woods, the towns—to go to the shining lakes, the opal
islands, the oceans of ether, and then to that far, far-off
nothingness, that quivered so, like a pale, pale light!... Would she
ever be able to pass out of the gates?—Oh, how she longed to
wander, to seek, to fly!... To fly, oh! to fly, to fly as the sparrows,
the doves, the eagles!</p>
<p>And she flapped her weak, little wings.</p>
<p>On her tender shoulders there were two wings, like those of a very
large butterfly, transparent membranes, covered with crimson and soft,
yellow dust, streaked with azure and pink, where they were joined to
her back. And on each wing glowed two eyes, like those on a
peacock’s tail, but more beautiful in colour and glistening like
jewels, fine sapphires and emeralds on velvet, and the velvet eye set
four times in the glittering texture of the wings.</p>
<p>Her wings she flapped, but with them she could not fly. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb5" href="#pb5" name="pb5">5</a>]</span></p>
<p>That, that was her great grief—that, that made her think, what
were they for, those wings on her shoulders? And she shook them and
flapped them, but could not rise above the ground; her delicate form
did not ascend into the air, her naked foot remained firm on the
ground, and only her thin, fine veil, that trailed a little round her
snow-white limbs, was slightly raised by the gentle fluttering of her
wings. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb6" href="#pb6" name=
"pb6">6</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch2" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e222" class="main">Chapter II</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">To fly! oh, to fly!</p>
<p>She was so fond of birds. How she envied them! She enticed them with
crumbs of bread, with grains of corn, and once she had rescued a dove
from an eagle. The dove she had hidden under her veil, pressed close to
her bosom, and the eagle she had courageously driven off with her hand,
when in his flight he overshadowed her with his broad wings, calling
out to him to go away and leave her dove unhurt.</p>
<p>Oh, to seek! to seek!</p>
<p>For she was so fond of flowers, and gladly in the woods and meadows,
or farther away still, would she have sought for those that were
unknown. But she cultivated them within the walls, on the rocky ground,
and she had made herself a garden; the buds opened when she looked at
them, the stems grew when she stroked them, and when she <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb7" href="#pb7" name="pb7">7</a>]</span>kissed a
faded flower it became as fresh again as ever.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>To wander, oh, to wander!</p>
<p>Then she wandered along the battlements, down the steps, over the
court-yards and the ramparts, but at the gates stood the guards, rough
and bearded and clad in mail, with loud-sounding horns round their
shoulders.</p>
<p>Then she could go no farther and wandered back into the vaults and
crypts, where sacred spiders wove their webs; and then, if she became
frightened, she hurried away, farther, farther, farther, along endless
galleries, between rows of motionless knights in armour, till she came
again to her nurse, who sat ever at her spinning-wheel.</p>
<p>Oh! to glide through the air!</p>
<p>To glide in a steady wind, to the farthest horizon, to the
milk-white and opal region, which she saw in her dreams, to the
uttermost parts of the earth!</p>
<p>To glide to the seas, and the islands, which yonder, so far, far
away and so unsubstantial, changed every moment, as if a breeze could
alter their form, their tint; so unfirm, that no <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb8" href="#pb8" name="pb8">8</a>]</span>foot could
tread them, but only a winged being like herself, a bird, a fairy,
could gently hover over them, to see all that beautiful landscape, to
enjoy that atmosphere, that dream of Paradise....</p>
<p>Oh! to <i>fly</i>, to <i>seek</i>, to <i>wander</i>, to
<i>soar</i>!...</p>
<p>And for hours together she sat dreaming in an embrasure, her eyes
far off, her arms round her knees, and her wings spread out, like a
little butterfly that sat motionless. <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb9" href="#pb9" name="pb9">9</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch3" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e269" class="main">Chapter III</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">Emeralda, that was the name of her eldest sister.
Surpassingly beautiful was Emeralda, dazzling fair as no woman in the
kingdom, no princess in other kingdoms. Exceedingly tall she was, and
majestic in stature; erect she walked, stately and proudly; she was
very proud, for after the death of the king she was to reign on the
throne of the Kingdom of the Past. Jealous of all the power which would
be hers, she rejected all the princes who sued for her hand. She never
spoke but to command, and only to her father did she bow. She always
wore heavy brocade, silver or gold, studded with jewels, and long
mantles of rustling silk, fringed with broad ermine; a diadem of the
finest jewels always glittered on her red golden hair and her eyes also
were jewels; two magnificent green emeralds, in which a black carbuncle
was the pupil; and people whispered secretly that her <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb10" href="#pb10" name="pb10">10</a>]</span>heart
was cut out of one single, gigantic ruby.</p>
<p>Oh, Psyche was so afraid of her!</p>
<p>When Psyche wandered through the castle and suddenly saw Emeralda
coming, preceded by pages, torches, shield-bearers, and
maids-in-waiting, who bore her train, and a score of halberdiers, then
she was struck with fear, and hastily concealed herself behind a door,
a curtain, no matter where, and then Emeralda rustled by with a great
noise of satin and gold and all the trampling of her retinue, and
Psyche’s heart beat loudly like a clock, tick! tick! tick! tick!
till she thought she would faint....</p>
<div class="figure xd20e280width"><img src="images/p010.jpg" alt=
"The Kingdom of the Past" width="480" height="720">
<p class="figureHead">The Kingdom of the Past</p>
<p class="first">[<i>To face p. 10</i></p>
</div>
<p>Then she shut her eyes so as not to see the cold, proud look of
Emeralda’s green emeralds, which pierced through the curtains,
and saw Psyche well enough, though she pretended not to see her. And
when Emeralda was gone, then Psyche fled upstairs, high up on to the
battlements, fetched a deep breath, pressed her hands to her bosom, and
long afterwards her little wings trembled from fear.</p>
<p>Astra, that was the name of the second princess. She wore a living
star upon her head; she was very wise and learned; she knew much more
than all the philosophers <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb11" href=
"#pb11" name="pb11">11</a>]</span>and learned men in the kingdom, who
came to her for counsel.</p>
<p>She lived in the highest tower of the castle, and sometimes, along
the bars of her window, she saw clouds pass by, like spirits of the
mist. She never left the tower. She sat, surrounded by rolls of
parchment, gigantic globes, which she turned with a pressure of her
finger; and after hours of contemplation she described, with great
compasses, on a slab of black marble, circle after circle, or reckoned
out long sums, with numbers so great that no one could pronounce
them.</p>
<p>Sometimes she sat surrounded by the sages of the land, and the king
himself came and listened to his daughter, as in a low, firm voice she
explained things. But because she possessed all the wisdom of the
earth, she despised all the world, and she had had constructed on the
terrace of her tower a telescope, miles long, through which she could
look to every part of the illimitable firmament. And when the sages
were gone, and she was alone, then she went on to the terrace and
peered through the giant, which she turned to all the points of the
compass. Through the diamond lenses, cut without facets, she saw
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb12" href="#pb12" name=
"pb12">12</a>]</span>new stars, unknown to men, and gave them
names.</p>
<p>Through the diamond lenses she saw sun systems, spirals of fire,
shrivel up through the illimitableness of the universe.... But she kept
gazing, for behind those sun systems, she knew, were other spheres,
other heavens, and there farther still, illimitably far, was the Mystic
Rose, which she could never see....</p>
<p>Sometimes, when Psyche wandered round the castle, she knocked
nervously, inquisitively at Astra’s door, who graciously allowed
her to enter. When Astra stood before the board and reckoned out long
sums, Psyche looked very earnestly at her sister’s star, which
glistened on her head, in her coal-black hair. Or she went on to the
terrace and peeped through the telescope, but she saw nothing but very
bright light, which made her eyes ache.... <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb13" href="#pb13" name="pb13">13</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch4" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e306" class="main">Chapter IV</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">In the evening, before she went to sleep, Psyche
sought the king.</p>
<p>A good hundred years old he was, his beard hung down to his girdle,
and generally he sat reading the historical scrolls of the kingdom,
which his ministers brought him every day.</p>
<p>But in the evening Psyche climbed on to his knees and nestled in his
beard, or sat at his feet in the folds of his tabard, and the scroll
fell to the ground, and crumpled up, and the withered hand of the
mighty monarch stroked the head of his third child, the princess with
the little wings.</p>
<p>“Father, dear,” asked Psyche once; “why have I
wings, and cannot fly?”</p>
<p>“You need not fly, child; you are much safer with me than if
you were a little bird in the air.”</p>
<p>“But why then have I wings?” <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb14" href="#pb14" name="pb14">14</a>]</span></p>
<p>“I don’t quite know, my child....”</p>
<p>“Why have I wings, and Astra a living star upon her head, and
Emeralda eyes of jewels?”</p>
<p>“Because you are princesses; they are different from other
girls.”</p>
<p>“And why, dear father,” whispered Psyche, secretly,
“has Emeralda a heart of ruby?...”</p>
<p>“No child, that she has not. She has, it is true, eyes of
emerald, because she is a princess—as Astra has a star and you
two pretty wings—but she has a human heart.”</p>
<p>“No, father, dear, she has a heart of stone.”</p>
<p>“But who says so, my child?”</p>
<p>“The nurse does, father, her own pages, the guards at the
gates, and the wise men who come to Astra.”</p>
<p>The king was very sad. He and his daughter looked deep into each
other’s eyes, and embraced each other, for the king was sad, on
account of what he saw in the future, and Psyche was frightened: she
always trembled when she thought of Emeralda.</p>
<p>“Little Psyche,” said her old father, “will you
now promise me something?”</p>
<p>“Yes, father, dear.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb15"
href="#pb15" name="pb15">15</a>]</span></p>
<p>“Will you always stay with me, little Psyche? You are safe
here, are you not? and the world is so great, the world is so wicked.
The world is full of temptation and mystery. Winged horses soar through
the air; gigantic sphinxes lurk in the deserts; devilish fauns roam
through the forests.... In the world, tears are shed, which form
brooks, and in the world people give away their noblest right for the
lowest pleasure.... Stay with me, Psyche, never wander too far away,
for under our castle glows the Nether-world!... And life is like a
princess, a cruel princess with a heart of stone....”</p>
<p>Of precious stone, like Emeralda, thought Psyche to herself. Who
rides in triumph with her victorious chariot over the tenderest and
dearest, and presses them stone-dead into the deepest furrows of the
earth....</p>
<p>“Oh, Psyche, little Psyche, promise me always to stay here in
this high and safe castle: always to stay with your father!”</p>
<p>She did not understand him.</p>
<p>His eyes, very large and animated, looked over her into space, with
inexpressible sadness. Then she longed to console him, and threw her
white arms round his neck; she hid herself, as <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb16" href="#pb16" name="pb16">16</a>]</span>it were,
in his beard, and she whispered playfully:</p>
<p>“I will always stay with you, father dear....”</p>
<p>Then he pressed her to his heart, and thought that he would soon
die.... <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb17" href="#pb17" name=
"pb17">17</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch5" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e364" class="main">Chapter V</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">Psyche was often very lonely, but yet she had much:
she had the flowers, the birds; she had the butterflies, which thought
that she was a bigger sister; she had the lizards, with which she
played, and which, like little things of emerald, she held against her
veil; she had the swans in the deep castle moats, which followed her
when she walked on the ramparts; she had the clouds, which came
floating from distant islands and paradises beyond; she had the wind,
which sang her ballads; the rain, which fell down wet upon her and
covered her wings with pearls. She would gladly have played with the
pages in the halls, have laughed with the shield-bearers in the
armoury, have listened to the martial tales of the bearded halberdiers
at the gates, but she was a princess and knew she could not do that,
and she always walked past them with great dignity, maidenly modest in
her fine, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb18" href="#pb18" name=
"pb18">18</a>]</span>thin veil, which left her tender limbs half
exposed. That was the noble Nakedness, which was her privilege as a
princess, a privilege given her at her cradle, together with her wings
by the Fairy of Births, as to Emeralda was given the Jewel and to Astra
the Star. For never might Psyche wear Jewel or Star, and never might
Emeralda or Astra go naked. Each princess had her own privilege, her
birthright. Adorable was Psyche as, unconscious of her maidenly, tender
purity, she was seen with her crimson glittering wings, naked in the
folds of her veil, walking past the armour-bearers and soldiers, who
presented their swords or halberds as the princess, nymph-white,
stepped past them.</p>
<div class="figure xd20e371width"><img src="images/p018.jpg" alt=
"The Ramparts" width="481" height="720">
<p class="figureHead">The Ramparts</p>
<p class="first">[<i>To face p. 18</i></p>
</div>
<p>Psyche was often very lonely, for her nurse was old and mumbled over
her spinning-wheel; playmates Psyche had not, because she was a
princess, and she would not get court-ladies till she was older and
more dignified. But with the birds and the clouds and the wind Psyche
could speak and laugh, and she was seldom dull, although she sometimes
wished she were no longer <i>Princess of Nakedness</i> with the wings,
but one of those very ordinary peasant-girls <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb19" href="#pb19" name="pb19">19</a>]</span>whom she
had seen milking the cows, or plucking the thick bunches of grapes in
the vineyard at harvest-time, whilst the pressers, handsome brown lads
with sturdy arms, encircled the girls and danced.</p>
<p>But Psyche wandered along the ramparts; she looked at the clouds and
spoke with the wind, and she asked the wind to give flight to her
wings, so that she could fly far off to the opal landscapes that kept
shifting and changing. But the wind rushed away with a flapping noise
of wings that Psyche envied, and her own wings flapped a little, but in
vain.</p>
<p>Psyche looked at the clouds. They floated along so stately in all
kinds of forms—in the forms of sheep, swans, horses—and the
form never remained: the seeming forms, thick-white in the blue ether,
were constantly changing. Now she saw three swans which were drawing a
boat, in which stood three women, who guided the swans; then she saw
the women become a tower, the swans a dragon; and from far, far away
came a knight, sitting on a winged horse. But now slowly the scene
changed into a flock of little silver-fleeced, downy sheep, which were
browsing <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb20" href="#pb20" name=
"pb20">20</a>]</span>far off in the sunshine as in a golden meadow. The
knight disappeared, but the horse glided nearer and flew on his wings,
high over the castle, towards the sheep.</p>
<p>Then Psyche dreamed at night of the swans, the tower, the dragon,
the knight, the horse; but the horse she liked best, because it had
strong wings. And next morning she gazed from the battlements to see if
the horse would come again.</p>
<p>But then the sky was either gloomy from the rain or blue from the
absence of clouds, or covered with white peacock’s feathers,
splendid plumes, but motionless, far, far away in the air. The wind
changed, when she said: “Away! blow now from the East again!
Begone, North wind, with your dark perils, begone! Begone, West wind,
with your rain-urns! Begone, South wind, with your peacock’s
feathers! Come now, wind from the East, with your treasures of
luxurious visions, ye dragons, ye horses, ye girls with
swans!...” Then the clouds began to shift, the winds to blow, and
play an opera high up in the air, and Psyche, enchanted, sat and
gazed.</p>
<p>Then after weeks, after she had missed it for weeks, came again the
winged horse. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb21" href="#pb21" name=
"pb21">21</a>]</span></p>
<p>And she beckoned to it to approach, to descend to her; but it flew
past over the castle. Then she missed it again for many days, and,
angry, she looked at the sky and scolded the wind. But then the horse
came again, and, laughing, she beckoned to it. The horse ascended high,
its wings expanded in the air, and oh, wonder! it beckoned to her to
come up, up to it. She gave a sign that she could not, shook her little
shoulders helplessly, and, trembling, flapped her wings and spread her
arms wide out to say that she could not. And the horse sped away on the
breath of the wind from the East.</p>
<p>Then Psyche wept, and, sad at heart, sat looking at the far, far-off
landscapes which she would never reach.</p>
<p>But weeks afterwards the treasure-bringing wind blew again, and
again appeared the horse in the horizon, and it flew near and beckoned
to Psyche, her heart heavy with hope and fear.... The horse mounted up;
it beckoned to her.... She gave a sign that she could not; and oh! she
feared that it would speed away again, the horse with the strong
wings.</p>
<p>No ... no ... the horse descended! <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb22" href="#pb22" name="pb22">22</a>]</span>Then Psyche uttered a
joyful cry, sprang up, danced with delight and clapped her little
hands. From the lofty, lofty sky the horse came down, gliding on its
broad wings. It came down.</p>
<p>And Psyche, the little, joyful, excited Psyche, saw it coming,
coming down to her. It descended—it approached. Oh, what a
beautiful horse it was! Greater than the greatest horses, and then with
wings! Fair it was, fair as the sun, with a long curly mane and long
flowing tail, like a streamer of sunny gold. The noble head on its
arched neck proudly raised and its eyes shone like fire, and a stream
of breath came from its expanded nostrils, cloud after cloud. Big,
powerful, muscular, its wings were stretched out like silvery quills,
as Psyche had never seen in a bird before. And its golden hoofs struck
the clouds and made them thunder; and sparks of fire shot forth in the
pure, clear daylight. Enraptured Psyche had never seen such a beautiful
horse before, never a bird so beautiful; and breathless, with her head
raised, she waited till it should descend, descend on the terrace....
At last there it stood before her. Its nostrils steamed, and its hoofs
struck sparks from the <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb23" href="#pb23"
name="pb23">23</a>]</span>basalt rock, and it waved its mane and
switched its tail.</p>
<p>“Splendid, beautiful horse,” said Psyche, “who are
you?”</p>
<p>“I am the Chimera,” answered the horse, and his voice
sounded deep as the clang of a brazen clock.</p>
<p>“Can you really speak?” asked Psyche, astonished.
“And fly? Oh, how happy you must be!!”</p>
<p>“Why have you called me, little princess?” said the
Chimera.</p>
<p>“I wanted to see you quite near,” replied Psyche.
“I only saw you dart like winged lightning through the air, so
soon were you away again; and I was always sorry when I could not see
you any more. Then I became, oh, so sad!”</p>
<p>“And why did you want to see me quite near, little princess
with the wings?”</p>
<p>“I find you so beautiful. I have never seen anything so
beautiful; I did not know that anything so beautiful existed. What are
you? A horse you are not. Nor a dragon either, nor a man. What are
you?”</p>
<p>“I am the Chimera.”</p>
<p>“Where do you come from?” <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb24" href="#pb24" name="pb24">24</a>]</span></p>
<p>“From far away. From the lands which are beyond the lands,
from the worlds beyond the worlds, from the heavens beyond the
heavens.”</p>
<p>“Where are you going?”</p>
<p>“Very far. Do you see those distant regions yonder, of silver
and opal? Well, thousands of times so far I am going.... I go from
illimitableness to illimitableness; I come from nothingness and I am
going to nothingness.”</p>
<p>“What is nothingness?”</p>
<p>“Everything. Nothingness is as far as your brains can think,
my little princess; and then still farther, and nothingness is more
than all that you see from this high tower....”</p>
<p>“Are you never tired?”</p>
<p>“No, my wings are strong; I can bear all mankind on my back,
and I could carry them away to the stars behind the stars.”</p>
<p>“If Astra knew that!”</p>
<p>“Astra knows it. But she does not want me. She reckons out the
stars with figures.”</p>
<p>“Why do you fly from one end to the other, O splendid Chimera?
What is your object? What are you for?” <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb25" href="#pb25" name="pb25">25</a>]</span></p>
<p>“What is your own object, little Psyche? What are you yourself
for? For what are flowers, men, the stars? Who knows?”</p>
<p>“Astra....”</p>
<p>“No, Astra knows nothing. Her knowledge is founded on a
fundamental error. All her knowledge is like a tower, which will fall
down.”</p>
<p>“I should like to know much. I should like to know more. I
should like to seek far through the universe. I long for what is most
beautiful.... But I do not know what it is. Perhaps you yourself are
what is most beautiful, Chimera.... But why are you now spreading out
your wings?”</p>
<p>“I must go.”</p>
<p>“So soon? Whence? Oh, why are you going so soon, splendid
Chimera?”</p>
<p>“I must. I must traverse illimitableness. I have already
stayed here too long.”</p>
<p>“Stay a little longer....”</p>
<p>“I cannot. I may not.”</p>
<p>“Who compels you, O powerful horse, quick as
lightning?...”</p>
<p>“Power.”</p>
<p>“What is power?”</p>
<p>“God....” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb26" href=
"#pb26" name="pb26">26</a>]</span></p>
<p>“Who is God? Oh, tell me more! Tell me more! Don’t go
away yet! I want to ask you so much, to hear so much. I am so stupid. I
have longed so for you. Now you have come, and now you want to go away
again.”</p>
<p>“Do not ask me for wisdom; I have none. Ask the Sphinx for
wisdom; ask me for flight.”</p>
<p>“Oh, stay a little longer! Don’t flap so with your
flaming wings! Who is the Sphinx? O Chimera, do not give me wisdom, but
flight!”</p>
<p>“Not now....”</p>
<p>“When, then?”</p>
<p>“Later....”</p>
<p>“When is that?”</p>
<p>“Farewell.”</p>
<p>“O Chimera, Chimera...!”</p>
<p>The horse had already spread out his wings broad. He was ascending.
But Psyche suddenly threw both her arms round his neck and hung on to
his mane.</p>
<p>“Let me go, little princess!” cried the horse. “I
ascend quickly, and you will fall, to be dashed to pieces on the rock!
Loose me!” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb27" href="#pb27" name=
"pb27">27</a>]</span></p>
<p>And slowly he ascended....</p>
<p>Psyche was afraid; she let go her arms; she became dizzy, fell
against the pinnacle, and bruised one of her wings. That pained her ...
but she heeded it not; the horse was already high in the air, and she
followed his track with her eyes....</p>
<p>“He is gone,” thought she. “Will he come again? Or
have I seen him for the first and last time?”</p>
<p>“As a dream he came from far-off regions, and to still farther
regions he has gone.... Oh, how dull the world seems! How dead is the
horizon! And how dizzy I feel.... My wing pains me....”</p>
<p>With her hand she smoothed the wrinkle out of her wing; she stroked
it till it was smooth again, and tears ran down her cheeks.</p>
<p>“Horrid wings! They cannot fly, they cannot follow the strong
Chimera! I’m in such trouble, such trouble!! But ... no.... Is
that trouble? Is that happiness? I know not.... I am very happy...! I
am so sorrowful.... How beautiful he was! how strong, how sleek, how
splendid, how quick, how wise, how noble, how broad <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb28" href="#pb28" name="pb28">28</a>]</span>his
wings! how broad his wings!! How weak I am compared to him.... A child,
a weak child; a weak, naked child with little wings.... O Chimera, my
Chimera, O Chimera of my desire, come back! Come back!! Come back!! I
cannot live without you; and if you do not come again, Chimera, then I
will not live any longer lonely in this high castle. I will throw
myself into the cataract....”</p>
<p>She stood up, her eyes looking eagerly into the empty air. She
pressed her hands to her bosom, she wept, and her wings trembled as if
from fever.</p>
<p>Then suddenly she saw the king, her father, sitting at the
bow-window of his room. He did not see her, he was reading a scroll.
But anxious lest he should see her trouble, her despair, and longing
desire, she fled, along the battlements, the ramparts, through the
passages and halls of the castle, till she came to the tower, where her
nurse sat at her spinning-wheel, and then she fell down at the feet of
the old woman and sobbed aloud.</p>
<p>“What is it, darling?” asked the old crone, frightened.
“Princess, what is it?”</p>
<p>“I have hurt my wing!” sobbed Psyche. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb29" href="#pb29" name="pb29">29</a>]</span></p>
<p>And she showed the nurse the wrinkle in her wing, which was not yet
quite gone.</p>
<p>Then, with soothing voice and wrinkled hand, the old nurse slowly
stroked the painful wing till it became smooth. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb30" href="#pb30" name="pb30">30</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch6" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e538" class="main">Chapter VI</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">The old king, assisted by pages, sat down slowly on
his throne; his ministers and courtiers gathered round him. Then there
was a great rustling of satin and gold, and in came Emeralda, the
Princess Royal, the Princess of the Jewel, as her title ran: first
pages, life-guards, and then she herself, glittering with splendour, in
her dress of silver-coloured silk; her bosom blazed with emeralds, a
tiara of emeralds adorned her temples; her red-golden tresses,
intertwined with emeralds, fell in three-fold plaits down each side of
her face, from which the eyes of emerald looked proud, soulless,
ice-cold, and arrogant. Court-ladies bore her train. A great retinue of
halberdiers surrounded her jewelled majesty, and as she passed along,
the trembling courtiers bowed lower to her than they did to the king,
because they were in deadly fear of her.</p>
<p>Astra, with dragging step, followed her. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb31" href="#pb31" name="pb31">31</a>]</span>She wore
a dress of azure covered with stars, a white mantle full of stars, and
her living star sparkled in her coal-black hair.</p>
<p>The sages of the country surrounded her: grey-haired men in velvet
tabards, with very long silver beards, dim eyes, and wise,
close-pressed lips.</p>
<p>The two princesses sat down on either side of the throne.</p>
<p>And for a moment the middle space of the hall between the waiting
crowd remained empty. But then appeared Psyche, the third daughter, the
Princess of Nakedness with the wings! Shyly she approached, looking
right and left, with the laugh of a child. She was naked: only a golden
veil was tied in a fold round her hips. Her wings were spread out like
a butterfly’s. She had no retinue: only her old nurse followed
her; and she was so pretty and charming that people forgot to bow as
she passed along, that the courtiers smiled and whispered, full of
admiration, because she was so beautiful in her pure chastity. Slowly
she walked along, shy and laughing a little; then close to the throne,
where her father saw her approaching hesitatingly, her bare foot got
entangled in her trailing golden veil, and to <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb32" href="#pb32" name="pb32">32</a>]</span>ascend
the steps she lifted it up, knelt down, and kissed the king’s
hand.</p>
<p>Then calmly she sat down on a cushion at his feet, and was no longer
shy. She looked round inquisitively and nodded a greeting here and
there, child as she was, till all at once, to the right of the throne,
she met the emerald look of Emeralda, and started and shivered; a cold
thrill shot through her limbs, and she hid herself in the ermine of her
father’s mantle to be safe and warm.</p>
<p>Then there was a flourish of trumpets, and at the door of the Hall
heralds announced Prince Eros, the youthful monarch of the Present. He
came in all alone. He was as beautiful as a god, with light-brown hair
and light-brown eyes. He wore a white suit of armour over a silver
shirt of mail, and his whole presence portrayed simplicity and
intelligence.</p>
<p>The courtiers were astonished at his coming without a suite;
Emeralda laughed scornfully aside with one of her court-ladies. She did
not find him a king, that plain youth in his plain dress. But Eros had
now approached and bowed low before the mighty monarch, and the latter
bade him welcome with fatherly condescension. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb33" href="#pb33" name="pb33">33</a>]</span></p>
<p>Then spoke the prince:</p>
<p>“Mighty Majesty of the Past, accept my respectful thanks for
your welcome. Diffident I come to your throne, for I am young in years,
have little wisdom, little power. You reign over an extensive kingdom,
the horizon of which is lost in illimitableness. I reign over a country
that is not larger than a garden. From my humble palace, that is like a
country-house, I can survey all my territory. Your Majesty possesses
lands and deserts, which you do not know. I know every flower in my
beds. And that your Majesty, in spite of my poverty and insignificance,
receives me with much honour and acknowledges me as sovereign in my
kingdom, fills my heart with joy. Will your Majesty permit me to kneel
and pay my homage to you as an obedient vassal?”</p>
<p>Then the old king nodded to Psyche, and the princess rose, because
Eros was about to kneel.</p>
<p>Then said the king: “Amiable Eros, I love you as a son. Tell
me, have you any wish that I can satisfy? If so, then it is granted
you.”</p>
<p>Then said Eros: “Your Majesty makes my heart rejoice by saying
that you love me as a <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb34" href="#pb34"
name="pb34">34</a>]</span>son. Well, then, my greatest joy would be to
marry one of the noble princesses, who are your Majesty’s
daughters. But I am a poor prince, and whilst confessing to your
Majesty my bold desire, I fear that you may think me too arrogant in
presuming to cherish a wish that aims so high....”</p>
<p>“Noble prince,” said the king, “you are poor, but
of high birth and divine origin, higher and more divine than we. You
are descended from the god Eros; we from his beloved Psyche. The
history of the gods is to be read in the historical rolls of our
kingdom. It would make my heart rejoice if you found a spouse in one of
my princesses. But they are free in their choice, and you will have to
win their love. Permit me, therefore, first of all to present to you my
eldest daughter, the Princess Royal, Princess of the Jewel:
Emeralda....”</p>
<p>Emeralda rose, and bowed with a scornful sneer.</p>
<p>“And,” continued the monarch, “in the second
place, to my wise Astra, Princess of the Star....”</p>
<p>Astra rose and bowed, her look far away, as if lost in
contemplation. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb35" href="#pb35" name=
"pb35">35</a>]</span></p>
<p>“And would Emeralda permit me to sue for her love and her
hand?” asked the prince.</p>
<p>“Majesty of the Present,” replied Emeralda, “my
father says that you are of more divine origin than we. I, your humble
slave, consider it therefore too great an honour that you should be
willing to raise me to your side upon your throne. And I accept your
homage, but on one condition. That condition is: That you seek for me
the All-Sacred Jewel, Jewel of Mystery, the name of which may not be
uttered, the noble stone of Supremacy. The legends respecting this
jewel are innumerable, inexplicable and contradictory. But the Jewel
exists. Tell me, ye wise men of the land—tell me, Astra, my
sister, does the Jewel exist?”</p>
<p>“It exists!” said Astra.</p>
<p>“It exists!” said all the wise men after her.</p>
<p>“It exists!” repeated Emeralda. “Prince, I dare
ask much of you, but I ask you the greatest thing that our soul and
ambition can think of. If you find me beautiful and love me, then seek,
and bring me the Jewel, and I will be your wife, and together we shall
be the most powerful monarchs in the world.” <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb36" href="#pb36" name="pb36">36</a>]</span></p>
<p>The prince bowed, and with imperceptible irony said:</p>
<p>“Royal Highness of the Jewel, your words breathe the splendour
of yourself, and I will weigh them in my mind. Your beauty is dazzling,
and to reign with you over the united kingdoms of the Past and the
Present, appears to me indeed a divine happiness....”</p>
<p>“For other kingdoms exist not,” added Astra, and the
wise men repeated her words.</p>
<p>“Yes,” murmured the king. “There is another
kingdom....”</p>
<p>“What kingdom?” asked all.</p>
<p>“The kingdom of the Future,” said the king, in a low
tone.</p>
<p>Emeralda laughed scornfully. Astra looked compassionately. The wise
men glanced at each other; the courtiers shook their heads.</p>
<p>“The king is getting old,” they whispered. “The
mind of His Majesty often wanders,” muttered the ministers.</p>
<p>“Our monarch has always had much imagination,” said the
wise men. “He is a poet....”</p>
<p>But then spoke the prince.</p>
<p>“And you, wise Astra, Royal Highness of <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb37" href="#pb37" name="pb37">37</a>]</span>the
Star, will you, like Emeralda, allow me to sue for your hand and
heart?”</p>
<p>“Most willingly, Prince Eros!” said Astra, with a
far-off look and in a vague tone. “But I have conditions to make
as well as Emeralda, the Princess Royal. Will you hear them? Then
listen. If you see any chance of lengthening my telescope, of
strengthening the lenses, that I can see through them to the confines
of the universe, to the last sun-system, to the Mystic Rose, to the
Godhead Himself, then I will be your wife, and together we shall be the
most powerful beings of the world, because then we are omniscient. For
the universe is limited....”</p>
<p>“The universe is limited!” said the wise men, after
her.</p>
<p>“Endless is the universe!” said the king, in a subdued
voice.</p>
<p>The people laughed and shook their heads. “The king is getting
very old,” was repeated everywhere.</p>
<p>“The king will soon die,” prophesied the wise men, in a
low tone. “He speaks like an old man, without reason; he will
soon die....”</p>
<p>“Royal Highness of the Star,” said the <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb38" href="#pb38" name="pb38">38</a>]</span>prince,
“your words, pregnant with wisdom, I will also consider. For to
be omniscient must indeed be the greatest power. But your Majesty has a
third princess,” he continued, addressing the king. “Where
is she?”</p>
<p>“She is here,” said the king. “She is the Princess
of Nakedness with the wings. But she is still a child,
Prince....”</p>
<p>Psyche blushed and bowed.</p>
<p>The prince looked long at her. Then he said to her, gently:
“Your Highness is called Psyche? You have the name of the
ancestress of your race, as I have the name of the god who begot mine.
Is it not true?”</p>
<p>“I believe so,” murmured Psyche, embarrassed.</p>
<p>“She is still a child, prince—forgive her!”
repeated the king.</p>
<p>“Will your Majesty not permit me to ask for the hand and heart
of your third daughter, the princess?”</p>
<p>“Certainly, prince; but she is still so young.... If she
leaves me I shall be very sad. But if she loves you, then I will give
her up to you, for then she will be happy....”</p>
<p>“Tell me, Psyche, will you be my wife?” <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb39" href="#pb39" name="pb39">39</a>]</span></p>
<p>Psyche blushed exceedingly. Her naked limbs blushed, her wings
blushed.</p>
<p>“Prince,” said she hesitatingly and looked bashfully at
her father, “you do me much honour. But my sisters are more
beautiful and wiser than I. And my father would miss me if I went with
you to the kingdom of the Present.”</p>
<p>“But tell me, Psyche, what conditions do you impose upon
me?”</p>
<p>Psyche hesitated. She was about to exclaim joyfully: “Catch me
the Chimera, bind him in a meadow to graze, and give me power over him,
that I may mount his back and fly through the air as I like.”</p>
<p>But she durst not before the whole court and her father. And so she
only stammered: “None, prince....”</p>
<p>“Could you love me?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, prince....”</p>
<p>Psyche was shy. She kept blushing, and all at once began to tremble
and weep.</p>
<p>And she looked round to the king, fled to his arms, hid her face in
his beard and sobbed.</p>
<p>“Prince Eros,” said the king, “forgive her. You
see she is a child. Seek for Emeralda’s Jewel, or seek for Astra
the Glass which <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb40" href="#pb40" name=
"pb40">40</a>]</span>will bring to view the confines of the universe;
but leave me my youngest child.”</p>
<p>Then the prince bowed. An indescribable sadness rose in his soul,
like a sea. And pale he stammered, “I obey your
Majesty.”</p>
<p>Then the king descended from his throne and embraced the prince. And
whilst the fanfares sounded, he put his arm through the arm of Eros,
took Psyche by the hand, and conducted his guest to the banquet, the
princesses following, surrounded by the whole court. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb41" href="#pb41" name="pb41">41</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch7" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e681" class="main">Chapter VII</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">For days had Psyche watched in vain, and all hope died
out of her heart.</p>
<p>But one windy morning—the thick white clouds were speeding
through the air—she saw the desire of her heart again. Far away
appeared a cloud, but as it drew nearer it became a horse: it was the
Chimera.</p>
<p>She beckoned to it, and the Chimera came down.</p>
<p>“What do you want, little Psyche?”</p>
<p>She clasped her hands imploringly. “Take me with
you....”</p>
<p>“You will become dizzy....”</p>
<p>“No, no....”</p>
<p>He descended, stamping on the basalt rock; the terrace shook, sparks
flew up, and the steam of his breath shot out in clouds.</p>
<p>“Take me with you,” she implored.</p>
<p>“Where do you wish to go?” <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb42" href="#pb42" name="pb42">42</a>]</span></p>
<p>“To the islands of opal and silver.”</p>
<p>“They are too far away.”</p>
<p>“Take me, then, nearer to them; take me with you where you
will.”</p>
<p>“Are you not afraid?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Will you hold fast to my neck?”</p>
<p>“Yes, oh yes!”</p>
<p>“Come, then....”</p>
<p>She uttered a cry of joy. He bent his knees, and she got up with a
beating, thumping heart. Between his flaming wings, on his broad, broad
back, she sat almost as safe as in a nest of silver feathers.</p>
<p>“Trust not to my wings,” he warned her; “I move
them at every stroke. They open and shut, open and shut. Hold fast on
to my neck. Clasp my mane. If you are not frightened and do not become
giddy and sick, you will not fall, however high I go. <a id="xd20e725"
name="xd20e725"></a>Do you dare, Psyche?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>She fastened his mane round her waist, as if it were strong rope of
golden flax. She put her arms round his neck.</p>
<p>“I am ready,” she said courageously.</p>
<p>He ascended, very slowly, with his broad <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb43" href="#pb43" name="pb43">43</a>]</span>wings.
Under him, under her, the terrace sank away.</p>
<p>She shut her eyes, she held her breath, and the blood left her
heart. Under her the castle sank away.</p>
<p>“Stop!” she implored. “I am dying....”</p>
<p>“I thought so, Psyche. You are much too weak. You cannot go up
with me....”</p>
<p>She opened her eyes slightly. She sat on his back in the silver
down, where his quills clave to his light-gold loins. And round her,
circles of light revolved, one after the other, and made her dizzy.</p>
<p>“Descend!” she implored. “Oh, descend! I cannot
endure it. I have no breath; I am dying.”</p>
<p>He descended.... He stood on the terrace. She slid along his wing to
the ground. She put her hands before her face, and when she opened her
eyes she was alone.</p>
<p>Then she was very, very sad. But next day, he appeared again. And,
more courageous, she wished to mount him again. He let her do as she
desired, and she got on his back. She shut her eyes, but smiled. He
went higher and higher with her, without her saying
“Descend.” She travelled for a time <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb44" href="#pb44" name="pb44">44</a>]</span>high up
in the air, she opened her eyes and kept smiling; she got accustomed to
the rarefied air. The third time he soared away with her; she saw, far
below, the royal castle, small as a toy, towers, ramparts; and then she
realised for the first time that she had left the castle.</p>
<p>She thought of the king.</p>
<p>“Take me back!” she said to the horse commandingly.</p>
<p>He obeyed her. He took her back. But as soon as he was gone, she
longed again for him and the lofty air. And she had but one thought,
the Chimera. She no longer cared for the flowers which she had planted
between the walls, and the flowers withered. She no longer cared for
the swans, and the swans, neglected, followed her in vain, in the green
moats; she forgot to crumble bread for them. And she looked at the
clouds and she gazed at the wind, thinking only of him, the light-gold
horse with the silver wings, because he came on the wind, on the
clouds, which thundered when he struck with his hoofs.</p>
<p>On the day that he did not come, her fair Chimera, she sat pale and
lonely, gazing from the battlements, her eyes far away, her arms
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb45" href="#pb45" name=
"pb45">45</a>]</span>round her knees. In the evening she nestled in the
king’s beard, in the folds of his tabard, but she durst not tell
him that she had ridden a wondrous winged horse and flown with him
through the air. But on the days that her beloved horse had come and
taken her away with him, carefully flapping his wings, her face shone
with golden happiness in the apotheosis of her soul, and through the
gloomy halls, where sacred spiders, which were never disturbed, wove
their webs, rang Psyche’s high voice, and from the faded gobelin
the low vault and the motionless iron knights strangely re-echoed the
words of her joyous song. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb46" href=
"#pb46" name="pb46">46</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch8" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e767" class="main">Chapter VIII</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">“Psyche, where do you wish to go?”</p>
<p>“To the opal islands, to the seas of light, to the far-off
luminous streaks....”</p>
<p>“Take a deep breath; hold fast on to my neck; twist my mane
more tightly round your hand, then we will begin our
journey.”</p>
<p>The clouds sent forth a rumbling sound of thunder; the
Chimera’s hoofs shot fire; his wings expanded and shut, and his
strong feathers rustled in the air.</p>
<p>Psyche uttered a cry.</p>
<p>She had ascended higher than ever before, and under them sank away
the castle, the meadows, the woods, the cities, and the river; under
them, like a map, lay stretched out province after province, desert
after desert, the whole Kingdom of the Past. How great it was! how
great it was! The frontiers receded from view again and again; far
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb47" href="#pb47" name=
"pb47">47</a>]</span>down below rose up town after town; river after
river meandered along, mountain-ranges rose up one after the other, now
only slightly elevated, then rising arabesquely through the plains.
Then there were great waters like oceans, and Psyche saw nothing but
white foaming sea. But on the other side of it began again the strand,
the land, the wood, the meadows, the mountains, and so on
endlessly....</p>
<p>“How much farther away are the opal islands, the streaks of
light I see in the distance, my beloved Chimera?”</p>
<p>“We have already passed them....”</p>
<p>She raised her head, bent over his streaming neck, and gazed about
her.</p>
<p>“But I do not see them any longer!” she said,
astonished. “I see wood and meadow, towns and mountains.... Is
the world, then, the same everywhere? Where are the opal
islands?”</p>
<p>“Behind us....”</p>
<p>“But I do not see them.... Have we passed them without my
seeing them? O naughty Chimera, you did not tell me!”</p>
<p>“And where are the luminous streaks of the far-off
land?” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb48" href="#pb48" name=
"pb48">48</a>]</span></p>
<p>“We are going through them....”</p>
<p>“I see nothing.... Below, land; around, clouds, as everywhere.
But no lands of light.... And yet there, in the distance, very far
away—what is that, Chimera? I see, as it were, a purple desert on
a sea of golden water, with winding borders of soft mother-of-pearl; in
the desert are oases like pale emerald, palms with silvery waving tops,
azure bananas; and over the purple desert trills ether of light
crimson, with streaks of topaz.... Chimera, Chimera, what is that
country? What is that beautiful country? The golden sea with its foam
forms a pearly fringe along the shore; the palms wave their tops to a
rhythm of aerial music, and the bananas, blue, pink, glow in the ether
till all is light there...! Chimera, is that the rainbow?”</p>
<p>“No....”</p>
<p>“Chimera, is that the land of happiness? Is that the kingdom
of happiness? Chimera, are you king there?”</p>
<p>“Yes, that is my country. And I am king there.”</p>
<p>“Are we going thither?”</p>
<p>“Yes.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb49" href="#pb49"
name="pb49">49</a>]</span></p>
<p>“Do you remain there, Chimera? Do we remain there
together?”</p>
<p>“No....”</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>“As soon as I have reached my purple land, I must go farther
... and then back again.”</p>
<p>“O Chimera, I will not go back! I will forget
everything—my father, my country. I will remain there with
you!”</p>
<p>“I cannot.... But now pay great attention; we are approaching
my kingdom, little Psyche. Look! now we are going over the sea, now we
are approaching the shore, lined with soft mother-of-pearl.”</p>
<p>“The sea is a dirty green, like an ordinary sea; the borders
are sand.... You are deceiving me, Chimera! As soon as we approach,
then you charm away everything that I saw beautiful.”</p>
<p>“Now, under us is the purple desert; under us are the oases of
pale emerald.”</p>
<p>“You are deceiving me, Chimera! The desert glows in the strong
sun, the oases fade away to nothing, like a meteor....
Chimera!”</p>
<p>“What, Psyche?”</p>
<p>“Where are you going?” <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb50" href="#pb50" name="pb50">50</a>]</span></p>
<p>“To the land, as far off as you can see....”</p>
<p>“I care not about it! You always deceive me! You carry me away
through endless space, and everything beautiful that I see disappears
from my view. But yet ... there, behind the horizon, behind the sand of
the desert, is a dazzling scene.... Are those silver grottos on a sea
of light? Does the light there wave like water? Are those groves of
light, cities of light, in a land of light? Tell me, Chimera, do people
of light live there? Is that Paradise?”</p>
<p>“Yes, will you go thither?”</p>
<p>“Yes, oh yes, Chimera. There is happiness, the highest
happiness, and there I will remain with you...!”</p>
<p>“We are now approaching it....”</p>
<p>“Let that land of light now stay, the paradise of glowing
sunshine; do not charm away the land of happiness, O naughty Chimera:
go to it now with me, and descend with me....”</p>
<p>“We are there....”</p>
<p>“Descend....”</p>
<p>He descended.</p>
<p>“Have we not yet reached the ground of light?”</p>
<p>“Look below: can you see nothing...?” <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb51" href="#pb51" name="pb51">51</a>]</span></p>
<p>She looked along his wing.</p>
<p>“I see nothing...! It is night.... It is dark....
Chimera!!!”</p>
<p>“What, little Psyche?”</p>
<p>“Where is the land of silver light, the land of the people of
light? Where is it gone?”</p>
<p>“Do you not see it?”</p>
<p>“No....”</p>
<p>“Then it is gone....”</p>
<p>“Whither?”</p>
<p>“Behind us, under us....”</p>
<p>“Why did you not descend sooner?”</p>
<p>“My flight was too quick, and I could not,
Psyche....”</p>
<p>“You are deceiving me! You could have done so. You would
not.... Now ... now it is night, pitch dark, starless night.... There
is an icy coldness in the air.... O Chimera, take me
back...!!”</p>
<p>He turned with a swing of his powerful wings. And as he turned, the
lightning broke forth and darted zigzag through the air, like
smooth-bright electric swords; the black clouds parted asunder with a
violent peal of thunder like the clapping of cymbals, a storm of wind
arose, the rain fell down in torrents...!</p>
<p>“O Chimera, take me back!” <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb52" href="#pb52" name="pb52">52</a>]</span></p>
<p>She threw herself on to his neck; she hid her face in his mane, and
through the bursting storm, whilst at every blow of his hoofs it
lightened round them, he winged his way, back with her to her country:
the Kingdom of the Past, inky there, in the inky night.... <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb53" href="#pb53" name="pb53">53</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch9" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e897" class="main">Chapter IX</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">The old king was dead.</p>
<p>Black flags hung from the three hundred towers, and cast their dark
shadows below.</p>
<p>A dim light fell through the bow-windows into the castle, for the
three hundred flags obscured the sun.</p>
<p>With funeral music, that made the heart feel sad, the procession,
with long flickering torches, followed the king’s coffin down the
steps to the deep vaults below.</p>
<p>The priests, in black, prayed in Latin; the court, in black, sang
the litany; and the princesses, in black, sang alternately a long Latin
sentence....</p>
<p>Behind the coffin walked, first, Emeralda; behind her, Astra her
sister; and then little Psyche, wrapped in her black veil. Emeralda
sang with a voice of crystal; Astra, distracted, was too late in
answering; and Psyche’s voice <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb54"
href="#pb54" name="pb54">54</a>]</span>trembled when she had to sing
alone the long monotonous sentence....</p>
<p>There, in the deepest vault, they placed the coffin, next to the
coffin of the king’s father, and kneeling round it, they prayed.
The low Roman vaults receded in impenetrable darkness. They sang and
prayed the whole live-long day, and Psyche was very tired; and whilst
she was kneeling, her little knees quite stiff, she fell asleep against
the coffin of her father. Her last thought had been to kiss the dear
old face for the last time, but she felt nothing but the
goldsmith’s work, and the great round jewels that were in it hurt
her head.... Then she fell asleep....</p>
<p>And when the court had prayed, and all went up the steps again,
there above, to do homage to Emeralda, as queen of the Kingdom of the
Past, they all forgot Psyche.</p>
<p>Long, long she slept....</p>
<p>And when she awoke, she did not know at first where she was.</p>
<p>Then by the light of the long torches she espied the coffin.</p>
<p>And through the crystal of the sarcophagus she saw the dead face of
the king, and pressed a kiss upon the glass. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb55" href="#pb55" name="pb55">55</a>]</span></p>
<p>“Dear father!” she whispered, trembling, “why have
you gone? I am now quite alone! Of Emeralda I am afraid, and Astra does
not think of me; she only thinks of the stars. Father, dear, forgive
me! I have deceived you. I have travelled through the air on the back
of the flying horse. But father, dear, the horse is beautiful, and I
love the Chimera! O father dear, I have deceived you, and now I am
alone, and I have nobody who cares for me! You are dead, father, and
embalmed, and shut up in gold and crystal and jewels, and do not hear
your little Psyche. You do not think of your little daughter. Alone!
alone! Awe-inspiring is the castle; three hundred towers rise high up
in the air. I have never been in all the three hundred, however much I
have wandered. O father, father, why have you left me? Who is there to
love me now? who to protect me now in the world? Father, farewell! I
will not stay here; I will go away! I will leave the castle. Great is
the world and wicked, but Emeralda is powerful and I am afraid of her.
If I remain, she will drive me away with her look and shut me up all my
life, and my wings I shall break against the unbreakable lattice.
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb56" href="#pb56" name=
"pb56">56</a>]</span></p>
<p>“Father, farewell! I will not remain here. I will flee!
Whither? Whither shall I flee? I do not know. O father, dear, alone
your child remains in the great, unsafe world! Alone! alone! O father,
farewell, farewell! and forever!”</p>
<p>She rose, she shivered. The dark vaults receded more and more. By
the light of the long torches she saw the sacred spiders, which wove
web after web; they were never disturbed.</p>
<p>“Sacred spider!” said Psyche to a big fat one, with a
cross on its back, “tell me where I must go.”</p>
<p>“You cannot flee,” replied the spider, high up in the
dark vault, in the middle of its web. “Everything is as it is;
everything becomes as it was; happens as it happens; all goes to dust.
Every day sinks into the deep vaults of the dark pits under us; under
us everything becomes the Past, and everything comes into the power of
Emeralda. As soon as anything is, it has been, and is in the power of
Emeralda. Seek not to flee—that is vanity; submit to your lot.
The best thing is that you become one of us, a sacred spider, and weave
your web. For our web is sacred; our web is indisturbable; and with all
our <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb57" href="#pb57" name=
"pb57">57</a>]</span>webs, one for the other, we serve the princess and
protect her treasures—the treasures of the Past, which behind our
weaving go to dust.”</p>
<p>“But if they go to dust, of what value are they?”</p>
<p>“Foolish child, dust is everything. The Past is dust;
remembrance is dust. Everything becomes dust; love, jewels—all
becomes dust, and the sacred dust we watch over behind our webs. Become
a spider like us, weave your web, and be wise.”</p>
<p>“But I live. I am young, I desire, I love, and I cannot bury
myself in dust.... Oh, tell me whither I must flee!”</p>
<p>The spider laughed scornfully, and moved its eight legs with great
impatience.</p>
<p>“Ask me not about the places of the world—the regions of
the wind. I sit here and spin. I am holy. I watch over the treasure of
the throne. Disturb me no more with your frivolity, and let not your
wings get entangled in the rays of my web, although you are not a moth,
but princess of the Kingdom of the Past....”</p>
<p>Psyche was frightened. The spider reverenced her because she was a
princess, but coveted with his wicked instinct.... And <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb58" href="#pb58" name="pb58">58</a>]</span>she drew
back. She cast a last look at the dead face of her father, and fled up
the hundred steps. In every corner sat the sacred spiders and moved
their legs. Shuddering, she fled on. Whither? She thought of her love,
the light-gold Chimera, but nowhere could he be with her for ever. She
glided with him through the air, and he brought her back to the castle.
His lot was to fly restlessly through the air. Oh, were she but a
Chimera like him, had she but two strong wings instead of
princesses’ wings, she would have gone with him
everywhere...!</p>
<p>Whither? Above, from the enthronement-hall, came the sounds of
joyful music. There Emeralda was being crowned. Whither?? She fled to
the terrace.... Oh, if Emeralda missed her, how angry she would be! She
would think that Psyche refused to do her homage. She could never
return. Farewell, flowers, swans, doves!</p>
<p>The three hundred flags obscured the light. She would never be able
to see the Chimera coming. Oh, if he came and she did not see him, and
did not beckon to him, and he flew past! He was her only safety! If
needs be, she would wait for days together on the <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb59" href="#pb59" name=
"pb59">59</a>]</span>battlements. But if Emeralda sent to search for
her! Oh, if she did, then there was the cataract; then she would throw
herself headlong down, for ever, for ever, into the rushing water with
its rainbow colours!</p>
<p>A wind arose. That was the wind that brought her beloved. The flags
flapped and impeded her view. And although she saw nothing, she
beckoned as in despair, and called out:</p>
<p>“Chimera, Chimera!” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb60"
href="#pb60" name="pb60">60</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch10" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e967" class="main">Chapter X</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">It lightened. It thundered. Suddenly between the black
flags the horse descended.</p>
<p>“What is it, little Psyche?”</p>
<p>“Take me with you.”</p>
<p>“Where?”</p>
<p>“Where you like. Take me somewhere. My father is dead.
Emeralda reigns. I dare not stay here any longer.”</p>
<p>“Get up....”</p>
<p>She got up. He flew away with her. He flew with her the whole day.
The sun set; the stars glistened in the dark firmament; and he flew
back. Again they approached the castle. The day began to dawn.</p>
<p>“Fly past!” she entreated.</p>
<p>He flew on. Under her she could just see the castle, small as a toy;
the three hundred towers, where green flags now fluttered because
Emeralda reigned. He flew on.</p>
<p>“Chimera!” she cried. “I love you; you
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb61" href="#pb61" name=
"pb61">61</a>]</span>are the most beautiful, most glorious creature
that I have ever beheld. Safe I lie upon your back, tied to your mane,
my arms round your neck. But I am tired. I am dizzy. I am cold. Put me
down somewhere.... Can you not rest with me in a beautiful valley,
amongst flowers, near a brook? Are you not thirsty? Are you not tired,
and never dizzy and cold? Will you not graze and lie in a meadow? Do
you never, never rest? Chimera, I love you so! But why this restless
flying from East to West, from West to East?”</p>
<p>“I must do it, little Psyche.”</p>
<p>“Chimera, descend somewhere. Stay somewhere with me. I am
tired, I am cold. I want to go to sleep on a bed of moss, under the
shade of trees; sleep there with me.”</p>
<p>“I cannot. My lot is to fly through the air, apparently
without an object, but yet with an object; and what that is, I do not
know.”</p>
<p>“But what then does the Power want? You fly through the air;
the spider spins its web; Emeralda reigns over dust; everything is as
it is. Oh, life is comfortless! Chimera, I can hold out no longer! I
love you with all <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb62" href="#pb62"
name="pb62">62</a>]</span>my soul, but if you do not descend, then I
will loose the knots of your mane, I will let go my arms that are so
tired, and then I shall fall down into nothingness....”</p>
<p>“Hold out a little longer. Yonder is the purple
desert....”</p>
<p>“Oh, that is beautiful!” she exclaimed. “But you
fly past it, always past it...!”</p>
<p>“Do you want to rest, Psyche?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes....”</p>
<p>“Then I will descend.... Hold out a little longer.” She
held him tight, and looked about. He plied his wings with a rapidity
that made her dizzy; they blew a wind round Psyche....</p>
<p>In the air there loomed the purple sands on the golden sea, with a
pearly border of foam; the azure bananas, which waved their tops in the
light-pink ether....</p>
<p>Psyche held her breath.... “Would he descend
there...?”</p>
<p>Yes, indeed, he was descending ... he was descending. The purple,
she thought, grew pale as soon as he descended; the sea was no longer
golden, the foliage no longer blue.... But yet, yet it was beautiful, a
dream-conceit, an enchanted land, and he was <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb63" href="#pb63" name=
"pb63">63</a>]</span>descending. With his broad wings he glided down.
Now he stood still, snorting his breath in a cloud of steam. She glided
gently down his back on to the sand, and laughed, and gave a sigh of
relief!</p>
<p>“Rest now, here, Psyche!” said he dejectedly, and the
quiver in his bronze-sounding voice startled her; she laughed no
more.</p>
<p>“Rest now. Look! here are dates, and there is a spring. The
soft violet night is rapidly spreading over the sky and cooling the too
warm air. A few pale stars are already glistening. Now quench your
thirst; now refresh yourself and rest.... This is a pleasant oasis. Now
sleep, little Psyche. To-morrow will soon be here....
Farewell!”</p>
<p>She looked at him with wondering eyes. She threw herself on his
broad, powerful, heaving breast, and round his arched neck she threw
her trembling arms.</p>
<p>“What...? What do you say, Chimera?” she asked, pale
with fear. “What are you going to do? What do you mean? Surely
you will rest here with me in the soft violet night and amongst the
blue flowers? With me you will refresh yourself with dates and water?
You will let me sleep in the shadow <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb64"
href="#pb64" name="pb64">64</a>]</span>of your wings, and watch over me
during the dreadful night?”</p>
<p>“No, little Psyche. I am going farther and farther, and then I
will return. Then after weeks ... after months, perhaps, you will see
me again in the air....”</p>
<p>“You will forsake me? Here in the desert?”</p>
<p>“Take courage, little Psyche: you are now too tired to fly
farther with me through the air. You would slip from my back and fall
into nothingness. Here is a pleasant oasis; here are dates and a
murmuring stream....”</p>
<p>She uttered a cry; her sobs choked her. She uttered a second, which
frightened the hyenas far away in the desert and made them prick up
their ears. She uttered a third, which rent the night-air, and the
stars quivered from sympathy.</p>
<p>“Alone!” she cried, and wrung her hands. “Alone! O
Chimera, you will leave me alone with dates and brook! and I thought
... and still hoped, that you would stay with me, king in your country
of the rainbow!</p>
<p>“Alone! you will leave me alone in a sandy desert, in nothing
but sand, sand in the night, with a single tree and a handful of water!
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb65" href="#pb65" name=
"pb65">65</a>]</span>Alone! O Chimera, you cannot do that...! For I
love you; I adore you with all my soul, and shall die of grief and
tears, Chimera, if you fly away from me! I love you; I worship your
golden eyes, your voice of bronze, your steaming breath, your panting
flanks, your mane, to which I bound myself, your flaming wings, which
carried me far, farther and farther ... to this place...! O Chimera,
lay down your smoking limbs in the shadow of the night; lay your noble
head in my arms and my bosom, and together we will rest, and to-morrow
fly away farther, united forever!”</p>
<p>“I cannot, O little Psyche. I too love you, sweet burden which
lay between my wings—little butterfly with weak wings, that lent
strength to my flight; but now....”</p>
<p>“But now—O Chimera, but now...?”</p>
<p>“But now I must go, continue my lonely journey to and fro,
without knowing why.... Farewell, little Psyche, hope in life, hope in
the morrow....”</p>
<p>He spread his wings, his limbs quivered, he ascended into the
air.</p>
<p>She wrung her arms, her hands. She sobbed, she sobbed....
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb66" href="#pb66" name=
"pb66">66</a>]</span></p>
<p>“Have pity!!” she implored. “Pity, pity! What have
I done? Why do you punish me so? My God, what have I done? I have
trusted, hoped, given my soul in happiness.... Is happiness then
punished? Is it not good to hope, to trust, and to love? Ought I then
to have mistrusted and hated? What do I ask? He no longer hears me!
What do I care for the problems of life! Him I love, and in me is
nothing but my love and despair, and round me is the desert and the
night, and now ... now I must die!”</p>
<p>She sobbed, and her tears flowed. She was alone. Around her loomed
the night, around her stretched the sands as far as the perceptible
horizon. And above her glistened the stars.</p>
<p>And she wept. Her grief was too great for her little soul. She
wept.</p>
<p>“Alone!” she sobbed. “Alone...! I will not quench
my thirst, I will not refresh myself, nor will I sleep. I am tired, but
I will go on....”</p>
<p>On she went, and wept. In the night she walked on through the sand,
and she wept. She wept from fear and despair. And she wept so, her
tears flowed so many down her cheeks that they fell, her tears, like
drops, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb67" href="#pb67" name=
"pb67">67</a>]</span>great and warm, deep into the sand. Her tears
flowed down into the sand. And she wept, she kept weeping, and as she
went along ... her tears did not stop. Then in the sand, her tears so
warm and so great, formed little lakes. And as she went and kept going
on and weeping, the little lakes flowed into one another, and behind
her flowed a stream of tears. Meandering after her flowed her tears.
And on she went in the night and wept.... After her, meandered
faithfully the stream of her tears.... And she thought of her lost
happiness.... He had forsaken her.... Why...? She had loved him so,
still loved him so.... Oh, she would always love him so—always,
always!</p>
<p>And in her love she did not scold him. For she loved him and scolded
not. She longed for no revenge, for she loved him....</p>
<p>“That was fate,” she thought, weeping. “He could
not do anything else. He was obliged....”</p>
<p>She wept. And oh! she was so tired, so tired of the wide sky, so
tired of the wide sand! Then she thought she could go no farther, and
should fall into the stream of her tears.... But before her a lofty
shadow fell with gloomy darkness <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb68"
href="#pb68" name="pb68">68</a>]</span>on the violet night. She looked
up, and had to strain her neck to see to the top of the shadow. The
shadow was round above, and then tapered off behind.... But she wept
so, that she did not see.... Then with her hand she wiped away the
tears from her eyes, and gazed.... The shadow was awful, like that of
an awfully great beast. And she kept wiping away her tears, which
formed a pool around her, and gazed....</p>
<p>Then she saw. She saw, squatting in the sand, a terribly great beast
like a lion, immovable. The beast was as great as a castle, high as a
tower; its head reached to the stars. But its head was the head of a
woman, slender, enveloped in a basalt veil, which fell down, right and
left, along her shoulders. And the woman’s head stood on the
breast of a woman, two breasts of a gigantic woman, of basalt. But the
body, that squatted down in the sand, was a lion, and the forepaws
protruded like walls.</p>
<p>The night shone. The sultry night shone with diamonds over the
horizonless desert. And in the starlight night the beast, terrible,
rested there, half-woman, half-lion, squatting in the sand, its paws
extended and its breasts <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb69" href=
"#pb69" name="pb69">69</a>]</span>and woman’s head protruding,
gigantic, reaching to the stars. Her basalt eyes stared straight before
her. Her mouth was shut and so were the basalt lips, which would never
speak.</p>
<p>Psyche stood before the beast. Around her was the night; around her
was the sand; above her the diamond, shining stars. Silently shuddering
and full of awe, stood Psyche. Then she thought: “It must be she,
the Sphinx....”</p>
<p>She wept. Her tears flowed; she stood in the stream of her tears,
which, winding along, followed her. And weeping, she lifted up her
voice, small in the night—the voice of a child that speaks in the
illimitable.</p>
<p>“Awful Sphinx,” she said, “make me wise. You know
the problem of life. I pray you solve it to me, and let me no longer
weep....”</p>
<p>The Sphinx was silent.</p>
<p>“Sphinx,” continued Psyche, “open your stony lips.
Speak! Tell me the riddle of life. I was born a princess, naked, with
wings; I cannot fly. The light-gold Chimera, the splendid horse with
the silver wings, came down to me, took me away with him in wanderings
through the air, and I loved him. He has left me—me, a
child—alone in the <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb70" href=
"#pb70" name="pb70">70</a>]</span>desert, alone in the night. Tell me
why? If I know, I shall—perhaps—weep no more. Sphinx, I am
tired. I am tired of the air, tired of the sand, tired from crying. And
I cannot stop; I keep on crying. If you do not speak to me, Sphinx,
then I will drown you, gigantic as you are, in my tears. Look at them
flowing around me; look at them rippling at your feet like a sea.
Sphinx, they will rise above your head. Sphinx, speak!”</p>
<p>The Sphinx was silent.</p>
<p>The Sphinx, with stony eyes, looked away into the night of diamond
stars. Her basalt lips remained closed.</p>
<p>And Psyche wept. Then she cast a look at the stars.</p>
<p>“Sacred Stars,” she murmured, “I am alone. My
father is dead. The Chimera has gone. The Sphinx is silent. I am alone,
and afraid and tired. Sacred Stars, watch over me. See my tears no
longer flow; for this night they are exhausted.... I can cry no more. I
will go to sleep, here, between the feet of the Sphinx. She speaks not,
it is true; but—perhaps she is not angry, and if she wants to
crush me with her foot, I care not. But yet I will go to sleep between
her powerful <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb71" href="#pb71" name=
"pb71">71</a>]</span>feet. In your looks of living diamond, I feel
compassion thrill.... Sacred Stars, I will go to sleep; watch over
me....”</p>
<p>She lay down between the feet of the Sphinx, against the breast of
the Sphinx. And she was so little and the Sphinx so great, that she was
like a butterfly sitting near a tower.</p>
<p>Then she fell asleep.</p>
<p>The night was very still. Far, far away in the boundless desert, a
mist drifted horizonlessly along, and lit up the darkness. The stream
of Psyche’s tears meandered, like a silver thread, far away from
whence she had come. She herself slept. The Sphinx, with staring eyes
and closed mouth, looked out high into the night. The stars twinkled
and watched. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb72" href="#pb72" name=
"pb72">72</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch11" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e1115" class="main">Chapter XI</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">Without a cloud arose on the horizon the first dawn of
day, the round, rosy-coloured morning glimmer. And in the dawn appeared
the horizon, and bordered the sandy plain.</p>
<p>In the rosy light, gigantic, towered the gloomy Sphinx. Psyche
slept. But through her weary eyelids, the light softly sent its rays,
coral-red, and suddenly she awoke. She opened her eyes, but did not
move.</p>
<p>She remained in her slumbering attitude, but her eyes looked about.
She saw the desert, without an oasis, only the brooklet of tears that
meandered far away from whence she had come. It was like a silver
thread in the rosy light of the dawn, and she followed its windings
with her eye as long as she could. And when she thus looked, she began
to weep again. The tears fell on the feet of the Sphinx, and Psyche
wept, in her slumbering position. There was a mist before her eyes, and
through <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb73" href="#pb73" name=
"pb73">73</a>]</span>the mist glimmered the rosy desert and the little
glistening stream.</p>
<p>But now she wiped away her tears, which trickled through her
fingers, for she thought she saw ... and that was so improbable. She
wiped her eyes again, and saw. She thought she saw ... and it was so
improbable.... But yet it was so: she saw. She saw someone coming;
along every winding of the brook, she saw someone approaching.... Who
was it coming there? She knew not.... He came nearer and nearer. Was
she dreaming? No, she was awake. He came, whoever he was. He was
approaching....</p>
<p>She remained sitting in the same attitude. And he came nearer and
nearer, following the briny track, till he stood before the Sphinx. The
Sphinx was so great and Psyche so little, that at first he did not see
her. But because she was so white, with crimson wings, he saw her, a
little thing red and white!</p>
<p>He approached between the feet of the Sphinx till he stood right
before her.</p>
<p>He approached reverentially, because she had wept so much. When he
was quite close, he knelt down and folded his hands. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb74" href="#pb74" name="pb74">74</a>]</span></p>
<p>Through her tears she did not recognise him.</p>
<p>“Who are you?” she asked in a faint voice.</p>
<p>He stood up and approached still closer, and then she recognised
him. He was Prince Eros, the King of the Present.</p>
<p>“I know who you are,” said Psyche. “You are Prince
Eros, who was to have married Emeralda, or Astra.”</p>
<p>He smiled, and she said:</p>
<p>“Why do you come here in the desert? Are you seeking here for
the Jewel, or the Glass that magnifies?”</p>
<p>He smiled and shook his head.</p>
<p>“No, Psyche,” he said gently. “I have never sought
for the Jewel nor for the Glass.</p>
<p>“But first tell me: why are you here and sleeping by the
Sphinx?”</p>
<p>She told him. She spoke of her father who was dead, of the
light-gold Chimera, of the purple desert and the sorrowful night. She
told him of her tears.</p>
<p>“I have followed them, O Psyche!” he replied. “I
have come ever since I saw you before your father’s
throne—a day never to be forgotten! <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb75" href="#pb75" name="pb75">75</a>]</span></p>
<p>“I have come here every day. Every day I leave my garden of
the Present, to ask the awful Sphinx for the solution of my
problem.”</p>
<p>“What problem, Prince Eros?”</p>
<p>“The problem of my grief. For I am grieved about you, Psyche,
because you would not follow me and stayed with your father.... Now I
know why. You loved the Chimera....”</p>
<p>She blushed, and hid her face in her hands.</p>
<p>“Who could see the Chimera and not love him more than
me?” said Eros gently. “Who could love him, and not weep
over him?” he whispered still more gently; but she did not hear
him.</p>
<p>Then he spoke louder.</p>
<p>“Every morning, Psyche, I come to ask the Sphinx how long I
must still suffer, and why I must suffer. And still much more, O
Psyche, I ask the Sphinx, that I will not tell you now,
because....”</p>
<p>“Because...?”</p>
<p>“Because it would perhaps pain you to hear the question of my
heart. So I came now, O Psyche, and then I espied a brooklet meandering
through the sand. I did not know it; I was thirsty, for I am always
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb76" href="#pb76" name=
"pb76">76</a>]</span>thirsty. I stooped down and scooped up the clear
water in my hand. It tasted salt, Psyche: they were tears.”</p>
<div class="figure xd20e1180width"><img src="images/p076.jpg" alt=
"Psyche and Eros" width="483" height="720">
<p class="figureHead">Psyche and Eros</p>
<p class="first">[<i>To face p. 76</i></p>
</div>
<p>“My tears ...” she said, and wept.</p>
<p>“Psyche, I drank them. Tell me, do you forgive me for
that?”</p>
<p>“Yes....”</p>
<p>“I followed the brook, and now I have found you
here.”</p>
<p>She was silent; she looked at him. He knelt down by her.</p>
<p>“Psyche,” said he gently, “I love you. Because I
saw you little and naked and winged, standing amongst your proud
sisters—Psyche, I love you. I love you so much, that I would weep
all your tears for you, and would give you ... the Chimera.”</p>
<p>“You can’t do that,” she said sadly.</p>
<p>“No, Psyche,” answered he, “that cannot, alas! be
done. I can only weep for myself; and the Chimera ... nobody can catch
him.”</p>
<p>“He flies too fast,” she said, “and he is much too
strong; but it is very kind of you, Prince Eros....”</p>
<p>She stretched out her hand, and he kissed it reverentially.
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb77" href="#pb77" name=
"pb77">77</a>]</span></p>
<p>Then he looked at her for a long time.</p>
<p>“Psyche,” said he, gently, “will the Sphinx give
me an answer to my question this morning?”</p>
<p>She cast down her eyes.</p>
<p>“Psyche,” he went on, “I have drunk your tears; I
respect your grief, too great for your little heart. But may I suffer
it with you? O Psyche, little Psyche, little, in the great desert, now
your father is dead, now the Chimera is away, now you are all alone....
O Psyche, now come with me! Oh, let me now love you! O Psyche, come now
with me! Psyche, alone in the desert, a little butterfly in a sandy
plain—Psyche, oh, come with me! I will give you a summer-house to
live in, a garden to play in, and all my love to comfort you.
Don’t despise them. All that I have will I give! Small is my
palace and small my garden round it, but greater than the desert and
the sky is my great love. O Psyche, come with me now! Then you will
suffer cold and hunger and thirst no more, and the grief that your
heart now suffers, Psyche, ... we will bear together.”</p>
<p>He stretched out his arms. She smiled, tired and pale from weeping,
slid from the <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb78" href="#pb78" name=
"pb78">78</a>]</span>foot of the Sphinx, and nestled to his heart.</p>
<p>“Eros,” she murmured, “I suffer. I pine. I weep. I
gave away all that I had. I have nothing more than my grief. Can grief
... be happiness in the Present?”</p>
<p>He smiled.</p>
<p>“From grief ... comes happiness,” he answered.
“From grief will come happiness, not in the Present, but ... in
the Future!”</p>
<p>She looked at him inquiringly.</p>
<p>“What is that?” she asked. “Future...! It is a
very sweet word.... I do not know what it is, but I have heard it
before.... Father sometimes spoke of it with an affected voice.... It
seems to be something far away, far, far away.... From grief will come
... in the Future ... happiness!</p>
<p>“Far behind me lies the Past.... Then I was a child. Now I am
a woman.... A woman.... Now I am, Eros, a woman, a woman, who has wept
and suffered, and asked of the silent Sphinx.... Now I am no longer a
princess, but a woman, a queen ... of the Present....!”</p>
<p>She fell against his shoulder and fainted. He gave a sign, and out
of the air flew a <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb79" href="#pb79"
name="pb79">79</a>]</span>glittering golden chariot, drawn by two
panting griffons. He lifted her into the chariot. He held her tight in
his arm, and pressed her to his heart. With his other hand he guided
his two dragon-winged lions through the glowing air of the desert.
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb80" href="#pb80" name=
"pb80">80</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch12" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e1242" class="main">Chapter XII</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">When Psyche opened her eyes, she heard the soft music
of two pipes. And she awoke from her swoon with a smile. She lay still
and did not move, but looked about her. She was reclining upon a soft
bed of purple, on a couch of ivory. She lay in a crystal palace; round
the palace were pillars of crystal and a round crystal gallery. The
pillars were entwined with roses, yellow, white, and pink, and they
perfumed the sunny spring morning. Through the gallery of pillars,
through the walls of crystal, she saw round her a pleasant meadow, like
a round valley, a valley like a garden, through which ran a murmuring
brook between beds of flowers. Quite near appeared the horizon of a low
hill-slope, and the cloudless sky was like a chalice of turquoise.</p>
<p>The pipes changed their music. Psyche raised herself a little
higher, leaning on her <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb81" href="#pb81"
name="pb81">81</a>]</span>arm; she laughed and looked about. In the
middle of the crystal palace was a basin of white marble, full of
water, and doves were hopping about it or drinking. Sitting at the gate
of crystal pillars, Psyche saw two girls; with their fingers they
raised the flutes to their mouth and played. Psyche laughed and
listened. Then she fell back on the bed again, happy, but tired, full
of rest and contentment, and she raised her head and looked up!...</p>
<p>Through a crocus-coloured curtain fell the tempered spring sunshine,
quiet and soft, joyous and still.</p>
<p>Psyche breathed more freely, and a sigh escaped from her heart. She
put her arms under her head; her wings lay stretched out right and left
on either side of her, and when she heard the music of the flutes, her
thoughts drifted away like an aimless dream, like rose-leaves upon
water.</p>
<p>She dreamed and she listened.... She no longer felt tired, and her
eyes, which had shed a brook of tears, felt moist and fresh, cooled by
an invisible hand, with invisible care. Her breathing was regular, and
her soul felt safe.... And she smiled continually....</p>
<p>The pipes ceased playing.... <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb82"
href="#pb82" name="pb82">82</a>]</span></p>
<p>The two girls, seeing that the queen had awaked, rose up and
approached her bed with a basket of red-blushing fruit, which they set
down near her. Then they made a deep reverence, but spoke not, and sat
down again by the pillars and blew their pipes anew; but to another
tune, somewhat louder, like a voice calling, and both in unison. The
pipes sounded jubilant in the morning, and outside, high in the air,
the lark answered joyously....</p>
<p>Psyche smiled, stretched out her hand and took a peach, a pear, a
bunch of blue grapes.... The pipes played merrily together, and higher
and higher and higher soared the lark and sang. Then Psyche heard the
brook babbling gently; the doves answered one another, and round her
the morning sang her welcome.</p>
<p>Then footsteps light approached her softly; the pipes ceased
playing; the girls rose and made a deep reverence. And between the
pillars of crystal appeared Prince Eros, the King of the Present.</p>
<p>The girls withdrew, and Eros approached and knelt before Psyche.</p>
<p>He said nothing, but looked at her.</p>
<p>“Eros,” said Psyche, “I thank you.... <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb83" href="#pb83" name="pb83">83</a>]</span>I have
rested; my eyes cease to burn; my hunger is appeased.... I have heard
sweet music, and everything appeared kind and to love me.”</p>
<div class="figure xd20e1275width"><img src="images/p082.jpg" alt=
"The Kingdom of the Present" width="481" height="720">
<p class="figureHead">The Kingdom of the Present</p>
<p class="first">[<i>To face p. 82</i></p>
</div>
<p>“Everything in my kingdom is glad that the queen has come.
Everything is glad that the queen has awaked.”</p>
<p>“The Queen of the Present,” murmured Psyche.</p>
<p>Then she put her arm round his neck, and leant her head against his
shoulder. “Eros,” said she gently, “I love you....
How shall I express my love to you! You have walked in the track of my
tears, my salt tears you have drunk; out of the desert, from the breast
of the awful Sphinx, you lifted me in your chariot, drawn by swift
griffons.... In my swoon I felt myself going through the air, not with
the speed of the fair Chimera, whose hoofs struck lightning and made
the thunder roll high in the ether ... but smoothly and evenly on
wheels, over the clouds delicately tinted with the glowing dawn. How
long did we travel...? How long have I slept? Eros, how shall I express
my love to you! My love is deep gratitude, inexpressible, because you
rescued me. My love is heart-felt <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb84"
href="#pb84" name="pb84">84</a>]</span>thankfulness, because you have
cared for and refreshed me. My love is....”</p>
<p>She paused for a moment, and rose from the bed.</p>
<p>“What, Psyche?” said he gently, and stood up.</p>
<p>“My love is deep, submissive respect, O Eros, because you
wanted to weep my tears and give me the wish of my heart, which, had it
been fulfilled, would have caused you the most poignant
grief.”</p>
<p>She sank upon her knees and took his hand in hers and kissed it
long. He lifted her up and pressed her to his breast.</p>
<p>“My gentle Psyche!” said he. “My child and my wife
and my tender princess! Kneel not to me. In love it is sweet to give
and to suffer. Love gives, and love suffers....”</p>
<p>“I have only suffered, but not given,” said Psyche, in a
low tone.</p>
<p>“To suffer is to give most. To give to one we love the
suffering of his suffering soul, is the greatest gift that can be
given, my child and my princess! Try, with the remembrance sacred to
Suffering and Love, endured and loved, to be happy in the Present. Oh,
let the Past be a remembrance, a sacred remembrance, <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb85" href="#pb85" name="pb85">85</a>]</span>a golden
remembrance; but now look to the Present. Oh, let the Present comfort
you—the Present, little, humble, and poor. Look! this is all.
This cupola is my palace, this garden is my kingdom; these flowers and
these birds, they are all my treasures—roses and doves and the
singing lark. More I have not; but I have still my love—my love,
great as the heaven and wide as the universe. But he who lives in love
so great, needs no greater palace and no greater kingdom to rule over.
For the treasures of Emeralda I would not exchange my kingdom and my
love.... Psyche, my queen, yet I have ornaments for you. The Princess
of Nakedness with the wings may never wear jewels of precious stones,
and jewels I have not. But pearls, Psyche, I have pearls which Emeralda
despises. Pearls, Psyche, I found in your tears of yesterday. See! I
strung them together, they were a crown for you. Pearls may adorn you,
tears may adorn you, my child of suffering, my wife of love, queen of
my soul and of my kingdom....”</p>
<p>Then he took a little crown of twelve great pearls and put it on her
head. Then he hung a necklace of pearls round her neck. And as she
stood before him naked, so immaculately <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb86" href="#pb86" name="pb86">86</a>]</span>delicate in her
princessly nakedness, he threw around her loins a light, thin veil,
richly adorned with pearls, and which she fastened in a knot. Then he
gave her a mirror, and she beheld herself very beautiful, crowned like
a queen, and smiled with contentment.</p>
<p>“Am I a queen?” she said softly. “Am I happy?
Eros, do you love me? Is this the happiness of the Present? Eros, do I
love you out of gratitude and respect, my husband and my
king...?”</p>
<p>He led her gently away, through the porticos, down the crystal
steps. Cupids hovered about them, the lark sang high in the heavens,
the roses perfumed the air, the brook murmured gently. The spring
rejoiced to welcome them, and behind the shrubs the pipes played a
duet. The hill-slope of the horizon was peaceful, and above, the
heaven, arched like a turquoise chalice.</p>
<p>Everything sang, everything was fragrant; in the grass buzzed
thousands of insects; about the flowers fluttered butterflies; and
where Psyche, on her husband’s arm, walked along the flower-beds,
all the flowers bowed to her in homage—the white slender lilies,
the violets with laughing eyes, tall flowers and short <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb87" href="#pb87" name="pb87">87</a>]</span>flowers,
on long and short stems—and all gave forth their fragrance.</p>
<p>Eros pointed around.</p>
<p>“This is the Present, Psyche,” said he, and pressed her
to his heart.</p>
<p>“And this is happiness, that is as a lily and a violet
...” she whispered, with her lips to his. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb88" href="#pb88" name="pb88">88</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch13" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e1328" class="main">Chapter XIII</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">The pleasant days followed each other like a row of
laughing houris.... Eros and Psyche tended the flowers, which did not
fade when Psyche stroked the stems or gently kissed the calyces. They
wandered along the brook, and, if the days were warm, sought coolness
under the crocus-coloured awning, in the crystal palace, where the
doves cooed round the basin. The flutes played, or Eros himself took a
lyre and sang, at Psyche’s feet, the stories of days gone by.</p>
<p>It was one of the pleasures of the flower-laughing Present.</p>
<p>Between the shrubs, where May strewed fragrant snow-blossom, naked,
chubby cupids with tender wings played or romped, hovering like little
clouds in the air.</p>
<p>The sweet nights followed the pleasant days; the diamond stars, the
same which Psyche had entreated to watch over her in the desert,
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb89" href="#pb89" name=
"pb89">89</a>]</span>glittered in the heavens. Under the roses, close
to one another, slumbered the fair-winged children, tired out with
play, their little mouths open and their chubby legs all folds. The air
was heavy with the breath of lilac and jasmine; it was spring, it was
the Present, it was night...!</p>
<p>And while Psyche lay with her head against Eros’ shoulder and
he wound his arm round her waist, while Psyche looked up at the stars,
sacred in the violet night, the nightingale broke out into melody. The
bird sang, and sang alone; everything was still. The bird sang, and let
her notes fall in the air like drops of sprinkled sound, like the
harmonious falling of water from a playing fountain. The bird sang, and
Psyche closed her eyes, and felt on her lips Eros’ kiss.</p>
<p>The days followed the nights. It was always the sweet pleasure of
flowers and birds, of spring and love, cupids and roses, music and
dance. The flowers were more beautiful, and did not fade; the fruits
were sweeter and of richer colour; the spring air was lighter, and life
was happier than a golden day. It was day which lasted days and nights;
it was the Present. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb90" href="#pb90"
name="pb90">90</a>]</span></p>
<p>If Psyche were alone she longed for Eros, and when she saw him again
she spread out her arms, and they loved each other. If Psyche were
alone, she wandered about in the rosy spring morning; the flowers bowed
down to her; the brook flowed cool over her feet; she played with the
winged cherubs, who flew about her head like butterflies; she sat down
in the moss full of violets; she bade the children take off her crown,
loosen the plaits of her long hair, untie the knots of the drapery
round her loins, and she lay down on the bank of the brook; her hand
played with the clear cold water, and, naked in the shade of flowery
shrubs, she fell asleep and the cupids round her. Then the step of the
king awoke her; the children awoke; they dressed her, and she went to
meet her husband, and received him with open arms. It was the sweet
delight of the Present.</p>
<div class="figure xd20e1348width"><img src="images/p090.jpg" alt=
"The Storm" width="479" height="720">
<p class="figureHead">The Storm</p>
<p class="first">[<i>To face p. 90</i></p>
</div>
<p>One day she was sleeping naked under the shrubs, the boys round
about her; on the moss lay her crown and her veil, and the brooklet
flowed on, gently murmuring. The day was very still, heavy with warmth.
A storm was brewing, but the sky was still blue. In the far-off
distance, where the horizon was like <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb91" href="#pb91" name="pb91">91</a>]</span>waves of the sea, clouds
pregnant with storm curled up gloomily like ostrich feathers. And once
there was lightning, but no thunder.</p>
<p>Then above the ridge of the hill something dark appeared to rise
against the stormy clouds. It was round like a head, like a black head.
From the black head leered two eyes, black as jet, and nothing more
appeared. Long leered the eyes; then from the palace a voice cried.</p>
<p>“Psyche, Psyche!”</p>
<p>Psyche awoke, and the cupids with her. Eros approached and led her
away. The air grew dark, and the next moment the summer storm burst
forth, dark sky, lightning, rain, and thunder rapidly rolling on. It
lasted only for a time; then the sky became blue again, the flowers
recovered their breath and raised their drooping heads, shaking with
fresh rain. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb92" href="#pb92" name=
"pb92">92</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch14" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e1369" class="main">Chapter XIV</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">Next day, when Psyche was sleeping again by the brook,
the dark head with the leering eyes of jet appeared again on the
horizon. For a long time the eyes leered, full of lust. Then the head
rose up higher like a dark sun, behind the hill-slope in the sky.</p>
<p>It was a face tanned by the sun, with coal-black hair; round the
temples a wreath of vine leaves, and from the wreath protruded two
horns like those of a young goat.</p>
<p>The eyes looked lustful and young, as though they were jet and gold.
The lips laughed in the curly beard, and the sharp teeth were dazzling
white; the pointed ears stood up.</p>
<p>Then the dark face became perfectly visible in the light; the
shoulders rose brown and naked, and two brown hands with long fingers
lifted to the lips a pipe of short and long reeds. The pipe played a
fanfare, a march of very quick notes. Then it stopped, and the gold-jet
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb93" href="#pb93" name=
"pb93">93</a>]</span>eyes leered. Psyche moved in her sleep. Then the
pipe sounded again, and Psyche opened her eyes. Astonished, she
listened to the notes of the pipe, as they rose and fell so as she had
never heard before, lively and wanton, quick and playful. She sat up,
leant on her arm, and looked....</p>
<p>She started. There, on the horizon, like a dark sun, she saw the
brown face and the lips in the curly beard blowing the reeds, short and
long. Psyche started and looked on trembling. Then the pipe stopped
again, and roguishly the head nodded to her. Psyche was frightened; she
woke the boys. She fled away. From the palace Eros came to meet
her.</p>
<p>At first she meant to speak, but he kissed her; and why, she did not
know, but she spoke not. Then she made up her mind to tell Eros that
night, but in her husband’s arms she lacked the courage to speak.
She did not tell him. The next morning she resolved not to repose again
in the moss by the brook. But that afternoon she played with the
cupids, and tired, fell asleep in the same place. The pipe awoke her;
on the horizon, the brown face stood out against the sun, and roguishly
nodded to her. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb94" href="#pb94" name=
"pb94">94</a>]</span></p>
<p>Psyche, indignant, looked up.</p>
<p>The head rose, the shoulders rose, and the whole form then rose up:
a sunburnt youth, with the legs of a goat, rough-haired and cloven
hoofs. There he stood, his dark shadow reflected in the golden rays of
the setting sun. He blew his reeds; he piped lustily and merrily,
roguishly and joyously and as well as he could, to please Psyche. She
listened—about her the boys were sleeping—and she smiled.
He saw her smile and smiled too. Then proudly she pointed with her
finger for him to go. He went, but the next day he was there again.
Then she saw him every day. He stood in the sun, which was going down,
and blew his reeds, laughed and nodded to her roguishly. Sometimes
Psyche bade him be gone; sometimes she pretended not to see who was
playing there; sometimes she listened graciously. When she heard the
king call:</p>
<div class="figure xd20e1391width"><img src="images/p094.jpg" alt=
"The Satyr" width="485" height="720">
<p class="figureHead">The Satyr</p>
<p class="first">[<i>To face p. 94</i></p>
</div>
<p>“Psyche! Psyche!” she woke the cupids, who dressed her
in a moment, and went to meet her husband. She kissed him, and wished
to tell him that every day a young man with goats’ legs stood on
the hill and played upon his pipe. But because she had kept silence so
long, she was silent again, and could not <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb95" href="#pb95" name="pb95">95</a>]</span>open her lips. It made
her sad, and Eros saw her sadness, and often asked her what it was that
disturbed the equanimity of her soul. She said
“<i>Nothing</i>,” and embraced him and declared that she
was happy. But when the lark warbled and the nightingale’s sweet
notes were heard, when Eros sang to the lyre and the brook murmured
gently, Psyche always heard, between the pleasant sounds, the impudent
tunes of the reeds, short and long. She tried not to hear, but she
always heard them. They sounded saucily and merrily, like the sounds of
a little bird in a wood calling something to her from afar; she heard,
but did not yet understand what.</p>
<p>One day, when he stood in the same place blowing lustily with
puffed-out cheeks, Psyche, indignant, rose with her lips closely
pressed together. She put her veil on and wound it tightly round her
loins, without waking the boys. Then, with a firm step and innocently,
she crossed a little slope, and came into a valley, a valley of grass;
there the brook flowed away between multitudes of irises and narcissi.
The goat, leering and laughing, tripped nimbly down the hill on his
hoofs to meet her. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb96" href="#pb96"
name="pb96">96</a>]</span></p>
<p>“Who are you?” said Psyche haughtily.</p>
<p>“I am the Satyr,” said he deferentially. “And now
will you just see me dance?”</p>
<p>He piped a waltz, and danced for her to the measure of his tripping
music. He turned out his feet, spun round and round, and underneath, on
his back, she saw his tiny tail wagging. She laughed, and found him
amusing, with his tail, and feet, and horns. Then he turned a
somersault, and finished his dance with a bow.</p>
<p>“You may not come here,” said Psyche severely.
“This is the Kingdom of the Present, and I am the queen, and my
husband is Eros, the king of this kingdom. You dance indeed nicely, and
you play rather pretty tunes, but you may not come here. We have here
the lark and the nightingale, and my husband sings to the
lyre.”</p>
<p>“That is classical music,” said the Satyr.</p>
<p>“I don’t know what you mean by <i>classical music</i>.
But you may not come here and pipe, and disturb me in my afternoon
slumber. If my husband knew it, he would be very angry, and have you
torn to pieces by two raging griffons.”</p>
<p>“I am not afraid of that,” said the Satyr. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb97" href="#pb97" name=
"pb97">97</a>]</span>“Why, I tame panthers, and they are much
more dangerous.”</p>
<p>“I had pity on you,” continued Psyche severely, raising
her head in queenly dignity, “and have not yet said anything to
the king. But if you come again to-morrow, I will tell him.”</p>
<p>“No, you won’t!” said the Satyr saucily.</p>
<p>“You are an ill-mannered boy!” said Psyche, angry and
offended. “You must not speak so to a princess. I ought not to
condescend to speak to you. I can see very well that you don’t
know how people behave at court, and that you come from the wood. And
you are ugly, too, with your hairy feet and your tail.”</p>
<p>The Satyr looked at her astonished.</p>
<p>“I think you very pretty!” he whispered admiringly.
“Oh, I think you so pretty! You have such pretty eyes, and such
golden hair, and such a white skin! Only, I don’t like your
wings. The nymphs haven’t any.”</p>
<p>“You may not speak to me like that!” said Psyche vexed.
“I am the queen. How dare you? Go away now, else I will call the
wild beasts here.”</p>
<p>“Well, don’t be angry!” said the Satyr in
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb98" href="#pb98" name=
"pb98">98</a>]</span>a low, imploring tone. “That is my way of
speaking. We all speak like that in the wood. The Bacchantes, too, are
not particular what they say. We are unacquainted with your court
language. And we don’t know anything of classical music. But we
are always very merry and sociable together; but you must come
once....”</p>
<p>“Are you going?” said Psyche imperiously, and red with
passion, and with her finger she pointed to him to be gone. He crouched
down suddenly in the reeds of the brook among the irises and narcissi,
and she saw him stealing away through the high grass. When she turned
round she beheld the cupids; they were bringing her her crown.</p>
<p>“The king is looking for you, Psyche!” they cried out in
the distance, and like a cloud they hovered round her.</p>
<p>She went back with them and threw herself into the arms of her
husband.</p>
<p>“Don’t roam so far away, my little Psyche!” said
Eros. “In the wood behind the hills are wild
beasts....”</p>
<p>Night came on; Eros sang, the nightingale filled the air with her
sweet notes.</p>
<p>“Classical music!” thought Psyche. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb99" href="#pb99" name="pb99">99</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch15" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e1460" class="main">Chapter XV</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">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....”</p>
<p>And yet she <i>did</i> think about it, and in her ears she always
heard his saucy voice, his coarse words, countrified and funny.</p>
<p>Then she laughed about it all.</p>
<p>“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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb100"
href="#pb100" name="pb100">100</a>]</span>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, <i>to seek, to wander, to
soar</i> 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
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb101" href="#pb101" name=
"pb101">101</a>]</span>of silver feathers. He has left me for
ever....”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“So, you are there again!”</p>
<p>“Yes! won’t you just see me dance again?”</p>
<p>He danced and frisked his tail.</p>
<p>“I have already told you more than once that you may not come
here,” said Psyche severely.</p>
<p>He winked roguishly; he knew very well that his presence was not
disagreeable to her.</p>
<p>“You are so beautiful!” he said, in his most flattering
tone; “much more beautiful than any of the nymphs.”</p>
<p>“And the Bacchantes, then?” said Psyche.</p>
<p>“Much more beautiful than the Bacchantes!” he answered.
“But they are also very nice. Tell me, wouldn’t you like to
see them?”</p>
<p>Psyche was very inquisitive, and he noticed it.</p>
<p>“Won’t you just see them?” he repeated temptingly.
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb102" href="#pb102" name=
"pb102">102</a>]</span></p>
<p>“Where?” said Psyche.</p>
<p>“Look ... there!” He pointed in the distance with his
finger.</p>
<p>On the hill Psyche saw forms madly whirling round in a dance.</p>
<p>“Those are the Bacchantes!” said the Satyr. Psyche
laughed.</p>
<p>“How madly they whirl round!” she exclaimed. “Are
they always so merry?”</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>“Psyche! Psyche!” called a voice.</p>
<p>It was her husband. The Satyr fled through the flags, and Psyche
hastened back.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<p>She wept and shrugged her shoulders, as if <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb103" href="#pb103" name="pb103">103</a>]</span>to
say that she did not know. And she hid her face in his breast.</p>
<p>“Tell me, Psyche, what is the matter?”</p>
<p>She would have liked to tell him, but she could not; a stronger
power kept her back.</p>
<p>“Does not Psyche feel happy? Does she long for the
Chimera?”</p>
<p>She laid her little hand upon his lips.</p>
<p>“Don’t speak about him. I am not worthy of him. I am not
worthy of you, Eros.”</p>
<p>He kissed her very gently.</p>
<p>“What does my Psyche think about? May I not leave her any
more, alone by the brook?”</p>
<p>“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...!”</p>
<p>“Is little Psyche ill?”</p>
<p>She nodded in the affirmative, and laid her burning head upon his
breast; she nestled against him and shut her feverish eyes.</p>
<p>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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb104" href="#pb104" name="pb104">104</a>]</span>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“Do you see nothing?” she asked Eros.</p>
<p>“No....”</p>
<p>“Do you hear nothing?” she said again.</p>
<p>“No,” he answered. “Poor Psyche is ill. And the
flowers are ill too, because she is. Oh, let Eros cure
you...!”</p>
<p>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...!”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>The flowers in the brook seemed to entreat <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb105" href="#pb105" name="pb105">105</a>]</span>her:
“Oh, go not away! Oh, go not away!” The nightingale uttered
a cry, and she thought it was an owl.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“Come, come!” they cried triumphantly.</p>
<p>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.... <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb106" href=
"#pb106" name="pb106">106</a>]</span></p>
<p>“Psyche! Psyche!”</p>
<p>She started and stood still. The Bacchantes, the Satyr, fled.</p>
<p>Psyche hastened back; with her hand she wiped her contaminated,
burning lips.</p>
<p>“... Psyche!”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>He lifted her up and laid her on the bed.</p>
<p>He watched while she slumbered.</p>
<p>The whole night he watched by her....</p>
<p>And it seemed as if she were wandering in her mind....</p>
<p>Her face glowed with fever, and ever and anon she wiped her
lips.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>That night Psyche slept in Eros’ arms, and afar off the pipe
allured her....</p>
<p>She extracted herself from Eros’ embrace and got up....
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb107" href="#pb107" name=
"pb107">107</a>]</span></p>
<p>She wanted to kiss him for the last time, but durst not, for fear of
waking him.</p>
<p>“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!”</p>
<p>She went.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“Hurrah! Hurrah!” they cried out, rough and hoarse, and
threw at her a bunch of grapes.</p>
<p>She hesitated a moment.... She raised her eyes. Through the gloomy
night a single star glistened like a cold, proud eye.</p>
<p>“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!” <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb108" href="#pb108" name="pb108">108</a>]</span></p>
<p>The star hid itself in the darkness.</p>
<p>“Come!” cried the Bacchantes.</p>
<p>Psyche took a step forward....</p>
<p>“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!”</p>
<p>The brook went murmuring over the stones, and muttered: “No,
no....”</p>
<p>“Come, come!” cried the Bacchantes.</p>
<p>Then Psyche plucked a single violet, white as a maiden’s
face.</p>
<p>“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....”</p>
<div class="figure xd20e1644width"><img src="images/p108.jpg" alt=
"The Bacchantes" width="479" height="720">
<p class="figureHead">The Bacchantes</p>
<p class="first">[<i>To face p. 108</i></p>
</div>
<p>“Stay, Psyche!” implored the flower in her hand.</p>
<p>“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 <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb109" href="#pb109"
name="pb109">109</a>]</span>beg Love to forgive her...! Oh, give him my
last message!”</p>
<p>She kissed the flower and laid it in the moss.</p>
<p>“Psyche! Psyche! Come!” cried the Bacchantes.</p>
<p>She sprang forward into the midst of the dance.</p>
<p>“Here I am!” she cried wildly. And they dragged her away
with them to the wood. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb110" href=
"#pb110" name="pb110">110</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch16" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e1668" class="main">Chapter XVI</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">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.</p>
<p>The sky was dull and lowering, a mist hung over the hills. The lark
had not sung, the cupids were not fluttering about.</p>
<p>“Psyche!” cried he, “Psyche!”</p>
<p>No answer was returned. No sigh rustled in the leaves of the trees;
no insect hummed in the grass; 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.</p>
<p>“Oh! where is Psyche?” he cried. “Oh, tell me,
water, flowers, birds, where is Psyche!!”</p>
<p>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. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb111"
href="#pb111" name="pb111">111</a>]</span>Then he came to the spot
where Psyche was wont to rest in the moss by the brook, in the shade of
the shrubs.</p>
<p>“Who will tell me where Psyche is?” he exclaimed in
despair, and threw himself on the moss and sobbed.</p>
<p>“Eros!” cried a weak voice.</p>
<p>“Who speaks there?”</p>
<p>“I, a white violet, which Psyche plucked.... Hear me quickly,
for I feel I am dying, and my elfin voice is scarcely audible to your
ear. Listen to me ... I am lying close to you. Take me in your
hand....”</p>
<p>Eros took the flower.</p>
<p>“Psyche has been enticed by the Satyr into the wood. The
Bacchantes have taken her away. This was her last word: that she was
unworthy of you, and went away praying for forgiveness.... She could
not remain, she said; she went...! Eros, forgive her!”</p>
<p>The flower shrivelled up in his hand. Eros rose and tottered; he too
felt that he was dying.</p>
<p>Sad at heart walked Eros, and all along his path the flowers now lay
shrivelled. The brook was dry. The lark lay dead before his feet. The
cupids lay dead in the withered roses. <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb112" href="#pb112" name="pb112">112</a>]</span></p>
<p>Eros went into the castle and fell upon the purple bed.</p>
<p>A single dove was expiring at the marble basin.</p>
<p>The strings of the lyre were all broken....</p>
<p>Eros too felt that his life was leaving his body.</p>
<p>He raised his eyes, over which the film of death was stealing, and
looked about the castle; the crystal crumbled off and split from the
top to the bottom.</p>
<p>“Sacred powers!” prayed he, “forgive her as I
forgive her, and love her till the End, as I shall and for ever. Let
her find what she seeks; let her wanderings once come to an end; let
her soar through the air, if she must, till she comes to the purest
sphere....” This sphere was the earth, the sweet Present, the
little resting-point on which she could not wander, and thus felt
within her the irresistible desire....</p>
<p>“Sacred powers, let her one day find what her happiness is.
Then, if it is not I.... Let her find....”</p>
<p>His voice failed, his eyes opened as in a vision, and he whispered
and finished his prayer: “... find ... in the Future...!”
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb113" href="#pb113" name=
"pb113">113</a>]</span></p>
<p>That sacred word was his last. He died.</p>
<p>In the Kingdom of the Present, that once had been as a smiling
garden, everything was now dead....</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>Then ... in the mist, which hung over the ridge of the mountains,
something seemed to be creeping near, something with feet that could
only move slowly. From many sides, over the hill-top, the strange
creeping came nearer.... Gigantic, hairy feet of monstrous spiders were
walking over it; they came nearer and nearer; they were spiders with
big, swollen bodies and feet always in motion....</p>
<p>They were the sacred spiders of Emeralda, Princess of the Past.
Eagerly they ran to the dead garden of the Present....</p>
<p>They surrounded the garden and threw out their filaments to the
crystal roof of the palace. Then they wove over the Present, that lay
dead, one single gigantic web....</p>
<p>And whilst they wove, the dead Present went to dust. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb114" href="#pb114" name="pb114">114</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch17" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e1736" class="main">Chapter XVII</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">In the wood, in the autumn sun, Autumn was keeping
festival.</p>
<p>The foliage shone resplendent in yellow, bronze, purple, golden-red,
and pink; the sulphur-coloured moss looked like antique velvet. With
gusts of wind, the branches, madly arrogant, shook off their exuberance
of sere and yellow leaves, as if they were strewing the paths with
silver and gold and rustling notes.</p>
<p>Loudly laughing danced the dryads through the whirling leaves.</p>
<p>Out of the foaming stream between moss-covered rocks, rose the
white, naked nymphs.</p>
<p>“Where is she? Where is she?” cried they
inquisitively.</p>
<p>“There she comes! there she comes!” shouted the mad
dryads, and in handfuls they cast the leaves into the air, which
whirled over the nymphs and fell down on the water. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb115" href="#pb115" name="pb115">115</a>]</span></p>
<p>The dryads danced past, and the nymphs looked out inquisitively.
They stood, a naked group, in their rocky bath; their arms were clasped
round one another; green was their hair and white as pearls were their
bosoms. The sere and yellow leaves kept whirling about. Trampling feet
were approaching and were heard amongst the rustling leaves.
Merry-makers were drawing near; the golden foliage quivered like a
curtain of thin, fine, gold lace....</p>
<p>“There she comes! there she comes!” exclaimed the nymphs
with joy.</p>
<p>The branches cracked, the leaves whirled about, the tender sprays
recoiled from the noisy merry-makers, who were advancing.</p>
<p>Nearer they came with the sound of pipe and cymbal. Drunken
Bacchantes danced before them, waving the thyrsus, hand in hand with
fauns and satyrs; they encircled a triumphal car, drawn by spotted
lynxes.</p>
<p>High on the car sat a youth, beardless, with a wreath of vine-leaves
round his forehead, full of laughter and animal spirits, with blue eyes
that showed his love of pleasure. Naked were his godlike limbs,
chubbily formed like the tender flesh of a boy, and his legs were
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb116" href="#pb116" name=
"pb116">116</a>]</span>long and slender, his arms rounded like those of
a woman. He was the prince of the wood, of divine origin: Prince
Bacchus was his name.</p>
<p>And next to him on the triumphal car, sat little Psyche enthroned.
She too was naked, with nothing on but her veil, and her wings were so
strikingly beautiful, crimson and soft yellow and with four
peacock’s-feather eyes. Round the car, close together as a bunch
of grapes, sported madly a number of wine-gods, tumbling over one
another, grape-drunken children.</p>
<p>In triumph the procession rushed on through the golden wood. The
Bacchantes and satyrs sang and danced; two satyrs drove the lynxes,
which, spiteful as cats, spat at them; the wine-gods entwined the vine
and bore great heavy bunches of grapes.</p>
<p>High up, like a butterfly, which was a goddess, sat Psyche, and
laughed with glistening eyes and glowing cheeks, waving to the
nymphs.</p>
<p>“Live! long live Psyche—Psyche with the splendid
wings!” shouted the nymphs.</p>
<p>The wind blew, the leaves whirled about; the procession swept past
as though hurried <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb117" href="#pb117"
name="pb117">117</a>]</span>along by the gale. A little wine-god had
fallen and lay in the yellow leaves, playing with his chubby legs,
purple-red from the juice of grapes; he was crying because he had been
left behind; then he succeeded in getting on to his feet, and tottered
after the procession....</p>
<p>The nymphs laughed loudly at the little wine-god; they dived under
and beneath the rocks.</p>
<p>The wind blew, the yellow leaves whirled about.</p>
<p>And the wood became still and lonely. <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb118" href="#pb118" name="pb118">118</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch18" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e1784" class="main">Chapter XVIII</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">“Psyche, stay!” said Bacchus
entreatingly.</p>
<p>“No, no, let me alone!”</p>
<p>“With you goes all joy from the feast; Psyche,
stay!”</p>
<p>“I will not always sing, dance, drink. No, no, let me
alone!”</p>
<p>She pushed him away from her; she pushed the satyrs away from her;
she broke the round dance of the Bacchantes, who, drunken, shouted with
drunken eyes and wide-open, screaming mouths.</p>
<p>“Psyche! Psyche!” screamed all.</p>
<p>She laughed loudly and coquettishly, like a spoilt child.</p>
<p>“I will come back to-morrow, when you are sober!” she
said with a mocking laugh. “Your voices are hoarse, your song is
out of tune, your last grapes were sour! I will only have the sweet of
your feast, and the bitter I will leave to you. Spread out your panther
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb119" href="#pb119" name=
"pb119">119</a>]</span>skins; go and sleep off your drunkenness. If
your feast has to last till winter, you need rest—rest for your
hoarse throats, rest for your drunken legs, rest for your heads,
muddled with wine.... I will come back to-morrow, when you are
sober!”</p>
<p>She gave a loud, mocking laugh, and rushed into the wood. It was a
moonlight night; in the pale moonbeams she left the wild feast behind.
The jealous Bacchantes danced round Bacchus, and embraced him.</p>
<p>Psyche hastened on. Her temples throbbed, her heart beat, and her
bosom heaved. When she was far enough away, she stopped, pressed both
her hands to her bosom, and gave a deep sigh. More slowly she went on
to the stream. Fresh was the autumn night, but burning were her naked
limbs!</p>
<p>The wood was still, save that in the top-most branches the wind
moaned. Like a silvery ship the moon sailed forth from the luminous,
ethereal sea, and the rushing mountain-stream foamed like snow on the
rocks. With a longing desire for coolness and water, Psyche stepped
down to the flags on the bank; with her hands she put aside the irises,
and made her way through <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb120" href=
"#pb120" name="pb120">120</a>]</span>the ferns and plunged her foot
into the water.</p>
<p>Then the nymphs dived up.</p>
<div class="figure xd20e1816width"><img src="images/p120.jpg" alt=
"The Nymphs" width="480" height="720">
<p class="figureHead">The Nymphs</p>
<p class="first">[<i>To face p. 120</i></p>
</div>
<p>“Psyche! Psyche!” cried they joyously, “Psyche
with the splendid wings!”</p>
<p>Psyche smiled. She threw herself into the water, and the snow-white
foam dashed up.</p>
<p>“Let me be with you a moment,” entreated Psyche.
“Let me cool myself in your stream.”</p>
<p>The nymphs pressed round her and carried her on their arms. She lay
down at full length.</p>
<p>“Cool my forehead, cool my cheeks, cool my heart!” she
cried imploringly. “Dear nymphs, oh, cool my soul! Everything
burns on me and in me; fire scorches my lips, fire scorches my
brain.... O dear nymphs, cool me!”</p>
<p>The nymphs sprinkled water on her; Psyche put her arm round the neck
of one of them.</p>
<p>“Your water-drops hiss on my forehead as on burning metal.
Your flakes of foam evaporate on the fire in my breast. And on my soul,
O dear nymphs, you cannot sprinkle your coolness!” <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb121" href="#pb121" name="pb121">121</a>]</span></p>
<p>The nymphs filled their stream-urns and poured them over Psyche.</p>
<p>“Pour them all out! Pour them all out!” cried Psyche
entreatingly. “But although my hair is dripping, and my wings and
my limbs too, my lips are scorched, my poor forehead burns, and within
me, O nymphs...! within me, my soul is consumed as in
hell-fire...!”</p>
<p>The nymphs took her gently in their arms; they dived with her below,
they came up again; they kept diving up and down.</p>
<p>“Oh, bathe me, bathe me!” cried Psyche imploringly.
“Benevolent nymphs, bathe me! Some coolness still hangs about my
body ... but my soul, oh, my soul you can never cool!” She wept,
and the nymphs caught up her tears in mother-of-pearl shells.</p>
<p>“Are you collecting my tears? Oh, no, they are not worth it.
Once I wept a brook full; once they were drunk, drunk by Love; once
they were pearls, and Love crowned me with them! Now, now they are like
drops of wine, drops of fire, and though they should congeal and become
rubies or topazes, they may never crown me more. Henceforth my tears I
shall always shed ... for Emeralda!” <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb122" href="#pb122" name="pb122">122</a>]</span></p>
<p>In the shells the nymphs saw glistening pearls, and they understood
not.... But all their urns they poured out upon Psyche’s
eyes.</p>
<p>“My eyes are getting cool, O beloved nymphs; many tears I
shall never shed again; never again shall I weep a brook full.... But
cool my soul, extinguish deep within me the burning flames!”</p>
<p>“We cannot, Psyche....”</p>
<p>“No, no, you cannot, O nymphs! Let me lie still, then, still
in your arms. Let me rock quietly to and fro on your white-foaming
water, then let me sleep quietly.... But in my sleep my soul keeps
burning; in my dreams I see it flame up, high up as out of a hole in
hell.... Oh!”</p>
<p>She uttered a cry, as of pain.... The nymphs rocked her in their
entwined arms, as in a cradle of lilies, and softly sang a song....</p>
<p>“Nymphs, nymphs....! This is the fire that nothing can
extinguish—no, never.... This is remorse....”</p>
<p>The nymphs understood her not; they rocked her and sang in a low,
soft voice. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb123" href="#pb123" name=
"pb123">123</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch19" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e1867" class="main">Chapter XIX</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">That morning she wandered about in the rosy autumn
dawn—a mist between the trees stripped of leaves. Along the path
she trod; on a skin she found a satyr and a Bacchante lying in a
drunken sleep, tight in each other’s arms; a cup lay on the
ground, a broken thyrsus, pressed-out grapes. She hastened on and
sought the most lonely spots. The foliage became scantier, the trees
grew farther apart, the wood ended in a plain and, violet misty, a
perspective of very low hills.</p>
<p>Psyche walked on over the plain and climbed the hills.</p>
<p>The autumn wind blew and howled between shrubs and bushes, and sang
the approach of winter. But Psyche felt not the cold, for her naked
limbs glowed: her soul was all on fire.</p>
<p>On the highest hill-top she looked out, her hand above her eyes,
gazing into the violet mist.... Unconscious to herself, she hoped
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb124" href="#pb124" name=
"pb124">124</a>]</span>for something vague and impossible: that she
might see Eros, that he would come to her, that she would fall at his
feet, that he would forgive her tenderly, and take her away with him.
Impossible. “What was impossible? Could not everything be
possible? Had he not followed the track of her tears? had he not found
her in the arms of the Sphinx?” Oh, she hoped, she hoped, she
hoped more definitely! Her remorse-burned soul longed for the balsam of
his love in the palace of crystal, for the sounds of his lyre, for the
tender words in the garden of the Present.</p>
<p>She hoped, she gazed....</p>
<p>In the pale glow of the morning sun, the violet mist cleared up, and
parted like violet curtains....</p>
<p>She gazed: there was the Present....</p>
<p>There Eros would be, mourning for his naughty Psyche!</p>
<p>There he would presently forgive her....</p>
<p>Oh, how she hoped, how she longed!.... She longed; she stretched out
her arms and dared cry in a plaintive voice:</p>
<p>“Eros!”</p>
<p>The wind blew through bush and shrub and sang the approach of
winter. The violet <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb125" href="#pb125"
name="pb125">125</a>]</span>curtains of mist were drawn aside. The sad
autumn morning appeared. There, now visible, lay the Present....</p>
<p>And Psyche gazed, screening her eyes with her hand....</p>
<p>There she saw her happiness of days gone by, destroyed. In a dead,
withered garden, a ruin: crystal pillars crumbling to pieces. And
between the pillars, spiders’ webs; all over the garden
spiders’ webs, web upon web, and in them spiders with bloated
bodies and lazy-moving feet....</p>
<p>Then she saw that Emeralda was reigning!</p>
<p>Then she felt that Eros was dead!</p>
<p>She had murdered him!</p>
<p>Oh, how her limbs glowed, how her soul burned! Oh, the burning pain
within her, deep within—a pain which no grape-juice could allay,
which no mad dance could deaden and the nymphs could not cool, though
they poured over her all their urns! Oh, that hell in her soul, for the
irretrievable desolation, for the murdered one, past recall! Oh, that
suffering, not for herself, but for him—for another! that
repentance, that burning remorse!....</p>
<p>She fell to the ground and sobbed. <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb126" href="#pb126" name="pb126">126</a>]</span></p>
<p>The pale sunbeams faded away, thick grey clouds came sweeping along,
a shower of hail rattled down, flinging handfuls of icy-cold
stones....</p>
<p>She felt a touch on her shoulder. She looked up.</p>
<p>It was the Satyr who had allured her with his pipe, there, on that
very spot.</p>
<p>“Psyche!” said he, “what are you doing here, so
far away from all of us? Winter is coming, Psyche; listen to the
whistling winds, feel the rattling hail; the last leaves are being
blown away. We are going to the South, and Prince Bacchus is seeking
for you.... What are you doing here, and why are you crouching down and
weeping?</p>
<p>“We are having a feast and are fleeing the winter;
come!”</p>
<p>“I feel no cold; I am burning.... Let me stay here, and weep,
and die....”</p>
<p>“Why should you die, O Psyche, Psyche, so pretty and so
gay—Psyche, the prettiest and gayest, who can dance the maddest,
who can dance out all the Bacchantes? Come!....”</p>
<p>She laughed through her tears, a laugh like a piercing shriek.</p>
<p>“But Psyche, do you know what it is?” <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb127" href="#pb127" name="pb127">127</a>]</span>said
the Satyr, whispering confidentially. “Do you know what it is
that prevents you from being happy, and why you are not like all of us?
I told you before, Psyche: it is on account of your wings. Your wings
prevent you from putting a beast’s skin round you, and entwining
your hair with vine. The nymphs find your wings pretty, but what do you
want with things that are pretty, yet of no use whatever? If you could
only fly with those wings!”</p>
<p>... “If I could only fly with those wings!” said Psyche,
sighing. “No, I have never been able to fly with them, my poor,
weak wings!”</p>
<p>“The nymphs think your wings pretty, but the nymphs are
sentimental. The Bacchantes think them ugly, and laugh at you in
secret. Prince Bacchus does not like wings either; he cannot embrace
you well with those things on your back. Psyche, dear Psyche, listen:
shall I tell you something....? You must let me cut those wings off
with a pair of grape-scissors. For when you have got rid of your wings,
then you can throw a panther’s skin round you, and put a
vine-wreath round your hair, and you will be altogether one of
us....” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb128" href="#pb128" name=
"pb128">128</a>]</span></p>
<p>The wind blew, the hail rattled down: winter was coming on.</p>
<p>... “Eros is dead!” murmured Psyche, “Spring is
past, the Present is withered, Emeralda reigns.... ‘What are you
doing with things that are pretty, and have no use at
all...?’</p>
<p>“If I cannot possibly get cool, if I keep burning deep within
me ... it is better, perhaps, to renounce my princess’s rights,
to go naked no longer, to have no wings....”</p>
<p>“Tell me, Psyche, may I cut them off?”</p>
<p>“Yes, clip them! Cut them right off, my wings, which are only
pretty!” she cried fiercely. “Cut them off!!”</p>
<p>His eyes glowed jet and gold, his breath came quickly from joy. He
produced his sharp scissors....</p>
<p>And whilst she knelt, he cut off both her wings.</p>
<p>They fell on the ground and shrivelled up.</p>
<p>“Oh, that pains, that pains!... Oh, that pains!” cried
Psyche.</p>
<p>“It is a little wound, it will soon heal,” said the
Satyr soothingly, but grinning with pleasure.</p>
<p>Then he threw a panther’s skin round her, <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb129" href="#pb129" name="pb129">129</a>]</span>put
a wreath of vine-leaves on her head, and she was like a fair Bacchante
still very young and tender, with her white skin, with her tender eyes
of soul-innocence, in which, deep down, dejection reigned.</p>
<p>“Psyche!” cried he delighted, “Psyche! How pretty
you are!”</p>
<p>She uttered her shrill laugh, her laugh of bitter irony. He led her
away down the hills. She looked about: yonder lay the Present, reduced
to dust and spider-webs. She looked about: in the wind, which was
blowing, her wings whirled away, shrivelled up, whirled away like dry
leaves.</p>
<p>She laughed and put her arm round his neck, and they hastened back
to the wood.</p>
<p>The wind blew; the first snowflakes fell. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb130" href="#pb130" name="pb130">130</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch20" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e1975" class="main">Chapter XX</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">Slowly followed the seasons—winter, spring,
summer, autumn....</p>
<p>Winter, spring, summer, autumn, fell in turn, like dust, into the
caves of Emeralda.</p>
<p>Winter, spring, summer, autumn, were the Present for a moment, and
sank into the Past.</p>
<p>And again it was spring....</p>
<p>In the grassy plains, the shepherds drove out their flocks, and they
sang because the sky was blue, because the world trilled with hope, in
the new and tempered sunshine.</p>
<p>What did the shepherds know of Emeralda? They had never seen her.
They sang, they sang; they filled the air with their song. As a reed,
their song remained quivering and hanging in the air. In the wood and
in the mountains, over the meadows and in the air, Echo sang with them
their song. They sang because the sky was blue....</p>
<p>Emeralda they did not know.... <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb131"
href="#pb131" name="pb131">131</a>]</span></p>
<p>Blue, blue ... blue was the air! Hope quivered in the sunshine, and
love in their hearts....</p>
<p>Into the grassy plains the shepherds drove their flocks, and they
sang because the sky was blue.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>On the border of the wood, where endless plains extended, there
lived in a grotto between rocks, a holy hermit who was a hundred years
old.</p>
<p>How many seasons had he seen sink into the pits of the Past...!</p>
<p>How many times had he heard the Lenten song of the shepherds!
Wrapped in contemplation, he heard them singing. They sang because the
sky was blue. The lark was soaring because the world trilled with
hope.... They sang because fleecy lambs were sporting again in the
meadows. They sang because they were young and loved the shepherdesses.
They sang of blue sky, of hope, of lambs, and love....</p>
<p>The hermit continued deep in thought....</p>
<p>Every spring it was the same song, and he had never sung with them.
Never had he <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb132" href="#pb132" name=
"pb132">132</a>]</span>known the Present, the spring Present of the
shepherds.</p>
<p>The hermit continued deep in thought; he dreamed that Satan was
tempting him, but his pious mind resisted. He dreamed that he had died
in prayer, and his soul, purified, ascended into heaven.</p>
<p>Far off in the grassy plains was heard the bleating of the lambs,
the voices of the shepherds.</p>
<p>The hermit heard a step. He looked up.</p>
<p>He saw a little form, as of a naked girl with no covering but her
hair. And he thought it was really Satan, and he muttered an exorcism;
he knit his brow, he crossed his arms.</p>
<p>The little form approached and knelt down.</p>
<p>“Holy father!” said she, in a low, trembling voice,
“don’t drive me away. I am poor and unhappy. I am a sinner,
and come to you for help. I am not shameless, holy father, and I am
ashamed that I appear before you naked. I asked the shepherdesses for
something to cover me, but they laughed at me, drove me away and threw
stones at me. Father, O father, men are merciless, they all drive me
away.... I come from the wood, and the wild beasts are not so cruel as
men. In the wood the beasts spared me. A lion <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb133" href="#pb133" name=
"pb133">133</a>]</span>licked the wounds on my feet, and a tigress let
me rest in the lair of her whelps. Holy father, the wild beasts had
pity!”</p>
<p>“Then why don’t you remain in the wood, devil,
she-devil?”</p>
<p>“Because I must <span class="corr" id="xd20e2030" title=
"Source: fulfil">fulfill</span> a duty among men.”</p>
<p>“Who lays the task upon you, witch, devil?”</p>
<p>“In my dream, soft voices have spoken to me, the voice of my
father, and of him whom I loved, and they said: ‘Go among men, do
penance.’... But naked I cannot go among men, for they throw
stones at me. And therefore, O father, I come to you, and entreat you:
give me something to cover me! I have only my hair to hide me, and
under my hair I am naked. O father, give me something to cover me! O
father, give me your oldest mantle for my penance garb!”</p>
<p>The hermit looked up at her, as she knelt in her fair hair, and he
saw that she was weeping. Her tears were blood-red rubies.</p>
<p>“He who weeps rubies has committed great sin; he who weeps
rubies has a soul crimson with sin!”</p>
<p>The penitent sobbed and bowed her head to the ground.</p>
<p>“Here,” said the hermit sternly, but compassionately.
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb134" href="#pb134" name=
"pb134">134</a>]</span>“Here is a mantle. Here is a cord for your
loins. And here is a mat to sleep on. And here is bread, here is the
water-pitcher. Eat, drink, cover yourself, and rest.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, holy father. But I am not tired, I am not hungry and
thirsty. I am only naked, and I thank you for your mantle and your
cord.”</p>
<p>She put on the mantle as a penance-garb, and whilst, red with shame,
she covered herself, the hermit saw on her shoulder-blades two
blood-red scar-stripes.</p>
<p>“Are you wounded?”</p>
<p>“I was, long ago....”</p>
<p>“Your eyes glow: have you a fever?”</p>
<p>“I do not know men’s fever, but my soul is always
burning like a cave in hell.”</p>
<p>“Who are you?”</p>
<p>“One heavy burdened with sin.”</p>
<p>“What is your name?”</p>
<p>“I have no name now, holy father.... Oh! ask no more.... And
let me go.”</p>
<p>“Whither are you going?”</p>
<p>“Far, along the way of thistles, to the royal castle. To the
Princess Emeralda.”</p>
<p>“She is proud.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb135"
href="#pb135" name="pb135">135</a>]</span></p>
<p>“She is the Princess of the Jewel, and I weep jewels. I shed
them for her. Once there was a time ... that I wept pearls.... O
father, let me go!”</p>
<p>“Go, then.... And do penance.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, father.... Oh, give me your blessing!”</p>
<p>The hermit blessed her. She went then as a pilgrim in her
penance-garb. The path was steep and covered with thistles.</p>
<p>In the distance was heard the song of the shepherds. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb136" href="#pb136" name="pb136">136</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch21" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e2088" class="main">Chapter XXI</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">The path was steep, and covered with cactus and
thistles. It was a narrow path, hewn out of the rocks, winding up the
basalt mountain, where, high on the top, stood the castle. The castle
had three hundred towers, which rose to the sky; along them swept the
clouds. In the path were many steps hewn out of stone. Heavy masses of
cactus grew on the side of the precipice, and over the leaves, prickly
and round, Psyche saw the grassy valleys of the Kingdom of the Past,
the villages, the towns, the river: a broad silver streak, and there,
behind it, opal-like views, lakes in the sky, and quivering lines of
ether. Higher and higher she went up the steps, up the path, in the
gloomy, chilly shadow, whilst the sun shone over the meadows. She
climbed up, and below she saw the shepherds with their sheep, and their
song, quite faint, came up to her. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb137"
href="#pb137" name="pb137">137</a>]</span></p>
<p>In the coppice she broke a strong stick for a staff. A lappet of her
mantle she had drawn over her head as a hood. And with her staff and
her hood, she looked like a pious pilgrim.</p>
<p>The solitary countryman who was coming down the rocky path, did not
throw stones at her, but greeted her reverently.</p>
<p>She kept climbing up.</p>
<p>High in the air lay the castle, gloomy and inaccessible, a town of
towers, a Babel of pinnacles; along it swept the clouds. As an innocent
child, as a naked princess with wings, Psyche had lived there like a
butterfly on a rock, had wandered along the dreadful parapets, had
longed and hoped and dreamed. Oh! her longings of innocence, her hope
to fly through the air to the opal islands, her dreams, pure as the
doves that flew round about her...!</p>
<p>She had wandered through clouds, through desert and wood, from the
North to the South. She had loved the Chimera, had put questions to the
Sphinx; she had been Queen of the Present and the beloved of Bacchus,
and now ... now she came back, wingless, with a soul that burned her
continually, like a scarlet <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb138" href=
"#pb138" name="pb138">138</a>]</span>child of hell; now she came back
up the steep path....</p>
<p>Her penance-garb she had borrowed. But the thistles tore her foot,
and pale from pain and suffering, from wounded feet, and ever-smarting
shoulders, and a soul that burned continually, was her face, that
peeped out from under her wide hood.</p>
<p>Up, up, she went, supporting herself with her staff....</p>
<p>Oh, the voice of her father, of Eros, in her dream, when the
grape-dance was over! Then repentance had begun. Then she had fled
through the wood, through the wild beasts. And the lion had licked her
foot, and the tigress had allowed her to rest in the warm lair of her
whelps....</p>
<p>Then she went on, climbing higher and higher....</p>
<p>Would she never get to the top? Would the castle, the Babel of
pinnacles, the town of towers remain ever inaccessibly high in the
clouds?</p>
<p>Her step left blood behind on the rocky stone.</p>
<p>But she did not rest. Rest did not help her.</p>
<div class="figure xd20e2121width"><img src="images/p138.jpg" alt=
"The Pilgrimage of Psyche" width="484" height="720">
<p class="figureHead">The Pilgrimage of Psyche</p>
<p class="first">[<i>To face p. 138</i></p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb139" href="#pb139" name=
"pb139">139</a>]</span></p>
<p>She preferred to go on, to climb. If she walked, if she climbed, the
sooner would she reach the castle.</p>
<p>Step by step she advanced. Oh, she was no longer afraid of Emeralda!
What could Emeralda do to her to make her afraid? What greater
suffering could her sister inflict upon her than the pain of remorse,
that was ever with her wherever she went!</p>
<p>And on she climbed, and the thistles tore her feet, and the solitary
man who was coming down the rocky path greeted her reverently, when he
saw the blood of her footstep. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb140"
href="#pb140" name="pb140">140</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch22" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e2138" class="main">Chapter XXII</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">The night was pitch dark, when she stood before the
awful gate and asked admittance.</p>
<p>And the guards let her in because she wore a holy dress. The
halberdiers took her to the hall, where they slept or kept watch, and
invited her to rest.</p>
<p>She sat down on a rude bench, she ate their brown soldier’s
bread, she drank a drop of their wine.</p>
<p>Then she offered them a ruby for their hospitality and evening
meal.</p>
<p>And while they wondered that a pilgrim possessed such a beautiful
jewel, she said in her strange voice, weak, tired, and yet
commanding:</p>
<p>“I have still more topazes and rubies and dark purple
carbuncles. Tell the princess that I have come to do her homage and
give her my jewels.” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb141" href=
"#pb141" name="pb141">141</a>]</span></p>
<p>The message was sent to Emeralda, and the queen asked the pilgrim to
come. She sent pages to conduct her to the throne where she sat.</p>
<p>And Psyche understood that Emeralda was afraid of treachery, afraid
of the approach of soul, and therefore was so surrounded by armed
men.</p>
<p>She passed between the pages, up the steps, over passages; then iron
gates were opened, and a curtain was drawn aside.</p>
<p>And Psyche stepped into the golden hall of the tower.</p>
<p>There sat Emeralda in the light of a thousand candles, on a throne,
under a canopy, surrounded by a great retinue.</p>
<p>“Holy pilgrim!” said Emeralda, “be welcome! You
have come to bring me jewels?”</p>
<p>A cold shiver ran like a serpent over Psyche’s limbs, when she
heard Emeralda’s voice. She had not thought that she would be
afraid any more of her proud sister, but now when she saw her and heard
her voice, she almost fainted from fear.</p>
<p>For her look was most terrible.</p>
<p>Emeralda had grown older, but she was still beautiful. Yet her
beauty was horrible. In <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb142" href=
"#pb142" name="pb142">142</a>]</span>the hall, lit up with thousands of
candles, a hall of gold and enamel, sat Emeralda like an idol on her
throne of agate, in a niche of jasper. There was nothing more human
about her; she was like a great jewel. She had become petrified, as it
were, into a jewel. Her eyes of sharp emerald looked out from her face,
that was ivory white, like chalcedony; from her crown of beryl there
hung down her face six red plaits of hair, as inflexible as gold-wire,
and stiffly interwoven with emeralds. Her mouth was a split ruby, her
teeth glittered like brilliants. Her voice sounded harsh and creaking,
like the noise of a machine. Her hands and inflexible fingers, stiff
with rings, were opal-white, with blue veins such as run through the
opal. Her bosom, opal, chalcedonic, was enclosed in a bodice of violet
amethyst—and over the bodice she wore a tunic of precious stones.
Her dress was no longer brocade, but composed of jewels. All the
arabesque was jewels; her mantle was jewelled so stiffly that the stuff
could not bend, but hung straight down from her shoulders like a long
jewelled clock.</p>
<p>And she was beautiful, but beautiful as a monster, preciously
beautiful as a work of art—<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb143"
href="#pb143" name="pb143">143</a>]</span>made by one, both jeweller
and artist, barbarously beautiful, in the incrustations of her crown,
the facets of her eyes, the lapis lazuli of her stiffly folded
under-garments, and all the gems and cameos which bordered her mantle
and dress.</p>
<p>In the light of thousands of candles she glistened, a barbarous
idol, and shot forth rays like a rainbow, representing every colour;
dazzling, fear-inspiring was her look, pitiless and soulless.</p>
<p>Proud she sat and motionless, glistening with lustre, oppressed by
the weight of her splendour; and covetous, her grating voice said again
eagerly:</p>
<p>“Holy pilgrim, welcome! You have come to bring me
jewels?”</p>
<p>Psyche gained courage.</p>
<p>“Yes,” she said in a firm voice. “Powerful Majesty
of the Past, I come to do you homage and bring you jewels. But I beg
that we may be left alone.”</p>
<p>Emeralda hesitated; but when Psyche remained silent, her cupidity
got the better of her fear and she gave a sign. She raised her stiff
hand. And by that single movement she cracked and creaked with grating
jewels, and <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb144" href="#pb144" name=
"pb144">144</a>]</span>shot forth rays like the sun, which, like a
nimbus, streamed around her.</p>
<p>Her suite disappeared through side-doors. The shield-bearers
withdrew. Psyche stood alone before her sister. And then Psyche
unfastened the cord round her waist and took off her mantle; her long
hair fell about her, and she was naked. Naked she stood before
Emeralda, and said:</p>
<p>“Emeralda, don’t you recognise me? I am Psyche, your
sister!”</p>
<p>A cry escaped the princess. She rose up; she creaked; her splendour
and pomp grated, and she glittered so, that Psyche was dazzled.</p>
<p>“Wretched Psyche!” she exclaimed. “Yes, I know
you! I have always hated you, hated as I hate everything that is
gentle, as I hate doves, children, flowers! So you have deceived me,
intruder! you bring me no jewels!”</p>
<p>Psyche knelt down and showed her open hand.</p>
<p>“Emeralda, I offer you the homage which I once refused you. I
present you with topazes, rubies, and dark purple carbuncles. I kneel
in humility before you. I offer you my <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb145" href="#pb145" name="pb145">145</a>]</span>tears, which have
turned into stone, and I ask you humbly: punish me and give me a
penance to do. Look! I have lost my wings. I may not go naked any
longer. I have committed sin. Emeralda, make me do penance! Inflict on
me the heaviest that you can think of. If I can do it, I will do it.
Lay a heavy task upon my wingless shoulders.”</p>
<p>Emeralda looked down at kneeling Psyche. The princess approached her
sister, took the jewels, examined them attentively, held them up to the
light of the candles, and then dropped them into an open casket.
Thoughtfully she continued gazing at Psyche. And she seemed to Psyche
like a gigantic jewel-spider, watching from the midst of her glittering
web the rays of her own splendour. But whatever she were, princess,
sun, spider, or jewel, a woman she was not, a human being she was not,
and through the opal of her bosom gleamed her heart of ruby.</p>
<p>Psyche, kneeling penitent, spoke not, awaiting her fate, and
Emeralda watched her.</p>
<p>Thoughts, mechanical as wheels, rolled through her brain. She
thought as a machine. She was inexorable, because she had no feeling;
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb146" href="#pb146" name=
"pb146">146</a>]</span>she thought inhumanly because she had no soul.
Soulless she was and hard as stone, but she was powerful, the mightiest
ruler of the world. She ruled with a movement, she condemned with a
look, she could kill with a smile; if she spoke a word, it was
terrible; if she appeared in public there was disaster; and if she rode
through her kingdom in a triumphal chariot, then everything was
scorched by her lustre and crushed under her triumph.</p>
<p>At last she spoke, motionless like a spider in her web of glittering
rays, and her voice sounded like an oracle in a screeching
incantation.</p>
<p>“Psyche, fled from her father’s house, fallen from all
princely dignity, dethroned Princess of the Present, immoral Bacchante,
corrupt and wingless, weeping tears of scarlet sin—listen!</p>
<p>“Psyche, who wandered frivolously to purple streaks of sky,
who longed for the nothingness of azure and of light, who loved a
horse, who forsook her husband, who wandered and sought and asked, in
desert and in wood—wander, seek, and ask!</p>
<p>“Wander, seek, and ask, till you find! <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb147" href="#pb147" name="pb147">147</a>]</span></p>
<p>“Wander along the flaming caves, seek in the fire-vomiting
mouths of monsters, ask of the martyred spirits, who roll upon the inky
sea.</p>
<p>“Descend to the Nether-world! Seek the Mystic Jewel, the
Philosopher’s Stone that gives the highest omnipotence; seek the
Mystic Jewel, the rays of which reach to eternity and penetrate to the
Godhead.</p>
<p>“Descend, wander, ask, seek, and find!”</p>
<p>Her voice grew terrible, and, screeching, she stepped nearer, and
with a look at the casket, said pitilessly:</p>
<p>“Or ... weep for it ... suffer for it. I care not how
much.”</p>
<p>She paused, and then in a voice of horrible hypocrisy,
continued:</p>
<p>“And then, if you bring me the Sacred Jewel, the name of which
may not be uttered....” She drew still nearer.</p>
<p>... “Then be blessed, Psyche, and share with me, Emeralda,
your sister, the divine omnipotence!”</p>
<p>Like an oracle sounded her hypocritical voice. She felt in Psyche an
unknown power; she feared for her soul, and wished to gain that power
for herself, to make sure of the two-fold <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb148" href="#pb148" name="pb148">148</a>]</span>omnipotence of the
world, both soul and body. And in the horrible penance which she laid
upon Psyche, she feigned tender love. Creaking and cracking, she drew
nearer, and in her web of rays shed a sunbeam over her kneeling sister,
and with her stiff opal fingers stroked the bent head with its fair,
long tresses.</p>
<p>An ice-cold shiver ran through Psyche, as if her burning soul were
being frozen.</p>
<p>“I obey,” she murmured.</p>
<p>And she rose up, intoxicated from splendour, stiff from icy
coldness. She tottered and shut her eyes. When she opened them, she was
in a gloomy ante-chamber, clad in her coarse mantle; and the
shield-bearers approached with torches.</p>
<p>“Conduct me to Astra!” she commanded.</p>
<p>There was something strange in her voice which made them obey, the
voice of a princess, the soft voice of command, which appealed
strangely to the men, as if they had heard it when they were pages.</p>
<p>They conducted Psyche through halls, over passages, up steps, to
another tower. They opened low doors, and, through silent vaults,
guided the strange pilgrim, rich in rubies. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb149" href="#pb149" name="pb149">149</a>]</span></p>
<p>“Who comes there?” asked a voice, tired, weak, and
faint.</p>
<p>Then the men left Psyche alone, and she was with Astra, and she saw
her sister in the twilight on the terrace, sitting before her
telescope, surrounded by globes and rolls of heavy parchment spread
out. And Psyche saw Astra, looking very old, with thin grey hair, which
hung down her wax-white face, from which two dull eyes stared out; her
white dress hung down limp on her sunken shoulders, her withered
breast, and attenuated limbs. Bitter dejection was in her dull eyes;
her thin hand hung down powerless, tired, and incapable of work, and
her voice, faint and weak, said:</p>
<p>“Who comes there?”</p>
<p>“I, Psyche, your little sister, come back, O Astra, as a
penitent...!”</p>
<p>“As a penitent?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I fled, committed sin, and now I will do
penance....”</p>
<p>Astra mused.</p>
<p>“It is true,” she murmured. “I remember, little
Psyche. Come nearer. Take my hand, I cannot see you.”</p>
<p>“The night is dark, Astra: there are few <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb150" href="#pb150" name=
"pb150">150</a>]</span>stars in the sky, and the torches are not yet
lit....”</p>
<p>“No? Is it dark about me? That does not matter, Psyche, for I
cannot see, I am blind....”</p>
<p>Psyche gave a cry.</p>
<p>“Astra! Poor sister, are you blind? Oh! you who could see so
well! are you blind?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I have gazed myself blind!! I have turned my telescope
from left to right, to all the points of the universe. I thought to
become the centre, the kernel of science, the focus of brilliant
knowledge; now I am blind, now I see nothing more, now I know nothing
more. The colossal numbers have become confused in my brain since the
living Star on my head faded. Do you still see its faint splendour
between my grey hair? Ah! now I have your hand.</p>
<p>“What is that, child? What round things are falling over my
fingers?”</p>
<p>“My tears, Astra, poor Astra!”</p>
<div class="figure xd20e2294width"><img src="images/p150.jpg" alt=
"Psyche and Astra" width="482" height="720">
<p class="figureHead">Psyche and Astra</p>
<p class="first">[<i>To face p. 150</i></p>
</div>
<p>“How hard they are and cold! What hard, cold tears, Psyche!...
Sit down here at my feet. Is the night dark? Are the torches not yet
lit? Well, let it be dark, for <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb151"
href="#pb151" name="pb151">151</a>]</span>I see nothing; but I feel
you, I feel your hair; now I stroke your head, round and small. I feel
along your shoulders, Psyche, little child with wings.... But your
wings I do not feel.... Have you none now? Have they been cut off? My
star has faded, and your wings are cut; Emeralda triumphs alone! Her
gift from the fairy has brought her prosperity. Her heart of ruby feels
no pain; she is clad in the majesty of precious jewels. She is hard and
beautiful, hard as a stone, beautiful as a jewel.... Psyche, creep
close to me.... We can do nothing against her, child. My star is faded,
your wings clipt; we have lost our noble rights.... I am old, but
you—are you still young? You feel so young, indestructibly
young.... You have suffered so, asked and wandered.... not appreciated
your happiness, and murdered Eros! Poor child, you a murderess...! You
weep rubies ... you will do penance. You are strong, Psyche, and always
young.... You will do penance after all your sins! Emeralda has laid
penance on you.... To seek the Philosopher’s Stone in the caverns
of flaming hell!! O Psyche, the Stone does not exist. The unutterable
name is a legend. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb152" href="#pb152"
name="pb152">152</a>]</span>The Jewel exists only in the pride of man.
The universe is limited, the Godhead is not limited; no rays from
precious stones can reach the Godhead and rule over God. No looking
through lenses of diamond can penetrate the Godhead. It is all pride
and vanity. Psyche, there is nothing but resignation. Emeralda is
powerful, but more powerful she cannot become....</p>
<p>“In vain will you seek.”</p>
<p>“Yet I will seek, Astra, although it be in vain.... And do you
also, sister, lay penance on me.... Let me do penance for Astra, as I
do for Emeralda.”</p>
<p>“No, child, I know no penance. There is nothing but
resignation. There is nothing but to wait. Everything else is vanity
and pride. But do penance, little Psyche. Penance is illusion, yet
illusion is pleasant: illusion ennobles. Believe, poor child, in your
penance, believe in your illusion. I have never known it. I have always
calculated. The colossal numbers roll through my dull and hazy brain in
endless series of figures. However you count, you never come to the sum
of the endless.... The stars cannot be counted. The farthest sun is
incomputable, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb153" href="#pb153" name=
"pb153">153</a>]</span>the divine is limitless. Even the nearest
frontier of the Future is beyond computation. There is a sea of
unfathomable light.... O Psyche, I am tired, I am blind, and I shall
soon die. In this place, here I will stay. Psyche, look through the
telescope. Is the night too dark? Do you see anything?”</p>
<p>“The stars give a dim light.”</p>
<p>“Look through the telescope. What do you see? Tell me, what do
you see?”</p>
<p>“In the glass, right at the top, I see a dark spot, which
emits a few rays. Is that a black star?”</p>
<p>“No, Psyche, that is a spider. Emeralda has sent a spider. The
spider has crawled to the top, along the smooth diamond; there the
spider weaves his web. And the diamond ... is crumbling to
pieces....[”]</p>
<p>“Astra...!!”</p>
<p>“Psyche, creep closer to me.... Let me feel your little round
head, your wingless shoulders....”</p>
<p>“Astra, everything is black; clouds are drifting past the
stars!”</p>
<p>“Sleep thus in my mantle, sleep thus at my feet. Sleep, my
little child, and cover yourself for the night.... Psyche, your old
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb154" href="#pb154" name=
"pb154">154</a>]</span>nurse is dead. Psyche, now I am your nurse....
Sleep now by blind Astra....”</p>
<p>Feeling for Psyche, she threw her mantle round her. The night was
dark. Astra’s powerless hand dropped over Psyche. Psyche fell
asleep. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb155" href="#pb155" name=
"pb155">155</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch23" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e2340" class="main">Chapter XXIII</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">It was still dark when Psyche awoke. She looked up at
Astra, who sat sleeping, her grey head on her breast; faintly shone her
star. Very gently, so as not to wake her, Psyche rose, and left the
terrace. She knew the way. She went through the halls and passages,
down the steps, the endless steps. In the corners sat the sacred
spiders, and wove....</p>
<p>Psyche went lower down, to the vaults. There burnt the everlasting
lamps. She went among the royal tombs, crystal sarcophagi, and found
her father’s coffin. By the lamp, which was always kept burning,
she recognised his embalmed, rigid face. The eyes were closed. He knew
nothing about her: that she had gone away and come back. Death was
between them, and severed them forever.</p>
<p>She kissed the glass, and her tears, round, hard, and red, clattered
on the crystal. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb156" href="#pb156"
name="pb156">156</a>]</span></p>
<p>She knelt down and tried to pray. In a corner of the vault a black
spot moved. It was a big spider with a white cross on its body.</p>
<p>“So, you have come back again.... I knew that you would come.
We can escape from nothing. Everything happens as it happens.
Everything is as it is. Everything goes to dust; into the pits of the
Past, into the power of Emeralda.... Now become a spider like us, weave
your web, and be wise....”</p>
<p>Psyche got up.</p>
<p>“No...!” she exclaimed, “I will not become a
spider, I will weave no web. I have sinned, but I will weave no web; I
have sinned and will do penance. The world is awful—desert and
wood and space; life is awful—love and pain, joy and despair, sin
and punishment. And if fate is as it is, it is in vain to weave a web
and to heap up treasures of dust. Spider, were it not more human to
love, to live, and even to sin, than to weave web upon web? Spider, I
envy you not your sacredness...!”</p>
<p>The spider puffed itself out maliciously.</p>
<p>“You seem to be still proud of your murder <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb157" href="#pb157" name="pb157">157</a>]</span>and
your immorality and shamelessness! Your princely name you have dragged
through the mire, your wings you have given up for a panther’s
skin and a grape-wreath, and know not yet what repentance is. If you
had been wise and become a spider, you would have served Emeralda, and
there would have been no need to go down to the Under-world!”</p>
<p>But Psyche was no longer afraid. She had come to kiss her
father’s coffin; she left her jewelled tears in the treasure,
which the spiders watched over, and ascended the hundreds of steps and
came on to the terrace of the battlements.</p>
<p>There as a child she had wandered and gazed, a child with wings, and
innocent, her soul full of dreams. Now she wandered again along the
ramparts and battlements high as a man; the doves fluttered about her,
the swans looked up at her ... and full of dejection for former
innocence and youth, she wept and wept: no longer a brook, but topazes,
rubies, tears of sin, that, rattling down, frightened the doves and the
swans, which, indignant, thought that she was pelting them with stones.
The doves flew away, and the swans, offended, turned their backs on
her. Then she sat <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb158" href="#pb158"
name="pb158">158</a>]</span>down in an embrasure—no wings now lay
against the stone-work—and she folded her arms round her knees.
She looked towards the horizon; behind it loomed other horizons, first
pink, then silver; blue, then gold; behind the grey, pale and misty,
and then fading away. Then beyond, the horizon became milk-white, like
an opal, and in the reflection of the last rays of the setting sun, it
seemed as if lakes were mirrored there; islands rose in the air, aerial
paradises, watery streaks of blue sea, oceans of ether and
light-quivering nothingness.</p>
<p>And Psyche bowed her head, full of sadness, and sobbed.</p>
<p>The world was not changed, but more beautiful than ever; gloriously
beautiful loomed the ever-changing horizon. Yet Psyche sobbed, full of
sadness. She knew that the horizons were pure delusions, and that
behind them was the desert with the Sphinx. Oh! if she could once more
believe in the aerial paradises, the purple seas, the golden regions
with people of light, who lived under rosy bananas! Alas! had she not
trod a paradise, the sweet Present, the adorable garden of a moment, so
little and so short in <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb159" href=
"#pb159" name="pb159">159</a>]</span>duration? It was past, it was
past! Oh, how her soul scorched, how her shoulders pained, how her eyes
burned!</p>
<p>She wept and she sobbed, and hid her face in her hands. She did not
notice that the wind was rising, that the horizon quivered, that clouds
were speeding through the air, white colossi like towers and dragons,
riders and horses. She did not see the changes in the sky; she did not
see the going up and down of wings, of flaming wings in the silver
lightning, that flashed from the sky; she did not hear the warning
thunder, nor did she see the clouds emitting sparks. But suddenly she
distinctly heard a voice:</p>
<p>“Psyche! Psyche!”</p>
<p>She looked up. Before her, she saw descending on broad wings a steed
of pure light and flame. And she uttered a cry, that sounded in the air
like an endless shout of gladness:</p>
<p>“Chimera!”</p>
<p>It was he. He descended. The basalt terrace trembled, as though
shaken by an earthquake; under his hoofs the stone shot sparks, and he
stood before her resplendent and beautiful. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb160" href="#pb160" name="pb160">160</a>]</span></p>
<p>“Chimera!” she cried, and folded her hands and sank down
before him on her knees.</p>
<p>She could say nothing else. She was dazzled, and it seemed as though
her soul ascended heavenward in the pure delight of love.</p>
<p>“Psyche!” sounded his voice of bronze, “I have
come down, for I love you. But I may not bear you any more on my back
through the delusive regions of air, because you have committed sin.
Psyche, it is your bounden duty to obey Emeralda’s command. Go
down to Hell and seek the Jewel.”</p>
<p>“Chimera, adored one, delight of my soul, oh, your splendour
fills my eyes! Your word gives strength to my weakness! I feel it! You
may not bear me away; I am unworthy of your wings. But I adore and
bless you for coming! Chimera, Chimera, your splendour has beamed once
more upon me! your voice has inspired me, and I will do what you
say.... You let the light of hope break in upon me; new strength flows
through my limbs. Chimera, I hope, I hope! I will go down into Hell; I
will seek.... Shall I find? I know not.... But I hope! The horizon
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb161" href="#pb161" name=
"pb161">161</a>]</span>is quivering with hope and ether and the
Future!</p>
<p>“Psyche!” sounded his voice again like bronze, “be
strong<span class="corr" id="xd20e2400" title="Source: ?">!</span> Take
heart! Descend! Do penance! Seek...! Once more you will see
me....”</p>
<p>“Once more!”</p>
<p>“Be strong, take heart, do penance!”</p>
<p>He ascended, whilst Psyche remained kneeling. When he was high in
the air, there came a peal of thunder, as if the heavens would burst
asunder. The sky was dark, but lit up by the lightning. In the black
sky, in the lightning flame, rose fearfully the three hundred towers.
And the thunder-claps rumbled on, one after the other, as if the Past
were perishing in the last day....</p>
<p>With a joyful cry, Psyche hastened along the terraces, the
battlements, ramparts, entered the castle, and went down the steps.
Lower and lower she descended, lower than the vaults; and as she passed
them, she threw a kiss in the direction where the old king lay
buried.... She descended still lower, and yet she heard the thunder
pealing above, and the castle seemed to tremble to its very
foundations. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb162" href="#pb162" name=
"pb162">162</a>]</span></p>
<p>She descended still lower: she descended very deep pits, built like
towers reversed to the central nave of the earth. She descended step
after step, thousands of steps, groping in the darkness. She walked
with unerring foot, that felt for the next step, that detected the
slippery stone; she felt and never hesitated. Another step and then
another; again a pit, pit after pit, all the pits of the Past. Bats
flew up and flapped their wings, spiders she felt crawling over her, an
icy dampness fell like a chill wind upon her shoulders.</p>
<p>Deeper down she went, and deeper. It was pitch dark, and above she
heard nothing more; she heard only the flapping of the gigantic bats,
the droning of the envious spiders. But she defended herself with her
little hand; as she descended, she beat about her, beat the bats away,
seized a vampire, held it tightly by the neck, and strangled it. Her
foot glided over toads, she slipped over snakes, but she got up again
and beat the bats and fought with the vampires. The Chimera had so
inspired her with strength, that she felt strong as a giant, young and
courageous; he had filled her eyes with such light that she saw him in
the darkness. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb163" href="#pb163" name=
"pb163">163</a>]</span></p>
<p>In the pitchy darkness his flaming wings were distinctly visible.
And on she went descending; thick clouds of dust, the deepest shadows
of Emeralda’s transitoriness, rose up, but she kept breathing,
never hesitating, and her foot felt instinctively the next step, and
she struck at the bats and fought with the vampires. When she throttled
them, a human cry was heard, and the echo sounded a thousand times like
the anxious cry of a murder. But she was not afraid. She kept on
descending....</p>
<p>She kept descending. At last she felt no more steps but voidness
under her feet, and she sank ... like a feather, through heavier air;
she sank, she sank deeper and deeper, deeper and deeper.... A black
draught of air, an invisible wind, damp and chill, made her feel that
she had passed all the pits, that she was sinking outside them in the
open air, invisible and black, thick as ink. Then she began to sink
more slowly, and ... her feet touched ground.</p>
<p>Sounds soft and low, like the plaintive strains of a viol, rose up
from afar, like music of the sea, the plaint of a thousand voices which
never became melody. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb164" href="#pb164"
name="pb164">164</a>]</span></p>
<p>The far-off sound continued quivering as an accompaniment of wind,
of a black wind which blew, and overpowered the music of the sea.
Sometimes it went a little higher, sometimes a little lower, and always
remained the vague and distant incomprehensible harmony.</p>
<p>From where the wind came, from where the plaintive murmuring arose,
thither would Psyche go. And with her foot she kept feeling, and with
her outstretched hands, and on she went....</p>
<p>Long, long she went in the darkness, till the darkness became less
opaque and lit up with phosphoric flickerings; and she saw:</p>
<p>That she was ascending a path between two inky seas.</p>
<p>Black as ink were the waves.</p>
<p>Then she heard them roaring; then she saw their crests lit up with a
blue phosphorescent glow.</p>
<p>Then she heard the soft, low sounds, the plaintive viols swell, till
they became a dull, continuous soughing.</p>
<p>The black wind rose as with a gigantic sail, and suddenly blew the
hurricane. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb165" href="#pb165" name=
"pb165">165</a>]</span></p>
<p>In the pitch-dark air, the lightning flashed blue.</p>
<p>And between the two inky seas, Psyche went slowly on, against the
gusts of wind.</p>
<p>Then she uttered a cry, as though she were calling....</p>
<p>The hurricane took her cry for help over the endless sea of Hell....
And from all sides dived up the gruesome frights—leviathan
monsters. They opened their jaws at Psyche, and the water streamed out.
Their scaly tortuous bodies wound along over the black surface of the
ocean, and on the horizon, lit up with phosphorous blue, their tails
meandered. They came from the horizon, they dived up and down, and the
ocean dived with them. Storm-flood, waterfall—storm-flood,
waterfall.... They spread out their dragon wings, and caught up the
boisterous wind; they shot up waterspouts like towering fountains, of a
blue and yellowish hue. Their round squinting eyes stood out watchful,
like green and yellow signals; they lifted their red-lobed jaws,
abysses of red-slimy desires, bubbling with foamy slaver.</p>
<p>“Monsters of the sea of pain, where shall I find the Jewel for
Emeralda?” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb166" href="#pb166"
name="pb166">166</a>]</span></p>
<p>Psyche asked the question in a high, musical key, and her voice rang
out clearly in the hurricane and plaintive moanings of the sea. Her
high soprano sounded above all the roaring of the elements and
plaintive cries; and three times she repeated the question:</p>
<p>“Monsters of the sea of pain, where shall I find the Jewel for
Emeralda?”</p>
<p>The leviathans pressed together along the path that Psyche trod. But
amidst the noise of their tossing and snorting and spouting, she heard
the plaintive sea swelling, the sea of plaintive voices; and then in
the blue phosphorescent glow between the monsters, she saw the drowned
shades heaving to and fro, always writhing in fear, always drowning in
the inky sea; the everlasting wailing of the plaintive sea, the cry of
souls in pain; the gigantic plaintive viol, with strings ever
playing....</p>
<p>“Vanity, vanity!”</p>
<p>Did she hear aright?</p>
<p>It was one single sound, like a note repeated again and again.
“Vanity, vanity!” was the inexorable answer, first vague as
a dream, mystic as a thought, sounding more distinctly as an admonition
against worldly pride. And <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb167" href=
"#pb167" name="pb167">167</a>]</span>so distinct did the sound become,
that Psyche, brave Psyche, who feared neither vampire nor monster of
the deep ... that courageous Psyche hesitated and felt all her strength
giving way....</p>
<p>“If it were vanity to seek, to ask for the Jewel, how much
farther should she go?”</p>
<p>“Should she go back?”</p>
<p>She looked round.</p>
<p>But she saw what made her soul sink within her.</p>
<p>She saw that behind her step, the seas immediately closed till they
became one single sea of ink; she saw that the only path for her
stretched across the seas, that behind her it immediately sank
away.</p>
<p>She could not go back, she must go on.</p>
<p>And she buoyed up her sinking soul; she went on, and in a high
soprano voice repeated again and again her question:</p>
<p>“Spirits in the sea of pain, where shall I find the Jewel for
Emeralda?”</p>
<p>“Vanity, vanity!”</p>
<p>The plaintive viol kept trembling, and the same sound sounded ever,
the unchangeable answer. The hurricane was no longer chill,
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb168" href="#pb168" name=
"pb168">168</a>]</span>but warm, sultry, strangely sultry; more and
more sultry blew the everlasting cyclone.</p>
<p>The sea-monsters kept back; they dived again below; the sea sank
with them, the shades swayed to and fro in storm-flood,
waterfall—storm-flood, waterfall, and many-headed hydras came
sinuously up. The sea no longer shone with phosphorescent glow, but was
quite black, pitch black, black as boiling pitch, without foam and
without light, and kept sending up a discharge of miry, vaporous
matter. In the boiling pitch, the hydras, with their thousand snaky
heads, kept diving up, tortoise-scaled; swayed to and fro, to and fro
the pale faces of the shades, but ever sounded the plaintive viol, and
ever rang forth the same note, the unchangeable answer to
Psyche’s shrill question:</p>
<p>“Hydras of the sea of pain, spirits in the sea of pain, where
shall I find the Jewel for Emeralda...??”</p>
<p>“Vanity, vanity...!”</p>
<p>The pitch seethed and hissed and steamed.</p>
<p>It was no longer a sea of water, no longer a sea of pitch;</p>
<p>It was a sea of nothing but flame, pitch-black flame, a sea of
jet-black fire, fire and flame, that waved from the horizon, where a
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb169" href="#pb169" name=
"pb169">169</a>]</span>single streak of pale light appeared. In the
black flames burned the shades, in the black flames wound the hydras in
and out; the thick smoke shot up into the clouds, and the clouds sent
it back again....</p>
<p>“Spirits in the pitch-black flames, where shall I find the
Jewel for Emeralda...???”</p>
<p>“Vanity, vanity...!”</p>
<p>The hurricane kept blowing, the plaintive viol kept trembling, and
ever sounded the same note, the unchangeable answer. But scorchingly,
more scorchingly blew the wind, like a tempest from a sun for ever
doomed. The black night now assumed a dark-purple aspect, like purple
steam; the clouds drove a bloody vapour into the heavens.</p>
<p>And on either side of Psyche’s path suddenly shot out the
flaming hurricane of the sun, gigantic purple tongues of fire, scarlet
and orange. The lower clouds drove them back, and when Psyche looked
round, she stood in a flaming fire. The flaming hurricane seethed round
her; behind her feet the path was on fire. The air was fire. But
Psyche, whose own soul was on fire, in her own scorching fire of
remorse, felt not the glowing heat, and she saw, <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb170" href="#pb170" name="pb170">170</a>]</span></p>
<p>Out of the living scarlet craters, the orange caves, the hellish
chimeras working up their sinuous way like glowing spirals: half
arabesque, half beast; half dragon, half tail; flaming sea-horses. They
spat and fanned the glowing fire, and, riding aloft on the burning
hurricane, the shades swept past Psyche.</p>
<p>“Spirits in the scarlet flames....”</p>
<p>“Vanity, vanity!”</p>
<p>This was the only answer, that sounded afar off in her ears, the
answer of the tortured, angry spirits, which in the strength of their
sin and passion came flying up from the craters.</p>
<p>On she went....</p>
<p>She went on along the path that unfolded before her.</p>
<p>How confidently she went on, how calmly! Why was she not afraid? Oh!
she knew too much to be afraid and not to go on in confidence. Was the
answer not always more distinct and unchangeable? Psyche’s soul
breathed freely, and in the fire around her her own fire seemed to
diminish. For when the fire round her became yellower, sulphur-yellow,
pure yellow, the pure golden yellow of the sun, then she uttered a cry
of joy, as though she knew the answer: <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb171" href="#pb171" name="pb171">171</a>]</span></p>
<p>“Spirits in the sulphur flames, spirits in the sun’s
flames...!<span class="corr" id="xd20e2533" title=
"Not in source">”</span></p>
<p>She smiled.... Smiling, she hastened on, with joyful voice, with
winged step; and so rapidly did she flee along the path smoothed out
small for her foot, that behind her the answer could scarcely reach
her.</p>
<p>“Vanity, vanity!”</p>
<p>Oh! it was always the plaintive viol, but the too poignant grief was
tempered with melancholy; the plaintive sea became like a sea of
melancholy; the thousands of voices were full of melancholy. And when
the flames became less dense and lighter, when they changed from
sulphur yellow to soft azure, a flaming sea of azure, in the silent
dawning moonlight scenery, high, broad, blue flaming tongues that shot
from the moon—when the hellish hurricane no longer raged, but
gave away to a more benign breeze—then Psyche asked no more in so
shrill a key, but knowing all, her voice murmured dejectedly:</p>
<p>“Spirits in the azure flames, where shall I find the Jewel for
Emeralda?”</p>
<p>The melancholy viol vibrated more gently; the spirits rocking to and
fro in the thin blue fire sang more softly: <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb172" href="#pb172" name="pb172">172</a>]</span></p>
<p>“That is vanity, Psyche; that is vanity....”</p>
<p>She uttered her jubilant cry, and hastened on with uplifted arms
through the azure moon-flames. The firmament spread out in higher
circles and formed wider spheres;</p>
<p>The flames became clearer and clearer; more benignly blew the
breeze;</p>
<p>And pale, the spirits flitted to and fro: pale shades with
melancholy eyes, singing their song of painful remembrances....</p>
<p>And the spirits looked at Psyche—the spirits smiled benignly
on her, astonished that she was still alive.</p>
<p>They pointed for her to go on farther and farther; they nodded to
her, “On! on!”</p>
<p>And she gave a loud cry of joy and hastened on....</p>
<p>She sped through the flames and shades;</p>
<p>Till the flames were still, and high and white;</p>
<p>High, still, white flames, like sacrificial flames, like altar
flames, high in the sky, the lofty sky, the wide sky; the wide expanse
full of white flame, still, white, ascending, purifying flames, refined
and clear, over the whole wide expanse, the wide refining expanse....
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb173" href="#pb173" name=
"pb173">173</a>]</span></p>
<p>Once more she asked the pale shades, who swarmed about between the
flames, hand in hand, who swayed continually to and fro between the
flames:</p>
<p>“Spirits in the white flames, pure white, in the white flames,
where shall I find the Jewel for Emeralda?”</p>
<p>“Vanity, vanity!” sang the shades softly and quietly,
and in the answer, calm and assuring, of the expectant penitents,
vibrated the great viol with a sound like a soft jubilant trill.</p>
<p>Psyche asked no more. She slackened her speed and began to walk, her
arms raised, her head erect, through the silvery flames. Oh, the dear,
tender flames, the adorable purifying flames! how they cooled, in their
snow-white glow, the burning remorse of her soul!</p>
<p>How freely Psyche breathed, in the innocently white glowing fire!
Like lilies were the tongues of flame, fragrant and soothing as balsam,
cool and fresh as snow ... cold as water, as foam. The white flames
foamed and rippled like a sea, lower and smoother, quieter and more
serene; they rippled like a sea of lilies, like a sea of silver
snow.... They became moisture and water and foaming <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb174" href="#pb174" name=
"pb174">174</a>]</span>ocean, the tender element of gentle compulsion,
carrying along as an irresistible dream, white as paradise, and, as
slightly rippling waves of foam, they bore Psyche away.</p>
<p>On the foaming waves Psyche drifted along, all white in the golden
boat of her fair hair. So gently did they rock her, the foaming,
rippling waves, that Psyche shut her eyes. Sleep was stealing over her.
Her lips smiled with inward peace.</p>
<p>The waves bore her away, the sea washed her ashore. She awoke from
her slumber, pearl-white she rose from the foam, amidst the joyful
dolphins.</p>
<p>She stepped out of the sea on to the land. She felt quite cool, and
her soul was calm and peaceful, full of reassuring, holy knowledge. But
within her was a great desire.</p>
<p>Smiling, she stretched out her arms. She yearned for the desire of
her heart....</p>
<p>“Not yet ... not yet,” was whispered tenderly to her
cool and peaceful soul. “Wait, wait....” sounded the
echo.</p>
<p>In the silent joy of her soul, she wept. She lifted her hand to her
eyes; wet were her tears, and in her hand ... lay a pearl...!</p>
<p>Then she looked round. She recognised the <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb175" href="#pb175" name=
"pb175">175</a>]</span>sea-shore with its many bays, the shore of the
Kingdom of the Past. There, on the opal-blue horizon, loomed a town of
minarets and pinnacles, of cupolas and obelisks, surrounded with golden
walls.</p>
<p>That was the capital of the kingdom. Thither she would repair.</p>
<p>There, proud and peaceful, still and cool, she would say to
Emeralda, her powerful sister,</p>
<p>That her Jewel was vanity. That the gem did not exist. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb176" href="#pb176" name="pb176">176</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch24" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e2606" class="main">Chapter XXIV</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">When Psyche approached the capital, she heard at the
gates the excited cries of festive merry-makers. Outside the gates
flocked the noisy crowd, dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, and
bedecked with flowers, singing and dancing, but not knowing why.
Everywhere was bustle and commotion; on the roadside sat hundreds of
hucksters, and women extolling their wares—glasses with jewels
and fruit, cooling drinks, dresses and flowers. In a shrill key they
praised their wares; they spread out their stuffs with much ado, and
offered the people flowers, and poured them out wine, and held up
strings of glass pearls and cheap necklaces of coins.</p>
<p>Psyche was naked, and she veiled herself in her hair; she spread
over the marks on her shoulders her golden mantle of hair, and as many
of the dancing girls, some half naked and others quite, danced round,
hand in hand, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb177" href="#pb177" name=
"pb177">177</a>]</span>people thought that she was naked, only because
she was so fair—Psyche, so pearl-white in her golden hair. She
was not wont to be ashamed of nakedness, which was once her right, her
privilege as a princess; but now under the eyes of the people she
blushed, and walked with downcast eyes. Then she turned to a saleswoman
and asked:</p>
<p>“What is the feast for?”</p>
<p>“Where do you come from? ‘What is the feast for!’
Don’t you know anything about it?”</p>
<p>“I come from the other side of the sea....”</p>
<p>“‘What is the feast for!’ It is the great
festival: it is the Festival, the Jubilee-festival, of Emeralda. It is
the Triumphal Procession of the Queen!!”</p>
<p>.... “It is the Triumphal Procession of the Queen!”
resounded on all sides. They danced and sang:</p>
<p>.... “It is the Triumphal Procession of the Queen!”</p>
<p>They were drunk with joy, dizzy from strange joy; but Psyche
suddenly saw that they were deadly pale and frightened, deadly pale
under paint and flowers, and frightened whilst they danced round in a
ring. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb178" href="#pb178" name=
"pb178">178</a>]</span></p>
<p>“I have no dress for the occasion; give me that veil of golden
gauze!” said Psyche to the saleswoman.</p>
<p>“That is very dear!”</p>
<p>“I will pay you for it with this pearl.”</p>
<p>.... “With that pearl! Are you a princess, then!”</p>
<p>Psyche then took the veil, and she bound it round her loins, just as
she used to do before.</p>
<p>“I will give you a wreath of fresh roses as well!” said
the woman, pleased, and put the flowers on her head.</p>
<p>She smiled, and it suddenly occurred to her that she was decked out
with those flowers as a victim for the altar; that all the people who
were making merry and dancing were bedecked as victims. She went on.
Through the round gold gate she entered the city; the squares were seen
in the distance, connected with very broad streets; square palaces of
marble and bronze, of jasper and malachite, round cupolas and finely
pointed minarets, glistered in the sun as if conjured up by magic. They
stretched far away, and right behind the blue mountains rose the royal
castle, a Babel of pinnacles and towers innumerable, <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb179" href="#pb179" name=
"pb179">179</a>]</span>almost indiscernible in the distance, with
square ramparts and walls, and lofty summits lost in the rising mist.
And along the squares, over palaces, and on the minarets, hung the
thick festoons of flowers, as though the towns were decked out for an
offering. Close up to the castle, Babel of pinnacles, the festoons of
flowers seemed to reach. And in the squares the dancers threw flowers
into the air, and it seemed as if white roses were raining down from
heaven. To the sound of tabour and cymbals, the people danced madly
round, and ever was heard the same cry:</p>
<p>“It is the Triumphal Procession of the Queen!”</p>
<p>Then Psyche, in the secret depths of her heart, saw clearly and
indubitably what it all meant. As she went along with the dense crowds
of noisy, shouting merry-makers, she saw all the people in the town
trembling with fear, which made the blood congeal in their veins.</p>
<p>Their eyes, through fear, were ready to start out of their sockets;
their teeth chattered; their limbs, bedecked with flowers, trembled;
the sun was shining, but everyone was shivering with cold. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb180" href="#pb180" name="pb180">180</a>]</span></p>
<p>But no one spoke of his trembling, and they danced, madly drunk with
foolish joy, and they kept shouting the same thing:</p>
<p>“It is the Triumphal Procession of the Queen!!!”
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb181" href="#pb181" name=
"pb181">181</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch25" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e2659" class="main">Chapter XXV</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">A great commotion was going on in the direction of the
castle. In that direction all eyes were turned, and the dancing girls
forgot to dance. From fear, the crowd stood still, as if petrified, and
forgot to conceal the anxiety of their minds. The palaces seemed to
tremble; the air-atoms quivered audibly. Something dreadful was about
to happen.</p>
<p>The royal castle shone with a strange lustre; a sun seemed to send
forth a halo; an ominous aureola appeared in the distance. The fearful
rays of the Sun of Consternation outshone the day, outshone the sun:
from their centre, they penetrated through houses and people.</p>
<p>And everything shone, softened by the glow of piercing sunbeams. The
rays quivered everywhere in the air, and the aureola filled the
world.</p>
<p>The cause of consternation came rattling on with the rapidity of an
arrow. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb182" href="#pb182" name=
"pb182">182</a>]</span></p>
<p>All hearts stood still, all breath was taken away, all dancing was
stopped, all rejoicing ceased.</p>
<p>From the castle, over the triumphal way, a triumphal chariot rattled
along with the speed of an arrow. On the top, a living jewel, stood
Emeralda, and guided the four and twenty steeds. It was her splendour
and her aureola which appeared in the air. It was her rays which caused
the houses to shine with splendour and pierced the people with flashes.
She stood immovable, clad in the strength of precious stones, in a
tunic of sapphire, in a robe of brilliants, with deep flounces of gems
and white cameos; her mantle was like a bell, with folds of purple
carbuncle, lined with enamelled ermine. From her crown of beryl, from
her heart of ruby, the rays shot forth, shone out her fear-inspiring
aureola and streamed over the town and in the air, eclipsing the sun,
which turned pale. Her eyes of emerald, stars in her opal face,
chalcedonic, looked inexorable, and her bosom of precious stones heaved
not. Only her heart of ruby beat regularly, and then her lustre grew
alternately dim and bright....</p>
<p>She stood immovable and guided her horses, <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb183" href="#pb183" name="pb183">183</a>]</span>her
four and twenty foaming stallions, rearing greys, which drew her
triumphal car, like a broad enamelled shell on innumerable wheels, on
cutting wheels so numerous, that they seemed to run into one
another—a turning confusion of spokes.</p>
<p>The dazzling, fear-inspiring chariot rattled on with the rapidity of
an arrow. And suddenly, awaking from their stupefaction, the people
madly danced again and shouted the same jubilant cry. The tabours
sounded, the white roses rained down, and before the queen the people
prostrated themselves and paved her path with their bodies. The grey
stallions foamed and reared; they came on, they came on, they trampled
over the first bodies—men and women, girls and children, dressed
for a festival and bedecked with flowers.... Over her people rode
Emeralda; the innumerable wheels rattled, a confusion of spokes,
revolving, cutting furrows in flesh and blood, reducing blood and human
flesh to a muddy mass. But farther up they danced, farther up they
sang, before casting themselves down for her Triumph....</p>
<p>Then Emeralda, looking over her triumphal way, saw, with the keen
glance of her black <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb184" href="#pb184"
name="pb184">184</a>]</span>carbuncle pupil, a little form, naked and
fair, who lifted up her small, child’s hand.</p>
<p>And fiercer and fiercer gleamed her heart of ruby, for she had
recognised the form.</p>
<p>And the desire flamed up in her: the thirst for more power and to
become like a god.</p>
<p>Emeralda recognised Psyche. And she reined in her twelve pair of
horses, she drove them more slowly, and under the less quickly
revolving wheels she heard the jubilant cry of the dying people. The
blood dropped from the wheels, but the roses rained down and covered
the horrible sight. On the bloody, muddy mass, the roses rained down,
white, from the balconies of the palaces.</p>
<p>Emeralda stopped.</p>
<p>Under her, death was silent.</p>
<p>Around, the town was silent. She alone reigned and shot out her
terrible fan of rays, which scorched the houses and pierced the
air.</p>
<p>And before her, at a little distance, stood Psyche, proud,
pearl-white, crowned with roses, in a veil of gold.</p>
<p>And the silent crowd recognised in her the third princess of the
kingdom.</p>
<p>“Psyche!” said Emeralda, and her voice <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb185" href="#pb185" name=
"pb185">185</a>]</span>sounded loud through the town from the focus of
her rays, “have you come to bring me the unutterable Jewel, the
Gem of Power, the Bestower of Universal Power, the sacred Stone of
Mysticism? Have you found the Mystery of the Godhead, and,</p>
<p>“—Do you rule with me the Universe and God?”</p>
<p>The town shuddered and quivered. The people were stupefied.</p>
<p>The air-atoms trembled audibly.</p>
<p>Then Psyche’s voice sounded clearly, silver-clearly, from the
consciousness of the wisdom and sacred knowledge which she
possessed.</p>
<p>“Emeralda, for you I have gone through Hell along the black
seas, oceans of pitch, along the horrible sloughs of flaming
hurricanes, along the craters and caverns scarlet and yellow, along the
azure fires and through the white and lilac glow. Give heed to what I
say. Hell answered ‘Vanity!’ when I asked for the Jewel;
the leviathans roared ‘Vanity!’; the chimeras hissed
‘Vanity!’; the spirits cried ‘Vanity!’; and the
whole plaintive viol trilled:</p>
<p>“‘<i>Vanity!</i>’</p>
<p>“Do you understand me, Emeralda? <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb186" href="#pb186" name="pb186">186</a>]</span>Your wish was Vanity,
for the mystic Jewel that bestows godlike power is Vanity, and....
<i>Does not Exist</i>.”</p>
<p>Then it was terrible. The queen, a living idol, burned with rage,
blazed with rage; her heart was inflamed with rage.</p>
<p>Around her, decked out for sacrifice, in festive garb, in the
sunshine and her own dazzling splendour, her people trembled with fear.
And cruelty gleamed in her fixed face; her emerald eyes started so
revengefully from their sockets as though blinded by their own
splendour, and she pulled at the numerous reins....</p>
<p>The horses reared, the white roses fell down, the people screamed
with joy and the fear of death, and the triumphal chariot rattled
on.</p>
<p>Swift as an arrow it thundered on over the people, who paved the way
in ecstacy, and Psyche saw the maddened horses approaching, snorting,
foaming, panting, trampling, pulling, their eyes round and mad....</p>
<p>For a moment she stood firm, proud, tall, pearl-white in the sacred
knowledge she possessed; then the angry hoofs struck her down, and the
horses trampled her as a flower. Emeralda’s chariot rattled over
her, with its <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb187" href="#pb187" name=
"pb187">187</a>]</span>many cutting wheels, and whilst she died like a
crushed lily, trampled in her own lily-whiteness, she thought of her
old father, and how she had crept to his breast and hidden her face in
his beard, before she went to sleep at night....</p>
<p>She died.... But while she lay trampled to death in the mud of human
flesh and blood, and the sacrificial roses kept falling down over her
corpse unrecognisable——</p>
<p>She returned to life, hovering through the air, and felt so light
and unencumbered, and was whiter than ever and naked.</p>
<p>And on her tender shoulders she felt two new wings quivering...!</p>
<p>She hovered over her own body into a drifting cloud, a mist of
fragrance, which farther on she lost sight of; and light, white, and
rarefied, she looked wonderingly at her trampled body and laughed.
Strange, clear, and childlike sounded her laugh in the cloud and
vapoury fragrance.... <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb188" href=
"#pb188" name="pb188">188</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch26" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e2751" class="main">Chapter XXVI</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">The triumphal chariot rattled on madly. Emeralda
stretched out her sceptre, on the top of which glowed a star of
destroying rays. When she stretched out the sceptre and directed the
rays, she scorched monuments, palaces, and parks to a white ash, and,
for her cruel jubilant procession, she cut down everything that came in
her way. The thick white ashes flew up like dust; the jubilant
multitude were scorched; the palaces of jaspar and malachite shrivelled
up like burnt paper; the breath of the horses blew away, like ash, the
white burnt gardens. And right over everything went Emeralda, scorching
as she went. Powerful, foolish, arrogant, and proud she was, and more
unfeeling than ever, spiteful and cruel, hurt in her pride; and she
scorched, and made the way smooth before her. Behind her lay all the
town, and she drove through her kingdom, filling the air with her rays.
She <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb189" href="#pb189" name=
"pb189">189</a>]</span>drove through valleys and burnt up the harvest;
she reduced villages to dust; she dried up rivers; and before her, the
mountains split asunder.</p>
<p>Her sceptre made a way for her, and no law of nature resisted her
power. The air was grey with the clouds of ash, which rained down upon
the earth.</p>
<p>She went along as swiftly as an arrow, swiftly as lightning, swiftly
as light, swiftly as thought. She went so swiftly, that in a single
hour she had gone all round her wide kingdom intoxicated with the pride
of annihilation, and she drove her maddened horses through endless
plains of sand.</p>
<p>Desert after desert she consumed; the lions fled before her; she
overtook them in a moment; clouds of sand she sent up into the
air....</p>
<p>But then she relaxed her speed. She stopped.</p>
<p>Before her, grey and high through the clouds of sand and falling
ash, there loomed a most dreadful shadow.</p>
<p>The shadow was like a gigantic beast, squatting in the sand, with a
woman’s head in a stiff basalt veil. The woman’s head had
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb190" href="#pb190" name=
"pb190">190</a>]</span>a woman’s breast, two basalt breasts of a
gigantic woman. But the body that squatted in the sand was a lion, and
the paws stuck out like walls. And so great was the shadow, so
monstrous the beast, that even the triumphal chariot of Emeralda
appeared small.</p>
<p>“Sphinx!” said Emeralda, “I will know. I am
powerful, but there is power above me. There are spheres above mine,
and there are gods above my divinity. There are laws of nature which my
sceptre cannot alter. Sphinx, tell me the riddle. Reveal to me the
place where the Jewel lies hidden, which gives almighty power over the
world and God, so that I may find it and become the mightiest of all
gods. Sphinx, answer me, I say! Open your stony lips and let your voice
once more be heard, that shall make the world tremble with wonder. For
centuries you have not spoken. Sphinx, speak now! For if you do not
speak, Sphinx, and reveal to me where the Jewel lies hidden, then,
great and terrible as you are, I will scorch you to a white ash and go
over you in triumph. Sphinx, speak!”</p>
<p>The Sphinx was silent. The Sphinx looked with stony eyes at the
clouds of sand and raining ash. Her basalt lips remained shut.
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb191" href="#pb191" name=
"pb191">191</a>]</span></p>
<p>“Sphinx, speak!!” said Emeralda, threateningly and red
with rage.</p>
<p>The Sphinx spoke not and looked.</p>
<p>Emeralda stretched out her sceptre and directed the destroying
rays.</p>
<p>The rays split on the basalt with crackling sparks like flashes of
forked lightning. Emeralda uttered a cry, hoarse and terrible. She
threw away her broken sceptre. But of her greater power she did not
doubt, and for the last time she threatened.</p>
<p>“Terrible Sphinx, tremble! I am more terrible than you!!
Speak, Sphinx!!”</p>
<p>The Sphinx was silent.</p>
<p>Then Emeralda tugged at the reins.</p>
<p>The maddened horses reared, snorting, foaming, panting, trampling,
pulling, and dashed against the Sphinx.</p>
<p>But the foremost horses were dashed to pieces against the god-like
basalt.</p>
<p>Then Emeralda uttered cry after cry, one hoarse cry after another,
which resounded through the desert. She tugged at the reins; the
horses, despairing of their attack against the immovable, drove at the
Sphinx, and fell back crushed, falling over one another and trampling
one another to death; the triumphal <span class="pagenum">[<a id=
"pb192" href="#pb192" name="pb192">192</a>]</span>chariot split, and
the splinters of sparkling jewels flew up like cracking fireworks, and
Emeralda fell between the still revolving wheels. And her heart of ruby
broke. All her dazzling splendour suddenly faded. The terrifying
fan-like aureola suddenly grew dim, and the desert was grey and gloomy,
with a gentle rain of thick white ash falling down.</p>
<p>The Sphinx was silent, and looked on.... <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb193" href="#pb193" name="pb193">193</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div id="ch27" class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 id="xd20e2803" class="main">Chapter XXVII</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first">Psyche was alive again, soaring through the air, and
felt so light and ethereal; pearl-whiter she was than ever, and
naked.</p>
<p>And on her tender shoulders she felt two new wings
fluttering...!</p>
<p>She hovered away over her own dead body into a drifting cloud, a
fragrant mist, which farther on she lost sight of; and light, white,
and ethereal, she looked with wonder at her trampled corpse and
laughed....</p>
<p>Strange, clear, and childlike sounded her laugh in the cloud and
vapoury fragrance....</p>
<p>“Psyche!”</p>
<p>She heard her name, but so dazzled and astonished was she, that she
did not see. Then the wind blew about her; the cloud moved, the
fragrance ascended like incense, and she saw many like herself,
restored to life, hovering <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb194" href=
"#pb194" name="pb194">194</a>]</span>in the fragrant cloud, and round
her she distinguished the outlines of well-known faces.</p>
<p>“Psyche!”</p>
<p>She recognised the voice, deep bronze, but yet strange. And the wind
blew about her and she saw a bright light before her, and recognised
the Chimera!</p>
<p>“You promised me: once more!” exclaimed Psyche
joyfully.</p>
<p>She threw herself on to his back, she clung to his mane, and he
soared aloft.</p>
<p>“Where am I?” said Psyche. “Who am I? What has
happened? And what is going on around me? Am I dead, or do I live?
Chimera, how rarefied is the air! how high you ascend! Are you going to
ascend higher, higher still? Why is everything so dazzlingly bright
about us? Is that water, or air, or light? What strange element is
this? Who are going up with us—ethereal faces, ethereal forms?
And what is the viol that is playing?</p>
<p>“I heard that once before. Then it sounded plaintively; now it
has a joyous sound!</p>
<p>“Chimera, why is the air so full of joy here...? Look! below
us is the Kingdom of the Past.</p>
<div class="figure xd20e2835width"><img src="images/p194.jpg" alt=
"The Kingdom of the Future" width="482" height="720">
<p class="figureHead">The Kingdom of the Future</p>
<p class="first">[<i>To face p. 194</i></p>
</div>
<p>“It lies in a little circle, and the castle is a <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb195" href="#pb195" name=
"pb195">195</a>]</span>black dot. Chimera, where are you going so high?
We have never been so high before. Chimera, what are those circles all
round us, the splendour of which makes me giddy? Are those spheres? Do
they get wider and wider? Oh, how wide they get, Chimera, how wide! How
high it is here, how wide, how rarefied and how light is the air! I
feel myself also so light, so ethereal! Am I dead...? Chimera, look! I
have two new wings, and I shine pearl-white all over. Do I not shine
like a light? It is true I have been very sinful. But I was what I had
to be! Is it good to be what we have to be? I do not know, Chimera: I
have thought of neither good nor bad; I was only what I was. But tell
me, who am I now, and what am I? And where are you taking me to,
Chimera? You carry me so quietly, so safely; up and down go your wings,
up and down. The stars are twinkling round us; around us whirl the
spheres, and wider and wider they become...! How light, how ethereal!
What is that I see on the horizon? Or is it not the horizon? Opal
islands, aerial oceans.... O Chimera!!!! I see purple sands wrinkling
far, far away, and round them foams a golden sea.... We saw
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb196" href="#pb196" name=
"pb196">196</a>]</span>that once before, but not as it is now! For then
it was delusion, and now...! The sands are growing more distinct; I see
the ripple of the golden sea.... Chimera! What land is that? Is that
the rainbow? Is that the land of happiness, and are you the
king?”</p>
<p>“No, Psyche, I am not a king, and that Land....”</p>
<p>“—And that Land...?”</p>
<p>“Is ... the Kingdom of the Future!”</p>
<p>“The Future! the Future!! O Chimera, where are you taking me
to? Will the Future not prove to be a delusion...?”</p>
<p>“No, here is the Future. Here is the Land. Look at it well ...
well....”</p>
<p>“It is wider than the widest sphere, wider than anything I can
think of. Where are the limits?”</p>
<p>“Nowhere.”</p>
<p>“How far and how wide is the widest sphere?”</p>
<p>“Immeasurably far, indescribably wide....”</p>
<p>“And what stretches away round the widest sphere?”</p>
<p>“The unutterable, and the <i>All, All</i>! The....”
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb197" href="#pb197" name=
"pb197">197</a>]</span></p>
<p>“The...?”</p>
<p>“I know no names! On earth things are called by names; here
not....”</p>
<p>“Chimera...! On the purple strand I see a town of light,
palaces of light, gates of light.... Do beings of light dwell there...?
Are these the fore-spheres of the farthest sphere...? Is that the way
through circles to ... the....? Chimera, I see forms, I see the people
of light!! O Chimera! Chimera!! They are beckoning us, they are waving
to us! I see two of them: a form of majesty, and another, near him, of
love! O Chimera! I know them!! That is my father, and that ... O joy, O
joy! ... that is Eros! Eros! Quicker, Chimera—annihilate the
space which separates us; speed on, ply your wings faster—away,
away! Oh, faster, Chimera! Can you not go faster? You fly too slowly
for me! You fly too slowly!! I can fly faster than you.”</p>
<p>She spread out her tender, light, butterfly wings; she rose above
the breathless, winged horse, and ... she flew...!</p>
<p>She glided over the Chimera’s head toward the strand, toward
the city, toward the blessed spirits. There she saw her father, there
she <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb198" href="#pb198" name=
"pb198">198</a>]</span>saw Eros—Eros, godlike and naked, with
shining wings!</p>
<p>Round her the viol of joy played its joyous notes, as if all the
spheres rejoiced together. In the divine light, the faces of the
cherubim began to blossom like winged roses....</p>
<p>She glided swiftly through the air to her father and Eros, and
embraced them. She laughed when she saw the flaming Chimera
approaching, because she could fly faster than he!</p>
<p>“Come!” cried Eros joyfully. And he wanted to take her
to the gate, from whence sunbeams issued like a path of sunny gold: a
path along which enraptured souls were going hand in hand....</p>
<p>But the kingly shade stopped them for a moment, when they, Eros and
Psyche, intoxicated with love, embraced each other....</p>
<p>“Look!” said the shade. “Look down
below....”</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>They saw the Kingdom of the Past, with their glorified minds, lying
visible, deep in the funnel of the spheres. They saw the castle, fallen
to ruins, with a single tower still standing. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb199" href="#pb199" name="pb199">199</a>]</span>They
saw Astra, old, grey, and blind, sitting before her telescope, and
gazing in vain. They saw her star flicker up for a moment with a bright
and final light.</p>
<p>Then they saw Astra’s blind eyes ... see! Astra looked and
beheld the land of light, and the little band of happy, loving, dear
ones in their shining raiment. Then they heard Astra murmur:
“There! there ... the Land...! The ... Kingdom ... of ... the ...
Future!!!”</p>
<p>And they saw her star extinguish:</p>
<p>She fell back dead....</p>
<p>The viol of gladness trilled.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="back">
<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first xd20e2915">Printed by Neill and Co., Ltd., Edinburgh.
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb201" href="#pb201" name=
"pb201">201</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first xd20e2919">Alston Rivers’s Publications</p>
<p class="xd20e2919">INCLUDING SPRING AND SUMMER ANNOUNCEMENTS,
1908.</p>
<div class="figure xd20e2924width"><img src="images/logo.gif" alt=
"Publisher’s Logo: Monogram A.R. with head of Neptune and numbers 1904."
width="153" height="158"></div>
<p class="xd20e2928">LONDON: ALSTON RIVERS, LIMITED BROOKE STREET,
HOLBORN BARS, E.C. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb202" href="#pb202"
name="pb202">202</a>]</span></p>
<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h3 class="main">Fiction.</h3>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first adTitle"><b>The Sword Decides!</b> By the Author of
“<span class="sc">The Viper of Milan</span>,” and
“<span class="sc">The Glen o’ Weeping</span>.<span class=
"corr" id="xd20e2944" title="Not in source">”</span> <b>Marjorie
Bowen.</b> Second Impression.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“This remarkable book is a series of the most vivid Italian
illuminations, a collection of word pictures, as detailed and as
splendid as the choicest gems from ‘Les très riches
heures’.... She has told it with so much power and insight that
it lives and convinces the reader without any need of proof. In this
third novel the writer has gone back to the source of her first
success, ‘The Viper of Milan,’ but she brings to this later
story so much more strength of characterisation, so much greater
freedom in the handling of the plot, and such a great deepening of
emotional power, that the earlier book, praised as it was when it
appeared, will seem a pale and amateurish novel beside its wonderful
successor.”—<span class="sc">The Westminster
Gazette.</span></p>
<p>“A splendid book. Splendid in that it is full-blooded, bold,
dashing, flaming-coloured; splendid in that it goes with a tremendous
clattering swing; splendid in that it is played under the full glare of
blazing sunshine.”—<span class="sc">The Daily
Graphic.</span></p>
<p>“It is probable that she will settle down for the next few
years upon such reputation as ‘The Sword Decides’ may make
for her. If that is so, we do not think she has much to fear.... The
breathless spirit of the thing is so well sustained that it is
impossible not to be carried away by it.... Her third book we think,
secures her reputation.”—<span class="sc">The Daily
Telegraph.</span></p>
<p>“For the scene of her new novel Miss Marjorie Bowen has
returned to the country with which she won her first success.... This
romance, indeed, in many ways, is superior to anything that its author
has ever written.... In fact, her remarkable gifts of description, her
quick eye for romance and passion and dramatic effect, never seriously
falter. The whole story moves with resistless might to a great and
awe-inspiring climax, in which a fierce conflict
wages.”—<span class="sc">The Standard.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Heather.</b> By the Author of “<span class=
"sc">A Pixy in Petticoats</span>,” “<span class=
"sc">Arminel of the West</span>,” and “<span class=
"sc">Furze the Cruel</span>.” <b>John Trevena.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“Almost everywhere on Dartmoor are furze, heather, and
granite. The furze seems to suggest cruelty, the heather endurance, and
the granite strength. The furze is destroyed by fire, but grows again;
the granite is worn away imperceptibly by the rain. This work is the
first of a proposed trilogy, which the author hopes to continue and
complete with ‘Heather’ and
‘Granite.’”</p>
<p>So ran Mr. John Trevena’s Introductory Note in “Furze
the Cruel,” the brilliant success of which was one of the
features of last year’s publishing. Could there exist, it was
asked by readers whose information was confined to holiday tours in the
West, among those pleasant Devonshire folks men so brutal and so devoid
of moral sense? Yes, answered those who knew, it was too true, and no
more faithful picture of life among the Dartmoor peasants has ever been
presented. But, happily, there are many delightful characters around
Dartmoor for Mr. Trevena to portray, and though no Devonshire novel
which blinked the depravity and ignorance that prevail could be
pronounced really artistic, the title of “Heather,” as
being typical of endurance, suggests a singularly attractive story.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>A Case for Compromise.</b> By the Author of
“<span class="sc">The Adventures of Count
O’connor</span>.” <b>Henry Stace.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>Mr. Henry Stace’s name is familiar as the author of the
rattling “Adventures of Count O’Connor,” which was
much appreciated. The author’s delightful sense of humour and his
pure literary style are sure to win him a wide popularity in the near
future, and “A Case for Compromise” will be found to be
even more entertaining than the author’s first work. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb203" href="#pb203" name="pb203">203</a>]</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The People Downstairs.</b> By the Author of
“<span class="sc">Mr. Meyer’s Pupil</span>.” <b>Eva
Lathbury.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>Few new writers have enjoyed a more satisfactory <i>début</i>
than Miss Eva Lathbury. Her first novel, “Mr. Meyer’s
Pupil,” was so extremely intellectual and refined that some
publishers might well have hesitated in taking it up. The discernment
of the English novel reader, however, was once more vindicated, and the
majority of the critics were highly complimentary, one reviewer going
so far as to suggest that Miss Lathbury would found a school of her own
in fiction. The delicate wit that distinguished “Mr.
Meyer’s Pupil” pervades “The People
Downstairs,” which is sure to enhance an already enviable
reputation.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>A Bride on Trust.</b> By the Author of
“<span class="sc">Tears of Angels</span>,”
“<span class="sc">An Imperial Love Story</span>,” etc.
<b>Capt. Henry Curties.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“A wonderful royal romance.”—<span class=
"sc">Times.</span> “A veritable feast of romance and sensation of
the better type.”—<span class="sc">Globe.</span> “A
capital book.”—<span class="sc">Daily Graphic.</span>
“A stirring and original story.”—<span class=
"sc">Birmingham Post.</span> “Capt. Curties has achieved another
success.”—<span class="sc">Liverpool Post.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Attainment.</b> By the Author of
“<span class="sc">Kit’s Woman</span>,” and
“<span class="sc">My Cornish Neighbours</span>.” <b>Mrs.
Havelock Ellis.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>Mrs. Havelock Ellis is already responsible for two books, one of
which was the delightful volume of Cornish sketches entitled “My
Cornish Neighbours”; the other “Kit’s Woman,” a
fine story of which the characterisation was much admired.
“Attainment,” however, is her first attempt at a long
novel, and its appearance is being eagerly awaited by a large circle of
novel readers. The story is founded on experiments socialistic,
philanthropic and idealistic, and points to the value of a natural life
in every respect.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>A Melton Monologue.</b> <b>Diana
Crossways.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice">3s. 6d.</p>
<p>“Those who appreciate hunting and hunting sketches will
delight in this bright and interesting picture.... Should attain
considerable popularity.”—<span class="sc">Southport
Guardian.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Disinherited of the Earth.</b> By the Author
of “<span class="sc">The Tower of Siloam</span>.” <b>Mrs.
Henry Graham.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>Mrs. Henry Graham’s previous novel, “The Tower of
Siloam,” was a notable success, her thorough knowledge of society
being at once recognised. For her second book she has chosen a very
different phase of life among the wealthy classes, the bigoted Lady
Verrier being a distinct creation, whereas in her first book the author
did not attempt to overstep the line of conventionality. In “The
Disinherited of the Earth,” moreover, a most commendable
restraint is to be noted, while the characterisation is excellent
throughout.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Prinsloo of Prinsloosdorp.</b> By <b>“Sarel
Erasmus” (Douglas Blackburn)</b>. A new edition of a South
African Classic. Cloth gilt,</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>2s.</b></p>
<p>Though on publication nine years or so ago, “Prinsloo of
Prinsloosdorp” achieved a marked success in South Africa, and in
circles well versed in South African affairs, there is no doubt that
the little book never met with the general appreciation it deserved. On
its merits it is a classic, and, though possibly the Boer and his ways
may have altered, as a record of how a white republic could be governed
in modern times, the “Tale of Transvaal Officialdom” can
never be excelled. Certainly nothing more humorously naive has ever
been written than this vindication, ostensibly written by his
son-in-law, of the much maligned Piet Prinsloo’s memory; it
should occupy a place in the bookshelf of everyone who likes to be
intellectually amused. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb204" href=
"#pb204" name="pb204">204</a>]</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Leaven: A Black and White Story.</b> <b>Douglas
Blackburn.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>The author of “Prinsloo of Prinsloosdorp” has more than
once proved his ability to write a sustained and<a id="xd20e3147" name=
"xd20e3147"></a> serious story, and though certain aspects of life in
South Africa are so absurd as to be merely amusing, there is no
question that the native problem with which he has chosen to deal in
his latest book, is sufficiently grave. So far the Kafir in fiction has
either been a farcical chatterbox or an object lesson of futile
humanitarianism. Witty and pathetic as Mr. Douglas Blackburn can be on
occasion, he indulges in neither low comedy, nor sickly sentimentality
in “Leaven.” He traces the young Kafir from leaving his
native kraal in guilty haste, to the luxury of a good position in a
mining compound. Incidentally young Bulalie is cast into prison and
treated with the grossest brutality, and the characters who are
concerned in his abasement and rescue are altogether original; the
unconventional missionary, the Pietermaritzberg landlady, and the
compound manager, are only a few of the admirable sketches which make
“Leaven” a novel of remarkable and original merit.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h3 class="main">General Literature.</h3>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first adTitle"><b>London Dead, and other Verses.</b> <b>C.
Kennett Burrow.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>1s.</b> net.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Lost Water, and other Poems.</b> <b>Mrs. I.
K. Lloyd.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>1s.</b> net.</p>
<p>Two more important additions to <i>The Contemporary Poets
Series</i>.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>From a Hertfordshire Cottage.</b> <b>W. Beach
Thomas.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>3s. 6d.</b></p>
<p>A collection of Essays by this well-known “nature”
writer. Should not be missed by the owner of even the most modest
library of country life.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>With the M.C.C. in Australia.</b> <b>Major Philip
Trevor.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>1s.</b> net.</p>
<p>When the M.C.C. team left for Australia there were many sanguine
people who prophesied that the deplorable withdrawals of well-known
players notwithstanding, the Colonials would have to look after their
laurels in the Test Matches. Unfortunately, in this case, optimism was
misplaced, and the champions of the Northern Country are returning
defeated but by no means disgraced. Previously to his departure as
manager of the tour, Major Philip Trevor had promised to write an
account of all that happened, and <span class="sc">Mr. Alston
Rivers</span> has now issued the book at a popular price. Major Trevor
is not only a consummate judge of all that concerns cricket, but is an
exceptionally acute observer of all that goes on outside the actual
game and, though it is to be regretted that he has not brilliant
victories to record, his account of the Englishmen’s Antipodean
experiences are sure to be extremely interesting.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>G. K. C.</b> <b>Anon.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>5s.</b></p>
<p>To the uninitiated it must be explained that the title is composed
of the three letters with which the Christian names and surname of Mr.
Gilbert Chesterton commence, forming a <i lang="fr">nom de guerre</i>
of the first importance in literary circles. Everybody knows how
delightful a humour is Mr. Chesterton’s, and probably no one will
enjoy the sallies of his anonymous critic more than he himself.
Perhaps, however, “critic” is hardly the word for the
author of “G. K. C.”; he is rather a jester whose
irrepressible hilarity is favoured by a fortunate choice of his
subject. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb205" href="#pb205" name=
"pb205">205</a>]</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Spirit of Parliament.</b> <b>Duncan Schwann,
M.P.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>3s. 6d.</b> net.</p>
<p>“A great deal of the very delightful reading in this little
book must, of course, be attributed to the always picturesque and
lively style of the writer, who probably has as keen an appreciation of
the historical traditions of Parliament as he has of its everyday work
of debate and occasional law-making.... A delightful volume, and no one
need be politically inclined to thoroughly enjoy
it.”—<span class="sc">Daily Graphic.</span></p>
<p>“Not only gives us a picture of the House that is vivid and
graphic in itself, but also, and in part unconsciously, a plainly
genuine account of its psychological effect upon its own members,
especially as experienced by the newcomers in 1906. It is here that Mr.
Schwann is at his best.”—<span class="sc">Morning
Leader.</span></p>
<p>“Mr. Schwann has written a volume which will enhance a most
promising reputation. He has literary grace and charm; he thinks; he is
an idealist; he is a choice scholar; and he has a saving grace of
humour.”—<span class="sc">Manchester City News.</span></p>
<p>“There is no finer passage in Mr. Schwann’s book than
that in which he describes with vivid realistic power, but without
mentioning names, the gathering passion engendered by a great
debate.”—<span class="sc">Liverpool Daily Post.</span></p>
<p>“What is the spirit of Parliament? That is the question which
Mr. Duncan Schwann, M.P., worthy son of a worthy father, sets out to
answer in a book of singular grace and charm.... No looker-on can quite
realise the actual stress and storm of the struggle itself—the
ridiculous vehemence of feeling, the absurd agony of soul, which must
often rack the actors in some great Parliamentary debate. Mr. Duncan
Schwann gives us some idea of it.”—<span class="sc">Daily
Chronicle.</span></p>
<p>“It is a pleasant, talky book, which freshly re-echoes the
solemn reverberation of Big Ben.”—<span class=
"sc">Scotsman.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Search for the Western Sea.</b> <b>Lawrence
J. Burpee.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>16s.</b> net.</p>
<p><span class="sc">The Scotsman says</span>: “In preparing this
volume of six hundred pages he has gone to original sources for his
information, and this has entailed much trouble and research. The
result is satisfactory. A clear and consecutive picture is afforded of
a work of discovery, prosecuted during more than two centuries by men
of French and British blood.”</p>
<p><span class="sc">The Daily Mail says</span>: “The story of the
long search for the Western Sea, and of the brave and hardy men who
conducted it, is well told by Mr. Lawrence J. Burpee in the big book he
has written. The volume is of great interest, not only to the
geographer, but to anyone who likes to read of true
adventures.”</p>
<p><span class="sc">The Publisher’s Circular says</span>:
“Original documents form the basis of this remarkable and
important work, and in chief those preserved in the Canadian Archives
at Ottawa. A satisfactory survey of the exploration of N.W. America has
not really existed until the publication of this book. This story is
full of human interest.... The illustrations are good, so also the
maps, the index, and the valuable bibliography of works dealing with
the exploration of N.W. America—altogether the book is a
model.”</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Psyche.</b> Illustrated.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>3s. 6d.</b></p>
<p>Louis Couperus is a Dutch author, and he has written the most
delightful work entitled “Psyche.” Such a literary gem
baffles description, for there has never been a book quite like it. The
ennobling qualities of “Psyche” should assuredly not be
overlooked by clergymen, schoolmasters and others whose concern it
is<span class="corr" id="xd20e3301" title="Not in source">,</span> in a
materialistic age, to guide youth into the proper paths; for behind the
graceful imagery of “Psyche” is a moral which no sermon
which was ever written could convey. <span class="sc">Mr. Alston
Rivers</span> is publishing the work, translated by the Rev. B. S.
Berrington, and illustrated by Dion Clayton Calthrop, towards the end
of July. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb206" href="#pb206" name=
"pb206">206</a>]</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Citizen Books.</b> Edited by <b>W. Beach
Thomas</b>.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>1s.</b> net each.</p>
<p>The first of the Citizen Books series was “To-day in Greater
Britain,” and every review that has appeared so far has been
enthusiastic in praise of its lucidity and sound sense. Following up
this success, a second volume, to be quickly followed by more, has just
been published. It is entitled “The Face of England,” and
the author, Mr. A. K. Collett, has thoroughly entered into the spirit
of the series which is intended to supply “guide-books to the
present.” The scope of this useful little book can best be gauged
by the titles of the eleven chapters: The Outline of Britain; The
Surface of Britain; The Rainfall and the Rocks; Soil and Industries;
Agriculture; Moors, Fens and Forests; Climate; Roads, Canals and
Railways; Tides and Harbours; Sea Routes and Fisheries; Landscape and
Language.</p>
<p>The whole series is planned with a view to use in schools, the
information being conveyed in the plainest way possible, and extreme
care being taken to make the matter readable; the books themselves are
strongly bound in cloth, and the price, one shilling each, is decidedly
moderate.</p>
<p>Though, of course, polemical matter could hardly be introduced into
“The Face of England” (though it is wonderful how it can
insinuate itself), there are other volumes such as “The Civic
Life” (to be published shortly) where the greatest care has to be
exercised. That no political bias of any kind will be introduced should
be vouched for by the editorship of the series being in the experienced
hands of Mr. W. Beach Thomas.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The New Transvaal.</b> <b>Miss M. C.
Bruce.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice">Cloth, <b>1s. 6d.</b> net. Paper, <b>1s.</b>
net.</p>
<p>“One of the best books on South Africa we have had for a long
time. It is priced at a shilling only, but it has more stuffing in it
than half the pretentious expensive books which have been manufactured
about the sub-Continent. The authoress is one who knows. That is
apparent on every page. The book is full of common sense ... we
congratulate Miss Bruce on her clever work.”</p>
<p>This is what “South Africa” has to say about a little
book, which Mr. Alston Rivers has just published, written by Miss M. C.
Bruce and entitled “The New Transvaal.” It was high time
that the ignorance and apathy of the English at home as to South Africa
was dispelled, and only quite recently certain revelations have shed
further light on the subject. Without being by any means a partisan,
Miss Bruce has much to say about the Chinese Labour question; she
speaks from her own personal observation. Her descriptions of the
country and methods of life are extraordinarily interesting.</p>
<p>Though “The New Transvaal” is published in paper covers
at one shilling net, it is obtainable at eighteenpence, tastefully
bound in cloth.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Water: Its Origin and Use.</b> <b>W.
Coles-Finch</b>, Engineer of the Chatham Waterworks.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>21s.</b> net.</p>
<p>Mr. Coles Finch’s book should prove to be the standard popular
work on the element with which it deals. Though written by an expert,
“Water: Its Origin and Use,” is not a purely scientific
book; it is, as the author remarks in his Preface, “simply an
ordinary person’s interpretation of what he sees in Nature and
represents his best efforts to describe the same.”</p>
<p>How successful have been these efforts is attested by the warm
eulogies of many eminent scientists to whom advance copies have been
submitted.</p>
<p>An attractive volume, embellished by many beautiful illustrations,
including Alpine scenes from photographs taken by Mrs. Aubrey le Blond,
who has achieved wide renown in this branch of art.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>France in the Twentieth Century.</b> By the
Author of “<span class="sc">Engines of Social
Progress</span>,” <b>W. L. George</b>.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b> net.</p>
<p>Mr. George, whose previous work was extremely well received, has
undertaken a somewhat ambitious task, but the appearance of a book on
modern France is most timely, and, even if less skilfully treated, a
work of the kind would attract wide attention. “France in the
Twentieth Century,” however, is certain to prove much more than a
book of the passing hour, for not only is it intelligently written, but
it shows a thorough grasp of the subject. Every chapter is of value,
and the fact that the author was educated in France, and actually
served his time in the French Army, gives additional interest to a
handsome volume. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb207" href="#pb207"
name="pb207">207</a>]</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Goethe’s “Faust” Translated in
Verse.</b> <b>Sir George Buchanan, C.B., K.C.V.O.</b></p>
<p class="adPrice">Post 8vo, cloth, gilt, <b>2s. 6d.</b> net, Leather,
<b>3s. 6d.</b> net.</p>
<p>The Diplomatic Service, exacting though its duties may be, gives
opportunities of a study of European literature that rarely falls to
others. Though there have been other translations of
“Faust” in prose or verse, Sir George Buchanan’s
rendering shows fine insight, and such an appreciation of the German
poet’s ideas as few scholars evince. Only the first part of
Goethe’s masterpiece is translated, the second part being
described in a note by the author.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h3 class="main">Fiction.</h3>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first adTitle"><b>Mr. Meyer’s Pupil.</b> By
<span class="sc">Eva Lathbury</span>. Second Impression.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>Ever since the foundation of the publishing house of Alston Rivers,
a persistent endeavour has been made to discover new authors, and to
appreciate how successful has been the quest a mere glance at the
firm’s publications will suffice. In introducing Miss Eva
Lathbury to readers of fiction, the publisher can but hope that he is
not too sanguine in anticipating that the author’s lively wit and
whimsical outlook on the life of the leisured classes will meet with
the reception which, in his opinion, it deserves. The author’s
style should at least escape the charge of being derivative. The volume
is rendered still more attractive by means of a coloured frontispiece
by Mr. R. Pannett.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Adventures of Count O’Connor.</b> By
<span class="sc">Henry Stace</span>.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>A new novel writer of exceptional promise is always interesting, but
when he makes his bow equipped with a story that is absolutely fresh,
his chances of success are all the greater. In “The Adventures of
Count O’Connor” at the Court of the Great Mogul, the author
has found a theme exactly fitted to his delightful humour and vivacity.
No historian has ever furnished a more convincing idea of the crafty
Aurungzebe and his egregious court. The escapades of the hero, as the
self-dubbed Irish “Count” may worthily be styled, are of
the most extraordinary description, and are recounted so racily, that
the reader can barely pause to question his veracity. The
“Count’s” journey from Agra to Surat is packed with
incident, and though gruesome events are chronicled, the writer’s
innate lightheartedness completely divests them of horror.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Lord of Latimer Street.</b> By <span class=
"sc">Jane Wardle</span>. Author of “The Artistic
Temperament.”</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>In the early months of last year Miss Wardle’s first book made
a sensation both in the literary circles and with the general public,
it being a matter of common wonder how such a young lady, as she was
understood to be, could have such a grasp of the artistic, commercial,
and suburban worlds. That Miss Wardle would be heard of again was
prophesied by more than one critic, and there seems every prospect of
“The Lord of Latimer Street” going far to substantiate her
claim to recognition as a writer of marked originality. As may be
conjectured from the title, Miss Wardle’s new book is concerned
with characters of more lofty station than was the type depicted in
“The Artistic Temperament.” The same whimsical humour,
however, pervades the story, which, it is to be hoped, is sufficiently
characteristic of the author to allay any suspicion on the part of
critics as to a concealment of identity.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Meddler.</b> By <span class="sc">H. de Vere
Stacpoole</span> and <span class="sc">W. A. Bryce</span>. With 8
illustrations and frontispiece.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>Those who affect the lighter side of literature have never been in
such need of thoroughly amusing books as during the last year or two,
and with the host of requests for “something with a laugh on
every page,” the bookseller has been powerless to comply. The
publication of “The Meddler” is at least one step in the
right direction; it is full of fun of the lightest, healthiest sort.
The artist, too, has entered thoroughly into the spirit of a book which
goes with a merry swing from start to finish. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb208" href="#pb208" name="pb208">208</a>]</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Furze the Cruel.</b> By <span class="sc">John
Trevena</span>. Author of “Arminel of the West,” etc. Third
Impression.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>Mr. John Trevena’s rise to a high position among West Country
novelists has been rapid indeed. If “A Pixy in Petticoats”
revealed a talent for romance, combined with the nicest vein of rustic
humour, “Arminel of the West” proved that the author was
fully equal to the task of writing a really powerful novel. In his
latest work he has advanced still farther, for there has been no more
artistic representation of the men and women, far from simple in many
respects, yet in others primitive to a degree, who dwell in the heart
of Devon. When a district possesses chroniclers like Mr. Trevena, it is
easy to explain why holiday makers are year by year evincing a
disposition to leave the beaten tracks in their rambles.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Turn of the Balance.</b> By <span class=
"sc">Brand Whitlock</span>.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>Though it is true that many novels that have had a huge vogue in
America meet with a comparatively frigid reception on this side of the
Atlantic, it is equally true that when once an American book hits the
British taste, the impression it leaves is far more lasting than that
of the average run of publications. “The Turn of the
Balance” is the work of a realist who, perhaps inspired
originally by the arch-realist, Mr. Howett, has attained a realism that
places him in a position entirely his own. “‘The Turn of
the Balance,’” says Mr. Upton Sinclair, author of
“The Jungle,” “is an extraordinary piece of work. It
is as true as life itself, and yet irresistible in its grip upon the
reader. I know nothing with which to compare it, except Tolstoy’s
‘Resurrection.’”</p>
<p>The title gives a ready clue to the purpose of the book. “The
Turn of the Balance” is a searching and sweeping arraignment of
American modes of administering justice. The indictment is set forth in
detail and particularity acquired through years of living at first-hand
contact with the sufferers from man’s inhumanity to man. The law
itself is put on trial here, and all who reach from under the
law’s mantle black hands to crush their fellows with
injustice.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Rainy Day.</b> Tales from the Great City. By
the Author of “A London Girl,” etc. Second impression.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>3s. 6d.</b></p>
<p>The anonymous author of Tales from the Great City has already
attained to high repute by means of “A London Girl” and
“Closed Doors,” in both of which his unrelenting pen
exposed the depths of misery that underlie the so-called “Life of
Pleasure.” In his latest work, “The Rainy Day,” the
author turns his attention to the middle-class suburb as it existed in
the eighties of last century, before the local idea was completely
absorbed by the spirit of metropolitanism. To the novel reader who
demands a good story, and to the student of social phenomena,
“The Rainy Day” can be recommended with equal
confidence.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Glen o’ Weeping.</b> By <span class=
"sc">Marjorie Bowen</span>. Fourth impression.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“Is a great improvement upon ‘The Viper of Milan,’
with which Miss Marjorie Bowen suddenly conquered a position for
herself last year. The writer is on firm ground. It is our own history
that she is playing with, and it is handled with far more confidence
and power of conviction than a seasoned reader found in her Italian
feast of bloodshed.”—<span class="sc">Outlook.</span></p>
<p>“Such a novel as this might be placed not very far from those
in which the Master of Historical Romance made such admirable use of
Scottish history.”—<span class="sc">Scotsman.</span></p>
<p>“Should serve to maintain the popularity, while it increases
the reputation, of the author.”—<span class=
"sc">Tribune.</span></p>
<p>“The only thing to be said about ‘The Viper of
Milan’ and its brilliantly successful successor, ‘The Glen
o’ Weeping,’ is that they carry one completely away. There
is in this second novel every fine quality of its predecessor. It is an
entire and complete success.”—<span class="sc">Morning
Leader.</span></p>
<p>“As we began by saying, Miss Bowen has an assured future, and
is something of a wonder.”—<span class="sc">Daily
Telegraph.</span></p>
<p>“The author has a sense of style and a fertile
imagination.”—<span class="sc">Athenæum.</span>
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb209" href="#pb209" name=
"pb209">209</a>]</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Exton Manor.</b> By <span class="sc">Archibald
Marshall</span>. Author of “Richard Baldock,” etc. Fourth
impression.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“Better than any of its predecessors.... Captain Thomas Turner
might well say of it—could he read a story of which he is a
delightful part—‘That’s a capital
one!’”—<span class="sc">Daily Telegraph.</span></p>
<p>“Few writers of the day have the power of Mr. Marshall to
enchain interest and yet to disregard conventional
devices.”—<span class="sc">Bystander.</span></p>
<p>“Will be read with pleasure from the first page to the
last—and leave the reader still asking for
more.”—<span class="sc">Tribune.</span></p>
<p>“By far the best thing he has done. A novel which is not
merely entertaining, but sane, wholesome<span class="corr" id=
"xd20e3570" title="Not in source">,</span> and excellently
observed—qualities by no means invariably found combined in
modern fiction.”—<span class="sc">Punch.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Privy Seal.</b> By <span class="sc">Ford Madox
Hueffer</span>. Author of “The Fifth Queen,” etc.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“‘Privy Seal’ is written with the same happy
valiancy of language which made ‘The Fifth Queen’ so
admirable, and the plan of the book is masterly. If you do not read Mr.
Hueffer’s book you will miss a rare
enjoyment.”—<span class="sc">Evening News.</span></p>
<p>“As for the desperate political intrigues, the by-plot, the
fighting, the book’s whole body and action, it is admirably
done.”—<span class="sc">Daily News.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>World Without End.</b> By <span class=
"sc">Winifred Graham</span>. Author of “The Vision at the
Savoy,” etc.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“One of those books that haunt! ‘World Without
End’ has already attracted interest in high places. The incursion
of an intrepid Englishman into the forbidden Shrine of Masbad is one of
the most amazing tales which a novelist has had to tell. The Eastern
scenes are altogether admirable. ‘World Without End’ is the
author’s best work.”—<span class=
"sc">World.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Amateur Emigrants.</b> By <span class=
"sc">Thos. Cobb</span>.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“Mr. Cobb has worked a capital idea into his new novel, which
is exceptionally bright and amusing.”—<span class=
"sc">Standard.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Arminel of the West.</b> By <span class="sc">John
Trevena</span>. Author of “A Pixy in Petticoats.”</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“The author made an artistic success of his ‘Pixy in
Petticoats,’ but this book is even better.... We cordially wish
more power to Mr. Trevena’s elbow, and more books from his
pen.”—<span class="sc">Field.</span></p>
<p>“Arminel reminds one of that former pixy in her teasing,
affectionate, plaguey ways.”—<span class="sc">Daily
Mail.</span></p>
<p>“I have read with great delight the second volume of the
author of ‘A Pixy in Petticoats,’ whose name, now divulged,
is John Trevena. To be fresh and unconventional, and yet to have
Devonshire as your <i>locale</i>, is a notable feat, and in
‘Arminel of the West’ Mr. Trevena does this
thing.”—<span class="sc">Bystander.</span></p>
<p>“Mr. Trevena has given us a strong piece of work, marked at
once by observation and fancy.”—<span class="sc">Daily
Telegraph.</span></p>
<p>“The novel is of great promise, and will delight many
readers.”—<span class="sc">Tribune.</span></p>
<p>“Wander with dainty Arminel through Devonshire lanes. You will
end by loving her as we did.”—<span class="sc">Daily
Chronicle.</span></p>
<p>“The charm of the whole is that it displays the spirit of the
moorland.”—<span class="sc">Athenæum.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Artistic Temperament.</b> By <span class=
"sc">Jane Wardle</span>.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“Whoever Miss Jane Wardle may be, he or she has given us a
really diverting story, the forerunner, we hope, of many
others.”—<span class="sc">Daily Telegraph.</span></p>
<p>“It is most mysterious suddenly to find a novel by an unknown
woman, which appeals to one instantly as a very faithful picture of the
very people one sits next to on the tops of omnibuses, dines with
occasionally in suburban drawing-rooms, and meets at one’s own
special brand of club or studio.”—<span class=
"sc">Tribune.</span></p>
<p>“There is much good-natured satire and lively reading at the
expense of Suburbia.”—<span class="sc">Morning
Post.</span></p>
<p>“It is safe to prophesy that Miss Wardle will be heard of
again.”—<span class="sc">Daily Mail.</span> <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb210" href="#pb210" name="pb210">210</a>]</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>A Bunch of Blue Ribbons.</b> By <span class=
"sc">Geo. Morley</span>.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“Mr. George Morley has long since established a lasting claim
upon all who are lovers of, or dwellers in,
Warwickshire.”—<span class="sc">Birmingham Daily
Mail.</span></p>
<p>“It is probably safe to say that no other writer could have
charged a story so full of the authentic and recognisable atmosphere of
Warwickshire village life.”—<span class="sc">Birmingham
Daily Post.</span></p>
<p>“We can commend Mr. Morley’s rural story on many counts,
and we do.”—<span class="sc">Daily Mail.</span></p>
<p>“This is a capital book to peruse among the woods and fields;
the peasants talk very amusingly, and the scenery is well
described.”—<span class="sc">Globe.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Viper of Milan.</b> 11th impression.
<span class="sc">Marjorie Bowen.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“Miss Bowen is to be congratulated <i>upon entering the ranks
of our fictionists with so strong a piece of work; a story for which a
wide popularity may confidently be
predicted</i>.”—<span class="sc">Telegraph.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>A Pixy in Petticoats.</b> <span class="sc">John
Trevena</span>.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“‘A Pixy in Petticoats’ is as good a story of
Dartmoor as has been written these many
moons.”—<span class="sc">Evening Standard.</span></p>
<p>“A glance at any chapter is almost as good as a breath of that
breeze which charges at you on the top of Hay or Yes
Tor.”—<span class="sc">Bystander.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Collusion.</b> <span class="sc">Thomas
Cobb.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“‘Collusion’ has all the brightness and cleverness
which might be expected of the author of ‘Mrs. Erricker’s
Reputation.’”—<span class="sc">Observer.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Meriel of the Moors.</b> <span class="sc">R. E.
Vernède.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>The author’s first essay in fiction, “The Pursuit of Mr.
Faviel,” was universally commended for its sparkling wit. Though
“Meriel of the Moors” is more in the narrative style and
bristling with excitement, the lightness of touch remains. Mr.
Vernède’s career as an author should be assured by his
latest novel.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Ivory Raiders.</b> <span class="sc">Walter
Dalby.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“Mr. Dalby’s enthralling pages, of whose lively colour,
indubitably the result of a rare combination of first-hand experience
and innate literary talent, no adequate notion can be given within the
limits of a review.”—<span class="sc">Glasgow
Herald.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Mrs. Erricker’s Reputation.</b>
<span class="sc">Thomas Cobb.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“We can safely predict that Mr. Cobb’s latest novel will
be one of the hits of the present season.”—<span class=
"sc">Liverpool Courier.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Fifth Queen.</b> <span class="sc">Ford Madox
Hueffer.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“It is an ambitious theme which Mr. Hueffer has taken, and we
have <i>NOTHING BUT CONGRATULATION</i> for him on the resultant
achievement; this book further strengthens his position as <i>ONE OF
THE ABLEST OF THE YOUNGER WRITERS OF THE
DAY</i>.”—<span class="sc">Daily Telegraph.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Richard Baldock.</b> <span class="sc">Archibald
Marshall.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“Unlike nearly all other novelists who appeal to the many, his
work has qualities which commend it no less warmly to the few. The
story of little Richard Baldock might almost have been written by the
author of ‘David Copperfield.’”—Mr.
<span class="sc">Hamilton Fyfe</span> in the <span class="sc">Evening
News</span>.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The House of Merrilees.</b> <span class=
"sc">Archibald Marshall.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“It is a pleasure to praise a book of this kind, and rare to
find one in which a narrative of absorbing interest is combined with so
many literary graces.”—<span class="sc">Bookman.</span></p>
<p>“The best mystery novel since Sir A. Conan Doyle’s
“‘Sign of Four.’”—<span class="sc">Daily
Graphic.</span></p>
<p>“Can recommend cordially and with confidence to those who like
a really good story, well constructed and excellently
told.”—<span class="sc">Punch.</span> <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb211" href="#pb211" name="pb211">211</a>]</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Pursuit of Mr. Faviel.</b> <span class=
"sc">R. E. Vernède.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“Mr. Vernède is able, by his cleverness and wit, to
keep up the interest of this chase from start to finish. He writes with
just that light touch that is necessary.... This most amusing,
well-written book ends exactly as such a book should end—with a
gasp and a laugh and a desire to read another story by Mr.
Vernède.”—<span class="sc">Academy.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>As Dust in the Balance.</b> <span class="sc">Mrs.
H. H. Penrose.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“Her work is a hundred times more genuine, more moving,
stronger than most of that which wins a ready hearing. ‘As Dust
in the Balance’ is a novel remarkable no less for finish than for
strength.”—<span class="sc">Morning Leader.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Unequal Yoke.</b> <span class="sc">Mrs. H. H.
Penrose.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“Mrs. H. H. Penrose, who is one of the women novelists to be
taken into serious account, has not written anything better worth
reading than ‘The Unequal Yoke.’ ... Mrs. Penrose is a bold
thinker and a strong writer.”—<span class=
"sc">World.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Tower Of Siloam.</b> <span class="sc">Mrs.
Henry Graham.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“This extremely readable and well-contrived novel should
secure for its authoress a recognised position amongst the pleasantest
of our writers of light fiction.”—<span class="sc">Daily
Telegraph.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Hugh Rendal: A Public School Story.</b>
<span class="sc">Lionel Portman.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“I really do think this book of Mr. Portman’s may be
quite fairly compared with the greatest school story ever written....
It sets before us both the merits and the faults of the public school
system.”—Mr. <span class="sc">Hamilton Fyfe</span> in the
<span class="sc">Evening News</span>.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>In Desert Keeping.</b> <span class="sc">Edmund
Mitchell.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“A sincere and successful novel.”—<span class=
"sc">Times.</span></p>
<p>“Full of exciting incident, but the fine character drawing
saves it from the charge of sensationalism.”—<span class=
"sc">Glasgow Herald.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Peace On Earth.</b> <span class="sc">Reginald
Turner.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“The thorough originality, both in plot and treatment, of Mr.
Turner’s novel is its principal merit.... A thoroughly fresh
piece of work and a novel of marked power. It gives Mr. Turner a firm
position.”—<span class="sc">Vanity Fair.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Countermine.</b> <span class="sc">Arthur
Wenlock.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“Surely few more commendatory things can be said of any novel
than may fairly be said of this one—that it makes you read
whether you will or no.”—<span class=
"sc">Scotsman.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>A Captain of Men.</b> <span class="sc">E. Anson
More.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“The story is exceedingly well written, and the characters are
worked out with consummate skill. The style of the book makes it doubly
interesting and enjoyable.”—<span class="sc">Dundee
Courier.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Friendships of Veronica.</b> <span class=
"sc">Thomas Cobb.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p>“It is pleasant to be able to say that his latest work is a
great improvement on its immediate
predecessors.”—<span class="sc">Spectator.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Kit’s Woman.</b> By <span class="sc">Mrs.
Havelock Ellis</span>.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>3s. 6d.</b></p>
<p>“I cannot speak too highly of Mrs. Havelock Ellis’s
latest sketch of Cornish village life, ‘Kit’s Woman.’
In its way, this is a little work of genius.”—<span class=
"sc">Bystander.</span></p>
<p>“As a character study of interesting types the book is an
unqualified success.”—<span class="sc">Outlook.</span></p>
<p>“Mrs. Ellis’s book is one of the finest things we have
recently met with.”—<span class="sc">Western Daily
Mercury.</span> <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb212" href="#pb212"
name="pb212">212</a>]</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>My Cornish Neighbours.</b> <span class="sc">Mrs.
Havelock Ellis.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>3s. 6d.</b></p>
<p>“This charming and characteristic volume of stories not only
enhances Mrs. Ellis’s already established reputation as a
finished artist in the most difficult department of fiction, but it
confirms her right to regard Cornwall as peculiarly her own
province.”—<span class="sc">Glasgow Herald.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Closed Doors.</b> Tales from the Great City. By
the Author of “A London Girl.”</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>3s. 6d.</b></p>
<p>By his previous work the author at once established a reputation for
dealing with the under-side of London life. “Closed Doors”
is a social study of a still more subtle type, and the intimate
knowledge of men and things which the book reveals cannot fail to
increase interest in the series.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>A London Girl.</b> Tales from the Great City.
<span class="sc">Anon.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>3s. 6d.</b></p>
<p>“Certain it is that the author of this pitiless tale is
neither ordinary nor inexperienced. ‘Baby’ is a great
creation. She leaps from the printed page into lovely merry life, and
all through she exercises a spell over one.”—<span class=
"sc">Dundee Advertiser.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>In Life’s Byways.</b> <span class="sc">C.
S. Bradford.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>3s. 6d.</b></p>
<p>“They are tales of stirring incident, well worth relating, and
their author has succeeded in the difficult task of keeping them free
from all glamour and unreality.”—<span class=
"sc">Bookman.</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h3 class="main">Gift Books.</h3>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first adTitle"><b>Sarah the Valiant.</b> By <span class=
"sc">Theodora Wilson Wilson</span>. Author of “The Magic
Jujubes,” “A Navvy from King’s,” etc. With 8
illustrations.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>3s. 6d.</b></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Truant Five.</b> By <span class="sc">Raymond
Jacberns</span>. Author of “The New Pupil,” etc. With 6
illustrations.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>3s. 6d.</b></p>
<p>There is no present that is more acceptable to a girl than a nice
book; yet how difficult it is to find exactly the right thing! There
are, of course, dozens of books published every autumn that are
harmless enough, and will, very possibly, afford a certain amount of
pleasure for the moment to the average young lady—but the perfect
book for girls must have so many qualities, mostly negative, no doubt,
but some positive as well. The perfect girl’s book should not
contain any mention of “things” (as Mr. Ford Madox Hueffer
would say). Well, there are plenty that do not, but where such books
fall short of perfection is that “grown-ups” find them
dreadfully tedious to read aloud in the family circle. That is what is
wanted; a book that will interest and amuse everybody; if it comes up
to that requirement it is certain to interest and amuse girls.</p>
<p>Here are two books that everybody will like: “Sarah the
Valiant,” by Theodora Wilson Wilson, is full of entertainment;
the characters all live, and though pathos is never obtruded, the story
is full of the tenderness of which the author has already shown herself
to be possessed in “The Magic Jujubes.” Raymond
Jacberns’s “The Truant Five” is equally certain to
please. So graphically are the young people’s wanderings
described, that the staidest of aunts must feel the vagabond spirit
thrill within her, though the common-sense denouement of the story can
be relied on as an infallible moral antidote. Both books are
beautifully illustrated, and the titles are worth remembering:
“Sarah the Valiant” and “The Truant Five.”
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb213" href="#pb213" name=
"pb213">213</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h3 class="main">General Literature.</h3>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first adTitle"><b>The Book of Living Poets.</b> Edited by
<span class="sc">Walter Jerrold</span>. Crown 8vo.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>7s. 6d.</b> net.</p>
<p>It has been the fashion in literary circles of late to aver that
modern poetry suffers neglect at the hand of the publisher. That
contemporary verse is not altogether unpatronised, however, Mr. Alston
Rivers has already proved by the series of little volumes, all the work
of living authors, that he has issued recently with success. That
effort is now being followed up by a charming volume of upwards of 400
pages, beautifully bound and printed, entitled, “The Book of
Living Poets.” Every contemporary poet of distinction, from whose
pen verse has been recently published, is represented; to name only a
few, Swinburne, Thomas Hardy, Rudyard Kipling, and Alfred Noyes.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Spirit of the People.</b> By <span class=
"sc">Ford Madox Hueffer</span>.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>5s.</b> net.</p>
<p>Mr. Ford Madox Hueffer has been aptly described by a well-known
critic as one of the most interesting figures among present-day
writers. Whether as a poet or as a writer of historical romance, he has
always commanded respect, and the appearance of a new work in either
direction is regarded as a literary event. It was, however, with
“The Soul of London” and its companion volume, “The
Heart of the Country,” that the critics’ pens were at their
busiest, and in his advertisement to the latter book the author made it
known that a third “small projection of a view of modern
life” might shortly be expected. This promise is now to be
redeemed by the imminent publication of “The Spirit of the
People.”</p>
<p>To vaunt the new and concluding volume of the series as more
charming than its predecessors would be as absurd as it would be
disingenuous. It may, however, be mentioned that the value of
“The Spirit of the People” is peculiar. England, both as
regards life in the metropolis and rural districts, has been subjected
to the considerations of writers of almost every nationality. The
English spirit has been diagnosed and analysed often enough. What makes
Mr. Hueffer’s new book so interesting is that it is written by an
Englishman in one sense; yet, in another sense, scarcely an Englishman.
The author’s training has not been that of the average youth of
the Established Church; yet the book is instinct with reverence and
affection for that Church. Unquestionably the reader will find the many
pages devoted to the religious aspect of the English spirit highly
instructive; though, in lighter vein, when dealing with
Englishmen’s sense of the proprieties, of their devotion to
sports, and their hundred other peculiarities, the author is no less
engaging. From these remarks it will be judged that “The Spirit
of the People” makes a wide appeal; its genial bonhomie and
tolerance should ensure a favourable hearing.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Thomas Hood: His Life and Times.</b> By
<span class="sc">Walter Jerrold</span>. Illustrated. Demy 8vo.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>16s.</b> net.</p>
<p>Though over sixty years have now elapsed since the death of Thomas
Hood, it is not a little strange that only one attempt has been made to
tell the story of his life with any fulness. The fate of his
contemporaries, and indeed many successors, has not been Thomas
Hood’s: he is still regarded as a writer of comic verse that is
above all competitors; his share in the history of modern letters
cannot be minimised; and his personality was unusually attractive and
lovable. Yet the “Memorials of Thomas Hood,” prepared by
his son and daughter, and published in 1860, re-issued ten years later
with some excisions and with but few new features, is the only
sustained chronicle to which hitherto the enquirer has been able to
resort. Even in the later edition the first thirty-five years of
Hood’s short life were dismissed in sixty-seven pages, as against
400 pages devoted to his last eleven years, while much that is
inaccurate is to be noticed throughout those earlier pages. It was,
therefore, a duty incumbent upon the Republic of Letters that some one,
well equipped, should take up the task of writing a complete biography;
that Mr. Walter Jerrold was well qualified for the undertaking has
already been made sufficiently evident. The book is beautifully
produced, with suitable illustrations, including coloured plates and a
photogravure plate.</p>
<p>“That a grandson of Douglas Jerrold should write a
‘Life’ of Thomas Hood is, in the nature of things,
eminently fitting and commendable; everyone who is conservative enough
to enjoy the perpetuation of old associations will appreciate the
propriety. And all those who like to see good sound work properly
recognised will be glad that Mr. Walter Jerrold should have been given
this opportunity of publishing what will certainly remain to be
regarded as the best-informed, most painstaking, and most accurate
biography of Hood—the book to be consulted upon all questions of
fact and date.”—<span class="sc">The Bookman.</span>
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb214" href="#pb214" name=
"pb214">214</a>]</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Chase of the Wild Red Deer.</b> By
<span class="sc">Charles Palk Collyns</span>. With coloured
frontispiece.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>5s.</b> net.</p>
<p>A new edition of Dr. Collyns’ classic needs no apology, for
the time has surely come when the book should be published at a price
that enables all lovers of sporting literature to number it among their
possessions. The present volume includes a preface by the Hon. L. J.
Bathurst, and a coloured frontispiece by Mr. Stuart.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>A Guide to the Foxhounds and Staghounds of
England.</b> Being a new edition of the original book by
“Gelert,” published 1849. Demy 8vo.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>3s. 6d.</b></p>
<p>In these days of directories, there is no branch of sport which has
not a complete reference book of its own. In 1849 the hunting world was
quite unrepresented in this respect, and the publisher ventures to
think that “Gelert’s” attempt to supply the
deficiency may be interesting enough to justify the issue of a new
edition. The book is accompanied by an introductory chapter containing
certain comments on the text, and comparisons with the present
conditions of the hunting world.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Human Harvest.</b> By <span class="sc">D. S.
Jordan</span>.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>2s.</b> net.</p>
<p>As may be gathered from the title, the author in this book examines
the question of military selection and its effect on the human race. It
is not a long book, but it is so full of shrewd common sense that on
laying down the volume the reader will have acquired more food for
meditation than many a work of hundreds of closely printed pages could
supply.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Siege of the North Pole.</b> <span class=
"sc">Dr. Fridtjof Nansen</span>. In preparation.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>16s.</b> net.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Contemporary Poets Series.</b> Imp. 16mo.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>1s.</b> each net.</p>
<p><b>A Ballad of Victory, and other Poems.</b> By <span class=
"sc">Dollie Radford</span>.</p>
<p><b>From Inland, and other Poems.</b> By <span class="sc">Ford Madox
Hueffer</span>.</p>
<p><b>Democratic Sonnets.</b> <span class="sc">W. M. Rossetti</span> (2
vols.).</p>
<p><b>Repose, and Other Verses.</b> <span class="sc">J.
Marjoram.</span></p>
<p><b>The Soul’s Destroyer, and Other Poems.</b> <span class=
"sc">William H. Davies.</span></p>
<p><b>Sealed Orders, and Other Poems.</b> <span class="sc">Walter
Herries Pollock.</span></p>
<p>The theory of the Editor and publishers of this series is that,
whilst to-day there exist a large body of excellent poets and a fairly
considerable body of intelligent readers of poetry, there has not, of
late years, been any very serious attempt made to bring the one into
contact with the other. Hence an attempt to bring together a collection
of small—as it were—samples of the works of poets of the
most varied description, ranging from the simple lyric to the
definitely political or the mere <i lang="fr">vers de
société</i>, published in the cheapest possible manner
that is consonant with a dignified appearance and a sufficient amount
of advertisement to bring the venture before the notice of the Public.
<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb215" href="#pb215" name=
"pb215">215</a>]</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Ten Years of Locomotive Progress.</b> By
<span class="sc">George Montagu</span>. Demy 8vo. 50 illustrations.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b> net.</p>
<p>“Mr. Montagu has happily combined a good deal of useful
technical knowledge with his popular treatment of the subject, and we
congratulate him on a timely book which will serve to remind the public
of what we owe to railway engineers. It has numerous illustrations of
all the locomotive types.”—Says <span class="sc">The
Spectator</span>.</p>
<p>“On such a subject as this it is not easy to write for the
general reader without bewildering him in places with technicalities,
but the author has achieved his aim of producing a popular
semi-technical work describing a remarkable movement.”—</p>
<p>Says <span class="sc">Mr. H. G. Archer</span> in <span class=
"sc">The Tribune</span>.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Soul of London.</b> By <span class="sc">Ford
Madox Hueffer</span>. Imp. 16mo.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>5s.</b> net.</p>
<p>“It is long since we came across a more attractive collection
of essays on any subject, and the author is to be heartily
congratulated on his success.”—<span class="sc">The Morning
Post.</span></p>
<p>“‘The Soul of London,’ published to-day, is the
latest and truest image of London, built up out of a series of
brilliant negations that together are more hauntingly near to a
composite picture of the city than anything we have ever seen
before....”—<span class="sc">The Daily Mail.</span></p>
<p>“Londoners should read this book; and even more certainly
should countrymen and denizens of provincial cities read
it.”—<span class="sc">The Standard.</span></p>
<p>“There have been many books on London, written by literary
men, statisticians, reformers. But no one has achieved or attempted
what in this book Mr. Hueffer has done with power and fine
insight.”—<span class="sc">The Daily News.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The New Sketch Book.</b> Being Essays now first
collected from the <i>Foreign Quarterly</i>, and edited with an
Introduction by <span class="sc">Robert S. Garnett</span>. Demy
8vo.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>7s. 6d.</b> net.</p>
<p>The undoubted authenticity of “The New Sketch Book” has
been conceded by every critic whose expert knowledge makes his judgment
of value. Mr. W. L. Courtney, in the <span class="sc">Daily
Telegraph</span>, says:—“The world is to be heartily
congratulated on having obtained the opportunity, which Mr.
Garnett’s editorial care has given it, of <i>READING NEW
SPECIMENS OF THACKERAY’S LIGHT WIT, RAPIER-LIKE DEXTERITY, AND
CURIOUSLY INDIVIDUAL STYLE</i>.” “No true admirer of the
larger Thackeray,” says Mr. Walter Jerrold in <span class=
"sc">The Tribune</span>, “but will welcome this book, and wish to
turn to it himself and read the essay now identified with the honoured
name.” “The publication of the book is beyond all cavil
justified” (<span class="sc">Daily Chronicle</span>). “Mr.
Garnett’s editorial introduction is admirable, and for his
labours we have nothing but praise” (<span class=
"sc">Times</span>). “We must congratulate Mr. Robert Garnett on a
discovery which it is surprising that no one had made before, and on
the sound critical introduction which he prefixes to these delightful
essays” (<span class="sc">Academy</span>). “Lovers of
Thackeray need have no hesitation in placing on their shelves, in
company with the master’s other writings of the same fugitive
order” (<span class="sc">World</span>). “Here is his New
Sketch Book gathered together with inspired industry by Mr. R. S.
Garnett.... Mr. Punch places it in his archives with reverence.”
(<span class="sc">Punch</span>).</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h3 class="main">SUNDAY MORNING TALKS TO THE CHILDREN.</h3>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first adTitle"><b>Spring Blossoms and Summer Fruit.</b>
<span class="sc">John Byles.</span> Crown 8vo. Cloth, gilt.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>1s. 6d.</b> net.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Legend of St. Mark.</b> <span class="sc">John
Byles.</span> Crown 8vo. Cloth, gilt.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>1s. 6d.</b> net.</p>
<p>“We can scarcely praise too highly the beauty and exquisite
simplicity of these talks.”—<span class="sc">Literary
World.</span></p>
<p>“Each address is a model of simple excellence, being brief,
thoughtful, attractive, and very much to the
point.”—<span class="sc">Church Sunday School
Magazine.</span> <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb216" href="#pb216"
name="pb216">216</a>]</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Heart of the Country.</b> By <span class=
"sc">Ford Madox Hueffer</span>. Imp. 16mo.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>5s.</b> net.</p>
<p>“We have had ‘Country’ books of the most varied
character, from that of Gilbert White to those of Richard Jefferies;
but Mr. Hueffer has taken a new and interesting line of his own, and
his really beautiful work will assuredly make him many
friends.”—<span class="sc">The Daily Telegraph.</span></p>
<p>“There may be several opinions on the unity of the book; there
can only be one, and that <i>ENTHUSIASTICALLY ADMIRING</i> about the
parts of which it is composed.”—<span class="sc">The
World.</span></p>
<p>“There are not many men writing English just now who have the
talent—or will be at the pains—to turn out sentences and
paragraphs so pleasing in texture and design as the sentences and
paragraphs of Mr. Hueffer ... who is an accomplished artist in the
handling of words.”—<span class="sc">Sunday Sun.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Small House: its Architecture and
Surroundings.</b> <span class="sc">Arthur Martin.</span> Crown 8vo.
Illustrated.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>2s.</b> net.</p>
<p>“‘The small house’ within the meaning of the
title-page is not exactly a workman’s cottage. It is one designed
for gentlefolk. How very charming and desirable such a house may be
made is shown by some of the illustrations that accompany the
volume.”—<span class="sc">Glasgow Herald.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Turk in the Balkans.</b> <span class="sc">T.
Comyn Platt.</span> Illustrated.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>3s. 6d.</b></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Abyssinia: The Ethiopian Railway and the
Powers.</b> <span class="sc">T. L. Gilmour.</span></p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>1s.</b> net.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Suggestions for the Better Governing of
India.</b> Sir <span class="sc">Frederick S. P. Lely</span>, C.S.I.,
K.C.I.E.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>1s. 6d.</b> net.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><i><b>The Story of Exploration Series.</b></i> A
Complete History of the Discovery of the Globe from the Earliest
Records up to the present time. Edited by <span class="sc">J.
Scott-eltie</span>, LL.D., Sec. R.G.S. Demy 8vo.</p>
<p class="adPrice">Price, per Volume, <b>7s. 6d</b>. net.</p>
<p>The reception which every item of “The Story of
Exploration” has met with at the hands of both the public and
press is due to the fact that while each story is told in a manner
likely to interest the general reader, it is at the same time sought to
provide the student with a serious and trustworthy history of
exploration, and with a summary of our knowledge of each region dealt
with. A vast amount of information is condensed within a comparatively
small compass, voluminous records collated and the results brought
together in a concise and readable form.</p>
<p>Each volume of the series is complete and independent in itself, and
is sold separately. The books are, however, published in uniform style
and binding, and the entire series, when complete, will form what may
be called a biographical history of the exploration of the world.
Beginning with the earliest journeys of which records exist, and
carrying their narratives down to the most recent discoveries, the
several authors of the works that have so far appeared have told their
allotted stories fully and with the utmost historical accuracy.</p>
<p>“The motto of those responsible for this invaluable series is
‘Thorough.’ How they are produced at this low price is a
mystery to us.”—<span class="sc">War Office
Times.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Penetration of Arabia.</b> <span class=
"sc">D. G. Hogarth</span>, M.A. With over Fifty Illustrations and Maps;
and also two large Maps in Colour by <span class="sc">J. G.
Bartholomew</span>.</p>
<p>“It is a literary, scientific, and, we may add, a political
gain to be placed in possession of a standard work describing the
exploration of Arabia.”—<span class="sc">The
Athenæum.</span></p>
<p>“Mr. Hogarth rises to true eloquence, and speaks with freedom
and mastery. There is strength and justice, moreover, in his judgments
of men. It is the first effective competitor that has appeared to Carl
Ritter’s discussion of Arabian geography, now some fifty years
old.”—<span class="sc">The Times.</span></p>
<p>“A Summary—luminous and exact—of the literature of
travel in that part of the world.... A scholarly survey of adventurous,
though tardy, geographical research.”—<span class="sc">The
Standard.</span> <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb217" href="#pb217"
name="pb217">217</a>]</span></p>
<p><b><i>The Story of Exploration Series</i></b>:</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Siege of the South Pole.</b> The story of
Antarctic Exploration. <span class="sc">Dr. H. R. Mill</span>, LL.D.,
D.Sc. With over Seventy Illustrations from Photographs, Charts and
Drawings; and a large Coloured Map by <span class="sc">J. G.
Bartholomew</span>.</p>
<p>“Dr. Mill writes with spirit as well as erudition; and his
book is not only a larger monument of learning, but also a more
entertaining composition than the works on the same topic of Herr
Fricker and Mr. Balch.”—<span class="sc">The
Times.</span></p>
<p>“The author is a man of science who has the rare gift of
making difficult things clear to the unscientific mind, and nothing
could be better than his explanations of the importance of observations
in the Antarctic to a true theory of terrestrial magnetism.... The
accounts of most of the earlier voyages are out of print and only to be
found in great libraries; and Dr. Mill has done excellent services by
relating these voyages in detail, and illustrating them copiously by
maps and engravings.”—<span class="sc">The
Athenæum.</span></p>
<p>“The present volume is a triumphant demonstration of his
literary insight and skill, for while making no sacrifice of scientific
accuracy, he has produced a narrative of Antarctic exploration which
will fascinate the intelligent schoolboy as sure as it will instruct
the serious student of Polar exploration.”—<span class=
"sc">Morning Post.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Further India.</b> Being the Story of Exploration
from the Earliest Times in Burma, Malaya, Siam and Indo-China.
<span class="sc">Hugh Clifford</span>, C.M.G., Author of “In
Court and Kampong,” “Studies in Brown Humanity,”
etc., etc. With Forty-eight Illustrations from Drawings, Photographs
and Maps; and two large Maps in Colour by <span class="sc">J. G.
Bartholomew</span>.</p>
<p>“Those who desire to gain a better knowledge of the past and
present history of exploration in India cannot do better than read this
excellent book.”—<span class="sc">The Field.</span></p>
<p>“All that has been written and published Mr. Clifford has
industriously examined and collated, and he has arranged it in
consecutive narratives, abounding in dramatic episodes or exciting
incidents. The story is as intricate as it is
interesting.”—<span class="sc">The Westminster
Gazette.</span></p>
<p>“Another volume in this most excellent series. Mr. Clifford
has produced a thoroughly readable, trustworthy and fascinating book,
well indexed and well illustrated.”—<span class="sc">The
Academy.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The St. Lawrence Basin and its Borderlands.</b>
<span class="sc">Dr. S. E. Dawson</span>, Litt.D., F.R.S.C. With
Forty-eight Illustrations from Drawings and Photographs; and a large
Coloured Map by <span class="sc">J. G. Bartholomew</span>.</p>
<p>“In its pages the reader will find a mass of information which
he could only collect for himself by years of study; he will also
receive great assistance from the reproduction of maps with which the
book is furnished; while the illustrations will enable him to form a
very good idea of this portion of the Canadian Dominion, both as
regards its past and present condition. In conclusion, we would again
call the attention of our readers to this valuable series of works.
They are all written by men who are undoubted authorities on the
different countries they describe, they are all furnished with maps,
nicely illustrated, and should find a place on the shelves of every
well-regulated library.”—<span class="sc">The
Field.</span></p>
<p>“The story of the discovery and exploration of the
north-eastern part of the continent of North America, a story
peculiarly rich in historical, geographical, and adventurous interest,
has been told once more, and told very fully and well by Dr. S. E.
Dawson ... whose narrative, as a whole, does complete and careful
justice to every aspect of a story of progressive exploration as
replete with varied interest and moving adventure as any in the history
of the world.”—<span class="sc">The World.</span></p>
<p>“He is writing a geographical rather than a political history,
and, incidentally, demonstrates how interesting that can be
made.”—<span class="sc">The Standard.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Nile Quest.</b> A Record of the Exploration
of the Nile and its Basin, by <span class="sc">Sir Harry H.
Johnston</span>, G.C.M.G., K.C.B. With over Seventy Illustrations from
Drawings and Photographs by the Author and by others. Maps by
<span class="sc">J. G. Bartholomew</span>. <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb218" href="#pb218" name="pb218">218</a>]</span></p>
<p>“The record of the quest could not fail to be a fascinating
story. Sir Harry Johnston has done a useful service in setting forth
the often tangled results of African exploration in a clear
narrative.”—<span class="sc">The Spectator.</span></p>
<p>“Few men are better fitted than Sir Harry Johnston to tell the
tale of ‘The Nile Quest.’ He traces the routes of
successive travellers, prefacing each narrative with brief biographical
sketches.... He holds the balance with judicial impartiality, and
vindicates some unjustly discredited reputations.... It is singularly
attractive, and some of his descriptions of scenery and the native
races may vie with the best of the extracts from the works of eloquent
travellers.”—<span class="sc">The Times.</span></p>
<p>“We know of no book in which the whole history of Nile
exploration, from the earliest times up to the very latest discoveries
in the Sobat and Bahr-el-Ghazel regions, is narrated so fully and
accurately as it is here.”—<span class="sc">The Manchester
Guardian.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Tibet the Mysterious.</b> By Col. <span class=
"sc">Sir Thos. Holdich</span>, K.C.M.G., K.C.I.E, C.B. With Fifty
Illustrations from Photographs and Charts, and a large Coloured
Map.</p>
<p>“It is a story full of notable and romantic episodes, and it
is brilliantly narrated by Sir Thomas Holdich, who gives, moreover,
graphic descriptions of the country itself and its people. No more
fascinating book on Tibet has appeared.”—<i>Truth.</i></p>
<p>“Deserving of the warmest
recognition.”—<i>Birmingham Post.</i></p>
<p>“Every page of his book bears witness to the thoroughness of
his methods, and there are several maps which will be of great value to
geographical students.”—<i>Dundee Courier.</i></p>
<p>“Most of those who read the volume on the exploration of
Tibet, by Sir Thomas Holdich, will agree that it takes the first place
for interest of narrative and ability of compilation in the whole
series.”—<i>Daily Mail.</i></p>
<p>“Altogether indispensable to the serious student of Tibet the
Mysterious.”—<i>Daily News.</i></p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h3 class="main">Rivers’s Popular Gift Books.</h3>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first adTitle"><b>The Pinafore Library.</b> Crown 16mo.</p>
<p class="adPrice">Per Set in Case, <b>2s. 6d.</b> net.</p>
<p>The time is ripe for a novelty in children’s books, and the
“Pinafore Library” is altogether a fresh departure. Here
are five delightful little volumes, all written by authors of repute,
which, while full of fascination for the youngest child, possess
undeniable literary distinction. The bright and attractive appearance
given to these little books by the artistic pictorial paper boards, and
the delicately executed and fanciful end-papers cannot fail to enhance
the merits of this series.</p>
<p><b>Christina’s Fairy Book.</b> <span class="sc">Ford Madox
Hueffer.</span></p>
<p><b>The Travelling Companions.</b> <span class="sc">Lady Margaret
Sackville.</span></p>
<p><b>Highways and Byways in Fairyland.</b> <span class="sc">Arthur
Ransome.</span></p>
<p><b>The Fairy Doll.</b> <span class="sc">Netta Syrett.</span></p>
<p><b>Who’s Who in Fairyland.</b> <span class="sc">Anne
Pyne</span>.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Willie Westinghouse Edison Smith.</b> The Boy
Inventor. By <span class="sc">Frank Crane.</span></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Little Sammy Sneeze.</b> By <span class=
"sc">Winsor McCay.</span> Two new and amusing flat books in which the
pictures tell the story.</p>
<p class="adPrice"></p>
<p>Each <b>3s. 6d.</b> net.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Zoo: A Scamper.</b> By <span class=
"sc">Walter Emanuel</span>. With Illustrations by <span class="sc">John
Hassall</span>.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>1s.</b> net.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Magic Jujubes.</b> By <span class=
"sc">Theodora Wilson Wilson</span>, Author of “Our Joshua,”
etc. With eight illustrations by <span class="sc">J. W.
Hammick</span>.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>3s. 6d.</b></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Guide to Fairyland.</b> Written and
illustrated by <span class="sc">Dion Clayton Calthrop</span>. Crown
4to.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>5s.</b> net.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Faery Year.</b> By <span class="sc">G. A. B.
Dewar</span>. 336 pp. Demy 8vo, with eight illustrations.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>7s. 6d.</b> <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb219"
href="#pb219" name="pb219">219</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="div2"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h3 class="main">Miscellaneous Publications.</h3>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first adTitle"><b>Peter Binney, Undergraduate.</b>
<span class="sc">Archibald Marshall.</span> A ‘Varsity
Story<span class="corr" id="xd20e4895" title=
"Not in source">’</span>.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>6s.</b></p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Signs of the Times, or the Hustlers’
Almanac for 1907.</b> By the Authors of “Wisdom while you
Wait.” Profusely Illustrated.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>1s.</b> net.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Sessional: Big Ben Ballads.</b> By the Authors of
“The Great Crusade.” Illustrated.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>1s.</b> net.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Change for a Halfpenny.</b> By the Authors of
“Signs of the Times.” Profusely Illustrated.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>1s.</b> net.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Mixed Maxims, or Proverbs of the Professor.</b>
By <span class="sc">Monte Carlo</span>. Illustrated.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>2s. 6d.</b> net.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>More Cricket Songs.</b> <span class="sc">Norman
Gale.</span> Imp. 16mo.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>2s.</b> net.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>Home Made History.</b> <span class="sc">Hansard
Watt.</span> Imp. 16mo. Illustrated.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>2s. 6d.</b> net.</p>
<p class="adTitle"><b>The Polo Annual for 1908.</b> Edited by
<span class="sc">L. V. L. Simmonds</span>.</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>1s.</b> net.</p>
<div class="figure xd20e4972width"><img src="images/figure.gif" alt=
"The Lady of “Our Village.”" width="348" height="374">
<p class="figureHead">The Lady of “Our Village.”</p>
<p class="first"><i>One of Thomas Hood’s Drawings.</i></p>
</div>
<p class="xd20e4979"><span class="sc">Bradbury, Agnew, & Co. Ltd.,
London and Tonbridge. (4783–6–08.)</span> <span class=
"pagenum">[<a id="pb220" href="#pb220" name="pb220">220</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum">[<a href=
"#toc">Contents</a>]</span>
<div class="divHead">
<h2 class="main">IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT.</h2>
</div>
<div class="divBody">
<p class="first"><i>JUNE 30th 1908.</i></p>
<p><i>The</i> ...</p>
<p>Evergreen Novels</p>
<p><img src="images/symbol.gif" alt="" width="24" height=
"25"><span class="sc">Mr. Alston Rivers</span> has pleasure in
announcing a New Series of Fiction, on which he has bestowed the
appropriate title of ”<span class="sc">The Evergreen
Novels</span>.” Neatly bound in a delicate green cloth, with
pictorial design, all the volumes will be really successful copyright
works, nay, more than that, books that possess merits that will last,
and not merely ephemeral.</p>
<p>The First Three Volumes are:</p>
<p class="adTitle">A Pixy in Petticoats</p>
<p>By <span class="sc">John Trevena</span>. Author of “Arminel of
the West”; “Furze the Cruel,” etc. <b>1s.
net.</b></p>
<p>“‘A Pixy In Petticoats’ is as good a story of
Dartmoor as has been written these many moons.”—<i>Evening
Standard.</i></p>
<p>“A glance at any chapter is almost as good as a breath of that
breeze which charges at you on the top of Hay or Yes
Tor.”—<i>Bystander.</i></p>
<p class="adTitle">The House of Merrilees</p>
<p>By <span class="sc">Archibald Marshall</span>, Author of
“Peter Binney, Undergraduate”; “Richard
Baldock”; “Exton Manor.” <b>1s. net.</b></p>
<p>“It is a pleasure to praise a book of this kind, and rare to
find one in which a narrative of absorbing interest is combined with so
many literary graces.”—<i>Bookman.</i></p>
<p>“The best mystery novel since Sir A. Conan Doyle’s
‘Sign of Four.’”—<i>Daily Graphic.</i></p>
<p>“Can recommend cordially and with confidence to those who like
a really good story, well constructed and excellently
told.”—<i>Punch.</i></p>
<p class="adTitle">A London Girl</p>
<p>TALES FROM THE GREAT CITY.</p>
<p>By the Author of “Closed Doors,” and “The Rainy
Day.”</p>
<p class="adPrice"><b>1s. net.</b></p>
<p>The <span class="sc">Bishop of London</span>, addressing a meeting
at the Northampton Institute, Finsbury, said: “I have lately been
reading a story which interested and impressed me very much indeed. All
you men ought to read it. It was called ‘A London Girl.’
The picture painted in it made a great impression on me, because I know
from my own experience in rescue and preventative work that the story
is literally true. It is the story of the downfall of hundreds of our
girls In London to-day. The pitiful tale is not overdrawn; it is all
too true.”</p>
<p>“Certain it is that the author of this pitiless tale is
neither ordinary nor inexperienced. ‘Baby’ is a great
creation. She leaps from the printed page into lovely, merry life, and
all through she exercises a spell over one.”—<i>Dundee
Advertiser.</i></p>
<p>“We have had many good things from Mr. Alston Rivers in his
year or so of publishing, and his new venture, ‘Tales from the
Great City,’ promises to be one of the most striking amongst
them.”—<i>Bystander.</i></p>
<p><i>Further Volumes in this Series will be announced in due
course.</i></p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="div1" id="toc">
<h2 class="main">Table of Contents</h2>
<ul>
<li><a href="#ch1">Chapter I</a> <span class=
"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e171">1</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch2">Chapter II</a> <span class=
"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e222">6</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch3">Chapter III</a> <span class=
"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e269">9</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch4">Chapter IV</a> <span class=
"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e306">13</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch5">Chapter V</a> <span class=
"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e364">17</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch6">Chapter VI</a> <span class=
"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e538">30</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch7">Chapter VII</a> <span class=
"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e681">41</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch8">Chapter VIII</a>
<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href=
"#xd20e767">46</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch9">Chapter IX</a> <span class=
"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e897">53</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch10">Chapter X</a> <span class=
"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e967">60</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch11">Chapter XI</a> <span class=
"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e1115">72</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch12">Chapter XII</a>
<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href=
"#xd20e1242">80</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch13">Chapter XIII</a>
<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href=
"#xd20e1328">88</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch14">Chapter XIV</a>
<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href=
"#xd20e1369">92</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch15">Chapter XV</a> <span class=
"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e1460">99</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch16">Chapter XVI</a>
<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href=
"#xd20e1668">110</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch17">Chapter XVII</a>
<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href=
"#xd20e1736">114</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch18">Chapter XVIII</a>
<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href=
"#xd20e1784">118</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch19">Chapter XIX</a>
<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href=
"#xd20e1867">123</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch20">Chapter XX</a> <span class=
"tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e1975">130</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch21">Chapter XXI</a>
<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href=
"#xd20e2088">136</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch22">Chapter XXII</a>
<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href=
"#xd20e2138">140</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch23">Chapter XXIII</a>
<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href=
"#xd20e2340">155</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch24">Chapter XXIV</a>
<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href=
"#xd20e2606">176</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch25">Chapter XXV</a>
<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href=
"#xd20e2659">181</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch26">Chapter XXVI</a>
<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href=
"#xd20e2751">188</a></span></li>
<li><a href="#ch27">Chapter XXVII</a>
<span class="tocPagenum"><a class="pageref" href=
"#xd20e2803">193</a></span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<div class="transcribernote">
<h2 class="main">Colophon</h2>
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<h3 class="main">Encoding</h3>
<p class="first"></p>
<h3 class="main">Revision History</h3>
<ul>
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<h3 class="main">External References</h3>
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<h3 class="main">Corrections</h3>
<p>The following corrections have been applied to the text:</p>
<table class="correctiontable" summary=
"Overview of corrections applied to the text.">
<tr>
<th>Page</th>
<th>Source</th>
<th>Correction</th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e725">42</a></td>
<td class="width40 bottom">“</td>
<td class="width40 bottom">[<i>Deleted</i>]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e2030">133</a></td>
<td class="width40 bottom">fulfil</td>
<td class="width40 bottom">fulfill</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e2400">161</a></td>
<td class="width40 bottom">?</td>
<td class="width40 bottom">!</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e2533">171</a>,
<a class="pageref" href="#xd20e2944">202</a></td>
<td class="width40 bottom">[<i>Not in source</i>]</td>
<td class="width40 bottom">”</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e3147">204</a></td>
<td class="width40 bottom">,</td>
<td class="width40 bottom">[<i>Deleted</i>]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e3301">205</a>,
<a class="pageref" href="#xd20e3570">209</a></td>
<td class="width40 bottom">[<i>Not in source</i>]</td>
<td class="width40 bottom">,</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="width20"><a class="pageref" href="#xd20e4895">219</a></td>
<td class="width40 bottom">[<i>Not in source</i>]</td>
<td class="width40 bottom">’</td>
</tr>
</table>
</div>
</div>
<pre>
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