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Marius the Epicurean, Volume One by Walter Horatio Pater

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London: 1910. (The Library Edition.)


Notes: The 1910 Library Edition employs footnotes, a
style inconvenient in an electronic edition. I have therefore
placed an asterisk immediately after each of Pater's footnotes
and a + sign after my own notes, and have listed each chapter's
notes at that chapter's end.

Pagination and Paragraphing: To avoid an unwieldy electronic copy,
I have transferred original pagination to brackets. A bracketed
numeral such as [22] indicates that the material immediately
following the number marks the beginning of the relevant page. I
have preserved paragraph structure except for first-line indentation.

Hyphenation: I have not preserved original hyphenation since an
e-text does not require line-end or page-end hyphenation.

Greek typeface: For this full-text edition, I have transliterated
Pater's Greek quotations. If there is a need for the original Greek, it
can be viewed at my site, http://www.ajdrake.com/etexts, a Victorianist
archive that contains the complete works of Walter Pater and many other
nineteenth-century texts, mostly in first editions.


Cheimerinos oneiros, hote mÍkistai hai vyktes.+

+"A winter's dream, when nights are longest."
Lucian, The Dream, Vol. 3.



1. "The Religion of Numa": 3-12
2. White-Nights: 13-26
3. Change of Air: 27-42
4. The Tree of Knowledge: 43-54
5. The Golden Book: 55-91
6. Euphuism: 92-110
7. A Pagan End: 111-120


8. Animula Vagula: 123-143
9. New Cyrenaicism: 144-157
10. On the Way: 158-171
11. "The Most Religious City in the World": 172-187
12. "The Divinity that Doth Hedge a King": 188-211
13. The "Mistress and Mother" of Palaces: 212-229
14. Manly Amusement: 230-243




[3] As, in the triumph of Christianity, the old religion lingered
latest in the country, and died out at last as but paganism--the
religion of the villagers, before the advance of the Christian
Church; so, in an earlier century, it was in places remote from town-
life that the older and purer forms of paganism itself had survived
the longest. While, in Rome, new religions had arisen with
bewildering complexity around the dying old one, the earlier and
simpler patriarchal religion, "the religion of Numa," as people loved
to fancy, lingered on with little change amid the pastoral life, out
of the habits and sentiment of which so much of it had grown.
Glimpses of such a survival we may catch below the merely artificial
attitudes of Latin pastoral poetry; in Tibullus especially, who has
preserved for us many poetic details of old Roman religious usage.

At mihi contingat patrios celebrare Penates,
Reddereque antiquo menstrua thura Lari:

[4] --he prays, with unaffected seriousness. Something liturgical,
with repetitions of a consecrated form of words, is traceable in one
of his elegies, as part of the order of a birthday sacrifice. The
hearth, from a spark of which, as one form of old legend related, the
child Romulus had been miraculously born, was still indeed an altar;
and the worthiest sacrifice to the gods the perfect physical sanity
of the young men and women, which the scrupulous ways of that
religion of the hearth had tended to maintain. A religion of usages
and sentiment rather than of facts and belief, and attached to very
definite things and places--the oak of immemorial age, the rock on
the heath fashioned by weather as if by some dim human art, the
shadowy grove of ilex, passing into which one exclaimed
involuntarily, in consecrated phrase, Deity is in this Place! Numen
Inest!--it was in natural harmony with the temper of a quiet people
amid the spectacle of rural life, like that simpler faith between man
and man, which Tibullus expressly connects with the period when, with
an inexpensive worship, the old wooden gods had been still pressed
for room in their homely little shrines.

And about the time when the dying Antoninus Pius ordered his golden
image of Fortune to be carried into the chamber of his successor (now
about to test the truth of the old Platonic contention, that the
world would at last find itself [5] happy, could it detach some
reluctant philosophic student from the more desirable life of
celestial contemplation, and compel him to rule it), there was a boy
living in an old country-house, half farm, half villa, who, for
himself, recruited that body of antique traditions by a spontaneous
force of religious veneration such as had originally called them into
being. More than a century and a half had past since Tibullus had
written; but the restoration of religious usages, and their retention
where they still survived, was meantime come to be the fashion
through the influence of imperial example; and what had been in the
main a matter of family pride with his father, was sustained by a
native instinct of devotion in the young Marius. A sense of
conscious powers external to ourselves, pleased or displeased by the
right or wrong conduct of every circumstance of daily life--that
conscience, of which the old Roman religion was a formal, habitual
recognition, was become in him a powerful current of feeling and
observance. The old-fashioned, partly puritanic awe, the power of
which Wordsworth noted and valued so highly in a northern peasantry,
had its counterpart in the feeling of the Roman lad, as he passed the
spot, "touched of heaven," where the lightning had struck dead an
aged labourer in the field: an upright stone, still with mouldering
garlands about it, marked the place. He brought to that system of
symbolic [6] usages, and they in turn developed in him further, a
great seriousness--an impressibility to the sacredness of time, of
life and its events, and the circumstances of family fellowship; of
such gifts to men as fire, water, the earth, from labour on which
they live, really understood by him as gifts--a sense of religious
responsibility in the reception of them. It was a religion for the
most part of fear, of multitudinous scruples, of a year-long burden
of forms; yet rarely (on clear summer mornings, for instance) the
thought of those heavenly powers afforded a welcome channel for the
almost stifling sense of health and delight in him, and relieved it
as gratitude to the gods.

The day of the "little" or private Ambarvalia was come, to be
celebrated by a single family for the welfare of all belonging to it,
as the great college of the Arval Brothers officiated at Rome in the
interest of the whole state. At the appointed time all work ceases;
the instruments of labour lie untouched, hung with wreaths of
flowers, while masters and servants together go in solemn procession
along the dry paths of vineyard and cornfield, conducting the victims
whose blood is presently to be shed for the purification from all
natural or supernatural taint of the lands they have "gone about."
The old Latin words of the liturgy, to be said as the procession
moved on its way, though their precise meaning was long [7] since
become unintelligible, were recited from an ancient illuminated roll,
kept in the painted chest in the hall, together with the family
records. Early on that day the girls of the farm had been busy in
the great portico, filling large baskets with flowers plucked short
from branches of apple and cherry, then in spacious bloom, to strew
before the quaint images of the gods--Ceres and Bacchus and the yet
more mysterious Dea Dia--as they passed through the fields, carried
in their little houses on the shoulders of white-clad youths, who
were understood to proceed to this office in perfect temperance, as
pure in soul and body as the air they breathed in the firm weather of
that early summer-time. The clean lustral water and the full
incense-box were carried after them. The altars were gay with
garlands of wool and the more sumptuous sort of blossom and green
herbs to be thrown into the sacrificial fire, fresh-gathered this
morning from a particular plot in the old garden, set apart for the
purpose. Just then the young leaves were almost as fragrant as
flowers, and the scent of the bean-fields mingled pleasantly with the
cloud of incense. But for the monotonous intonation of the liturgy
by the priests, clad in their strange, stiff, antique vestments, and
bearing ears of green corn upon their heads, secured by flowing bands
of white, the procession moved in absolute stillness, all persons,
even the children, abstaining from [8] speech after the utterance of
the pontifical formula, Favete linguis!--Silence! Propitious
Silence!--lest any words save those proper to the occasion should
hinder the religious efficacy of the rite.

With the lad Marius, who, as the head of his house, took a leading
part in the ceremonies of the day, there was a devout effort to
complete this impressive outward silence by that inward tacitness of
mind, esteemed so important by religious Romans in the performance of
these sacred functions. To him the sustained stillness without
seemed really but to be waiting upon that interior, mental condition
of preparation or expectancy, for which he was just then intently
striving. The persons about him, certainly, had never been
challenged by those prayers and ceremonies to any ponderings on the
divine nature: they conceived them rather to be the appointed means
of setting such troublesome movements at rest. By them, "the
religion of Numa," so staid, ideal and comely, the object of so much
jealous conservatism, though of direct service as lending sanction to
a sort of high scrupulosity, especially in the chief points of
domestic conduct, was mainly prized as being, through its hereditary
character, something like a personal distinction--as contributing,
among the other accessories of an ancient house, to the production of
that aristocratic atmosphere which separated them from newly-made
people. But [9] in the young Marius, the very absence from those
venerable usages of all definite history and dogmatic interpretation,
had already awakened much speculative activity; and to-day, starting
from the actual details of the divine service, some very lively
surmises, though scarcely distinct enough to be thoughts, were moving
backwards and forwards in his mind, as the stirring wind had done all
day among the trees, and were like the passing of some mysterious
influence over all the elements of his nature and experience. One
thing only distracted him--a certain pity at the bottom of his heart,
and almost on his lips, for the sacrificial victims and their looks
of terror, rising almost to disgust at the central act of the
sacrifice itself, a piece of everyday butcher's work, such as we
decorously hide out of sight; though some then present certainly
displayed a frank curiosity in the spectacle thus permitted them on a
religious pretext. The old sculptors of the great procession on the
frieze of the Parthenon at Athens, have delineated the placid heads
of the victims led in it to sacrifice, with a perfect feeling for
animals in forcible contrast with any indifference as to their
sufferings. It was this contrast that distracted Marius now in the
blessing of his fields, and qualified his devout absorption upon the
scrupulous fulfilment of all the details of the ceremonial, as the
procession approached the altars.

[10] The names of that great populace of "little gods," dear to the
Roman home, which the pontiffs had placed on the sacred list of the
Indigitamenta, to be invoked, because they can help, on special
occasions, were not forgotten in the long litany--Vatican who causes
the infant to utter his first cry, Fabulinus who prompts his first
word, Cuba who keeps him quiet in his cot, Domiduca especially, for
whom Marius had through life a particular memory and devotion, the
goddess who watches over one's safe coming home. The urns of the
dead in the family chapel received their due service. They also were
now become something divine, a goodly company of friendly and
protecting spirits, encamped about the place of their former abode--
above all others, the father, dead ten years before, of whom,
remembering but a tall, grave figure above him in early childhood,
Marius habitually thought as a genius a little cold and severe.

Candidus insuetum miratur limen Olympi,
Sub pedibusque videt nubes et sidera.--

Perhaps!--but certainly needs his altar here below, and garlands to-
day upon his urn. But the dead genii were satisfied with little--a
few violets, a cake dipped in wine, or a morsel of honeycomb. Daily,
from the time when his childish footsteps were still uncertain, had
Marius taken them their portion of the family meal, at the second
course, amidst the silence [11] of the company. They loved those who
brought them their sustenance; but, deprived of these services, would
be heard wandering through the house, crying sorrowfully in the
stillness of the night.

And those simple gifts, like other objects as trivial--bread, oil,
wine, milk--had regained for him, by their use in such religious
service, that poetic and as it were moral significance, which surely
belongs to all the means of daily life, could we but break through
the veil of our familiarity with things by no means vulgar in
themselves. A hymn followed, while the whole assembly stood with
veiled faces. The fire rose up readily from the altars, in clean,
bright flame--a favourable omen, making it a duty to render the mirth
of the evening complete. Old wine was poured out freely for the
servants at supper in the great kitchen, where they had worked in the
imperfect light through the long evenings of winter. The young
Marius himself took but a very sober part in the noisy feasting. A
devout, regretful after-taste of what had been really beautiful in
the ritual he had accomplished took him early away, that he might the
better recall in reverie all the circumstances of the celebration of
the day. As he sank into a sleep, pleasant with all the influences
of long hours in the open air, he seemed still to be moving in
procession through the fields, with a kind of pleasurable awe. That
feeling was still upon him as he [12] awoke amid the beating of
violent rain on the shutters, in the first storm of the season. The
thunder which startled him from sleep seemed to make the solitude of
his chamber almost painfully complete, as if the nearness of those
angry clouds shut him up in a close place alone in the world. Then
he thought of the sort of protection which that day's ceremonies
assured. To procure an agreement with the gods--Pacem deorum
exposcere: that was the meaning of what they had all day been busy
upon. In a faith, sincere but half-suspicious, he would fain have
those Powers at least not against him. His own nearer household gods
were all around his bed. The spell of his religion as a part of the
very essence of home, its intimacy, its dignity and security, was
forcible at that moment; only, it seemed to involve certain heavy
demands upon him.


[13] To an instinctive seriousness, the material abode in which the
childhood of Marius was passed had largely added. Nothing, you felt,
as you first caught sight of that coy, retired place,--surely nothing
could happen there, without its full accompaniment of thought or
reverie. White-nights! so you might interpret its old Latin name.*
"The red rose came first," says a quaint German mystic, speaking of
"the mystery of so-called white things," as being "ever an after-
thought--the doubles, or seconds, of real things, and themselves but
half-real, half-material--the white queen, the white witch, the white
mass, which, as the black mass is a travesty of the true mass turned
to evil by horrible old witches, is celebrated by young candidates
for the priesthood with an unconsecrated host, by way of rehearsal."
So, white-nights, I suppose, after something like the same analogy,
should be [14] nights not of quite blank forgetfulness, but passed in
continuous dreaming, only half veiled by sleep. Certainly the place
was, in such case, true to its fanciful name in this, that you might
very well conceive, in face of it, that dreaming even in the daytime
might come to much there.

The young Marius represented an ancient family whose estate had come
down to him much curtailed through the extravagance of a certain
Marcellus two generations before, a favourite in his day of the
fashionable world at Rome, where he had at least spent his substance
with a correctness of taste Marius might seem to have inherited from
him; as he was believed also to resemble him in a singularly pleasant
smile, consistent however, in the younger face, with some degree of
sombre expression when the mind within was but slightly moved.

As the means of life decreased, the farm had crept nearer and nearer
to the dwelling-house, about which there was therefore a trace of
workday negligence or homeliness, not without its picturesque charm
for some, for the young master himself among them. The more
observant passer-by would note, curious as to the inmates, a certain
amount of dainty care amid that neglect, as if it came in part,
perhaps, from a reluctance to disturb old associations. It was
significant of the national character, that a sort of elegant
gentleman farming, as we say, had been much affected by some of the
most cultivated [15] Romans. But it became something more than an
elegant diversion, something of a serious business, with the
household of Marius; and his actual interest in the cultivation of
the earth and the care of flocks had brought him, at least,
intimately near to those elementary conditions of life, a reverence
for which, the great Roman poet, as he has shown by his own half-
mystic pre-occupation with them, held to be the ground of primitive
Roman religion, as of primitive morals. But then, farm-life in
Italy, including the culture of the olive and the vine, has a grace
of its own, and might well contribute to the production of an ideal
dignity of character, like that of nature itself in this gifted
region. Vulgarity seemed impossible. The place, though
impoverished, was still deservedly dear, full of venerable memories,
and with a living sweetness of its own for to-day.

To hold by such ceremonial traditions had been a part of the
struggling family pride of the lad's father, to which the example of
the head of the state, old Antoninus Pius--an example to be still
further enforced by his successor--had given a fresh though perhaps
somewhat artificial popularity. It had been consistent with many
another homely and old-fashioned trait in him, not to undervalue the
charm of exclusiveness and immemorial authority, which membership in
a local priestly college, hereditary in his house, conferred upon
him. To set a real value on [16] these things was but one element in
that pious concern for his home and all that belonged to it, which,
as Marius afterwards discovered, had been a strong motive with his
father. The ancient hymn--Fana Novella!--was still sung by his
people, as the new moon grew bright in the west, and even their wild
custom of leaping through heaps of blazing straw on a certain night
in summer was not discouraged. The privilege of augury itself,
according to tradition, had at one time belonged to his race; and if
you can imagine how, once in a way, an impressible boy might have an
inkling, an inward mystic intimation, of the meaning and consequences
of all that, what was implied in it becoming explicit for him, you
conceive aright the mind of Marius, in whose house the auspices were
still carefully consulted before every undertaking of moment.

The devotion of the father then had handed on loyally--and that is
all many not unimportant persons ever find to do--a certain tradition
of life, which came to mean much for the young Marius. The feeling
with which he thought of his dead father was almost exclusively that
of awe; though crossed at times by a not unpleasant sense of liberty,
as he could but confess to himself, pondering, in the actual absence
of so weighty and continual a restraint, upon the arbitrary power
which Roman religion and Roman law gave to the parent over the son.
[17] On the part of his mother, on the other hand, entertaining the
husband's memory, there was a sustained freshness of regret, together
with the recognition, as Marius fancied, of some costly self-
sacrifice to be credited to the dead. The life of the widow, languid
and shadowy enough but for the poignancy of that regret, was like one
long service to the departed soul; its many annual observances
centering about the funeral urn--a tiny, delicately carved marble
house, still white and fair, in the family-chapel, wreathed always
with the richest flowers from the garden. To the dead, in fact, was
conceded in such places a somewhat closer neighbourhood to the old
homes they were thought still to protect, than is usual with us, or
was usual in Rome itself--a closeness which the living welcomed, so
diverse are the ways of our human sentiment, and in which the more
wealthy, at least in the country, might indulge themselves. All this
Marius followed with a devout interest, sincerely touched and awed by
his mother's sorrow. After the deification of the emperors, we are
told, it was considered impious so much as to use any coarse
expression in the presence of their images. To Marius the whole of
life seemed full of sacred presences, demanding of him a similar
collectedness. The severe and archaic religion of the villa, as he
conceived it, begot in him a sort of devout circumspection lest he
should fall short at any point of the demand upon him of anything
[18] in which deity was concerned. He must satisfy with a kind of
sacred equity, he must be very cautious lest he be found wanting to,
the claims of others, in their joys and calamities--the happiness
which deity sanctioned, or the blows in which it made itself felt.
And from habit, this feeling of a responsibility towards the world of
men and things, towards a claim for due sentiment concerning them on
his side, came to be a part of his nature not to be put off. It kept
him serious and dignified amid the Epicurean speculations which in
after years much engrossed him, and when he had learned to think of
all religions as indifferent, serious amid many fopperies and through
many languid days, and made him anticipate all his life long as a
thing towards which he must carefully train himself, some great
occasion of self-devotion, such as really came, that should
consecrate his life, and, it might be, its memory with others, as the
early Christian looked forward to martyrdom at the end of his course,
as a seal of worth upon it.

The traveller, descending from the slopes of Luna, even as he got his
first view of the Port-of-Venus, would pause by the way, to read the
face, as it were, of so beautiful a dwelling-place, lying away from
the white road, at the point where it began to decline somewhat
steeply to the marsh-land below. The building of pale red and yellow
marble, mellowed by age, which he saw beyond the gates, was indeed
but the exquisite [19] fragment of a once large and sumptuous villa.
Two centuries of the play of the sea-wind were in the velvet of the
mosses which lay along its inaccessible ledges and angles. Here and
there the marble plates had slipped from their places, where the
delicate weeds had forced their way. The graceful wildness which
prevailed in garden and farm gave place to a singular nicety about
the actual habitation, and a still more scrupulous sweetness and
order reigned within. The old Roman architects seem to have well
understood the decorative value of the floor--the real economy there
was, in the production of rich interior effect, of a somewhat lavish
expenditure upon the surface they trod on. The pavement of the hall
had lost something of its evenness; but, though a little rough to the
foot, polished and cared for like a piece of silver, looked, as
mosaic-work is apt to do, its best in old age. Most noticeable among
the ancestral masks, each in its little cedarn chest below the
cornice, was that of the wasteful but elegant Marcellus, with the
quaint resemblance in its yellow waxen features to Marius, just then
so full of animation and country colour. A chamber, curved
ingeniously into oval form, which he had added to the mansion, still
contained his collection of works of art; above all, that head of
Medusa, for which the villa was famous. The spoilers of one of the
old Greek towns on the coast had flung away or lost the [20] thing,
as it seemed, in some rapid flight across the river below, from the
sands of which it was drawn up in a fisherman's net, with the fine
golden laminae still clinging here and there to the bronze. It was
Marcellus also who had contrived the prospect-tower of two storeys
with the white pigeon-house above, so characteristic of the place.
The little glazed windows in the uppermost chamber framed each its
dainty landscape--the pallid crags of Carrara, like wildly twisted
snow-drifts above the purple heath; the distant harbour with its
freight of white marble going to sea; the lighthouse temple of Venus
Speciosa on its dark headland, amid the long-drawn curves of white
breakers. Even on summer nights the air there had always a motion in
it, and drove the scent of the new-mown hay along all the passages of
the house.

Something pensive, spell-bound, and but half real, something
cloistral or monastic, as we should say, united to this exquisite
order, made the whole place seem to Marius, as it were, sacellum, the
peculiar sanctuary, of his mother, who, still in real widowhood,
provided the deceased Marius the elder with that secondary sort of
life which we can give to the dead, in our intensely realised memory
of them--the "subjective immortality," to use a modern phrase, for
which many a Roman epitaph cries out plaintively to widow or sister
or daughter, still in the land of the living. Certainly, if any [21]
such considerations regarding them do reach the shadowy people, he
enjoyed that secondary existence, that warm place still left, in
thought at least, beside the living, the desire for which is
actually, in various forms, so great a motive with most of us. And
Marius the younger, even thus early, came to think of women's tears,
of women's hands to lay one to rest, in death as in the sleep of
childhood, as a sort of natural want. The soft lines of the white
hands and face, set among the many folds of the veil and stole of the
Roman widow, busy upon her needlework, or with music sometimes,
defined themselves for him as the typical expression of maternity.
Helping her with her white and purple wools, and caring for her
musical instruments, he won, as if from the handling of such things,
an urbane and feminine refinement, qualifying duly his country-grown
habits--the sense of a certain delicate blandness, which he relished,
above all, on returning to the "chapel" of his mother, after long
days of open-air exercise, in winter or stormy summer. For poetic
souls in old Italy felt, hardly less strongly than the English, the
pleasures of winter, of the hearth, with the very dead warm in its
generous heat, keeping the young myrtles in flower, though the hail
is beating hard without. One important principle, of fruit
afterwards in his Roman life, that relish for the country fixed
deeply in him; in the winters especially, when the sufferings of [22]
the animal world became so palpable even to the least observant. It
fixed in him a sympathy for all creatures, for the almost human
troubles and sicknesses of the flocks, for instance. It was a
feeling which had in it something of religious veneration for life as
such--for that mysterious essence which man is powerless to create in
even the feeblest degree. One by one, at the desire of his mother,
the lad broke down his cherished traps and springes for the hungry
wild birds on the salt marsh. A white bird, she told him once,
looking at him gravely, a bird which he must carry in his bosom
across a crowded public place--his own soul was like that! Would it
reach the hands of his good genius on the opposite side, unruffled
and unsoiled? And as his mother became to him the very type of
maternity in things, its unfailing pity and protectiveness, and
maternity itself the central type of all love;--so, that beautiful
dwelling-place lent the reality of concrete outline to a peculiar
ideal of home, which throughout the rest of his life he seemed, amid
many distractions of spirit, to be ever seeking to regain.

And a certain vague fear of evil, constitutional in him, enhanced
still further this sentiment of home as a place of tried security.
His religion, that old Italian religion, in contrast with the really
light-hearted religion of Greece, had its deep undercurrent of gloom,
its sad, haunting imageries, not exclusively confined to the walls
[23] of Etruscan tombs. The function of the conscience, not always
as the prompter of gratitude for benefits received, but oftenest as
his accuser before those angry heavenly masters, had a large part in
it; and the sense of some unexplored evil, ever dogging his
footsteps, made him oddly suspicious of particular places and
persons. Though his liking for animals was so strong, yet one fierce
day in early summer, as he walked along a narrow road, he had seen
the snakes breeding, and ever afterwards avoided that place and its
ugly associations, for there was something in the incident which made
food distasteful and his sleep uneasy for many days afterwards. The
memory of it however had almost passed away, when at the corner of a
street in Pisa, he came upon an African showman exhibiting a great
serpent: once more, as the reptile writhed, the former painful
impression revived: it was like a peep into the lower side of the
real world, and again for many days took all sweetness from food and
sleep. He wondered at himself indeed, trying to puzzle out the
secret of that repugnance, having no particular dread of a snake's
bite, like one of his companions, who had put his hand into the mouth
of an old garden-god and roused there a sluggish viper. A kind of
pity even mingled with his aversion, and he could hardly have killed
or injured the animals, which seemed already to suffer by the very
circumstance of their life, being what they [24] were. It was
something like a fear of the supernatural, or perhaps rather a moral
feeling, for the face of a great serpent, with no grace of fur or
feathers, so different from quadruped or bird, has a sort of humanity
of aspect in its spotted and clouded nakedness. There was a
humanity, dusty and sordid and as if far gone in corruption, in the
sluggish coil, as it awoke suddenly into one metallic spring of pure
enmity against him. Long afterwards, when it happened that at Rome
he saw, a second time, a showman with his serpents, he remembered the
night which had then followed, thinking, in Saint Augustine's vein,
on the real greatness of those little troubles of children, of which
older people make light; but with a sudden gratitude also, as he
reflected how richly possessed his life had actually been by
beautiful aspects and imageries, seeing how greatly what was
repugnant to the eye disturbed his peace.

Thus the boyhood of Marius passed; on the whole, more given to
contemplation than to action. Less prosperous in fortune than at an
earlier day there had been reason to expect, and animating his
solitude, as he read eagerly and intelligently, with the traditions
of the past, already he lived much in the realm of the imagination,
and became betimes, as he was to continue all through life, something
of an idealist, constructing the world for himself in great measure
from within, by the exercise [25] of meditative power. A vein of
subjective philosophy, with the individual for its standard of all
things, there would be always in his intellectual scheme of the world
and of conduct, with a certain incapacity wholly to accept other
men's valuations. And the generation of this peculiar element in his
temper he could trace up to the days when his life had been so like
the reading of a romance to him. Had the Romans a word for
unworldly? The beautiful word umbratilis perhaps comes nearest to
it; and, with that precise sense, might describe the spirit in which
he prepared himself for the sacerdotal function hereditary in his
family--the sort of mystic enjoyment he had in the abstinence, the
strenuous self-control and ascÍsis, which such preparation involved.
Like the young Ion in the beautiful opening of the play of Euripides,
who every morning sweeps the temple floor with such a fund of
cheerfulness in his service, he was apt to be happy in sacred places,
with a susceptibility to their peculiar influences which he never
outgrew; so that often in after-times, quite unexpectedly, this
feeling would revive in him with undiminished freshness. That first,
early, boyish ideal of priesthood, the sense of dedication, survived
through all the distractions of the world, and when all thought of
such vocation had finally passed from him, as a ministry, in spirit
at least, towards a sort of hieratic beauty and order in the conduct
of life.

[26] And now what relieved in part this over-tension of soul was the
lad's pleasure in the country and the open air; above all, the ramble
to the coast, over the marsh with its dwarf roses and wild lavender,
and delightful signs, one after another--the abandoned boat, the
ruined flood-gates, the flock of wild birds--that one was approaching
the sea; the long summer-day of idleness among its vague scents and
sounds. And it was characteristic of him that he relished especially
the grave, subdued, northern notes in all that--the charm of the
French or English notes, as we might term them--in the luxuriant
Italian landscape.


13. *Ad Vigilias Albas.


Dilexi decorem domus tuae.

[27] THAT almost morbid religious idealism, and his healthful love of
the country, were both alike developed by the circumstances of a
journey, which happened about this time, when Marius was taken to a
certain temple of Aesculapius, among the hills of Etruria, as was
then usual in such cases, for the cure of some boyish sickness. The
religion of Aesculapius, though borrowed from Greece, had been
naturalised in Rome in the old republican times; but had reached
under the Antonines the height of its popularity throughout the Roman
world. That was an age of valetudinarians, in many instances of
imaginary ones; but below its various crazes concerning health and
disease, largely multiplied a few years after the time of which I am
speaking by the miseries of a great pestilence, lay a valuable,
because partly practicable, belief that all the maladies of the soul
might be reached through the subtle gateways of the body.

[28] Salus, salvation, for the Romans, had come to mean bodily
sanity. The religion of the god of bodily health, Salvator, as they
called him absolutely, had a chance just then of becoming the one
religion; that mild and philanthropic son of Apollo surviving, or
absorbing, all other pagan godhead. The apparatus of the medical
art, the salutary mineral or herb, diet or abstinence, and all the
varieties of the bath, came to have a kind of sacramental character,
so deep was the feeling, in more serious minds, of a moral or
spiritual profit in physical health, beyond the obvious bodily
advantages one had of it; the body becoming truly, in that case, but
a quiet handmaid of the soul. The priesthood or "family" of
Aesculapius, a vast college, believed to be in possession of certain
precious medical secrets, came nearest perhaps, of all the
institutions of the pagan world, to the Christian priesthood; the
temples of the god, rich in some instances with the accumulated
thank-offerings of centuries of a tasteful devotion, being really
also a kind of hospitals for the sick, administered in a full
conviction of the religiousness, the refined and sacred happiness, of
a life spent in the relieving of pain.

Elements of a really experimental and progressive knowledge there
were doubtless amid this devout enthusiasm, bent so faithfully on the
reception of health as a direct gift from God; but for the most part
his care was held to take [29] effect through a machinery easily
capable of misuse for purposes of religious fraud. Through dreams,
above all, inspired by Aesculapius himself, information as to the
cause and cure of a malady was supposed to come to the sufferer, in a
belief based on the truth that dreams do sometimes, for those who
watch them carefully, give many hints concerning the conditions of
the body--those latent weak points at which disease or death may most
easily break into it. In the time of Marcus Aurelius these medical
dreams had become more than ever a fashionable caprice. Aristeides,
the "Orator," a man of undoubted intellectual power, has devoted six
discourses to their interpretation; the really scientific Galen has
recorded how beneficently they had intervened in his own case, at
certain turning-points of life; and a belief in them was one of the
frailties of the wise emperor himself. Partly for the sake of these
dreams, living ministers of the god, more likely to come to one in
his actual dwelling-place than elsewhere, it was almost a necessity
that the patient should sleep one or more nights within the precincts
of a temple consecrated to his service, during which time he must
observe certain rules prescribed by the priests.

For this purpose, after devoutly saluting the Lares, as was customary
before starting on a journey, Marius set forth one summer morning on
his way to the famous temple which lay [30] among the hills beyond
the valley of the Arnus. It was his greatest adventure hitherto; and
he had much pleasure in all its details, in spite of his
feverishness. Starting early, under the guidance of an old serving-
man who drove the mules, with his wife who took all that was needful
for their refreshment on the way and for the offering at the shrine,
they went, under the genial heat, halting now and then to pluck
certain flowers seen for the first time on these high places,
upwards, through a long day of sunshine, while cliffs and woods sank
gradually below their path. The evening came as they passed along a
steep white road with many windings among the pines, and it was night
when they reached the temple, the lights of which shone out upon them
pausing before the gates of the sacred enclosure, while Marius became
alive to a singular purity in the air. A rippling of water about the
place was the only thing audible, as they waited till two priestly
figures, speaking Greek to one another, admitted them into a large,
white-walled and clearly lighted guest-chamber, in which, while he
partook of a simple but wholesomely prepared supper, Marius still
seemed to feel pleasantly the height they had attained to among the

The agreeable sense of all this was spoiled by one thing only, his
old fear of serpents; for it was under the form of a serpent that
Aesculapius [31] had come to Rome, and the last definite thought of
his weary head before he fell asleep had been a dread either that the
god might appear, as he was said sometimes to do, under this hideous
aspect, or perhaps one of those great sallow-hued snakes themselves,
kept in the sacred place, as he had also heard was usual.

And after an hour's feverish dreaming he awoke--with a cry, it would
seem, for some one had entered the room bearing a light. The
footsteps of the youthful figure which approached and sat by his
bedside were certainly real. Ever afterwards, when the thought arose
in his mind of some unhoped-for but entire relief from distress, like
blue sky in a storm at sea, would come back the memory of that
gracious countenance which, amid all the kindness of its gaze, had
yet a certain air of predominance over him, so that he seemed now for
the first time to have found the master of his spirit. It would have
been sweet to be the servant of him who now sat beside him speaking.

He caught a lesson from what was then said, still somewhat beyond his
years, a lesson in the skilled cultivation of life, of experience, of
opportunity, which seemed to be the aim of the young priest's
recommendations. The sum of them, through various forgotten
intervals of argument, as might really have happened in a [32] dream,
was the precept, repeated many times under slightly varied aspects,
of a diligent promotion of the capacity of the eye, inasmuch as in
the eye would lie for him the determining influence of life: he was
of the number of those who, in the words of a poet who came long
after, must be "made perfect by the love of visible beauty." The
discourse was conceived from the point of view of a theory Marius
found afterwards in Plato's Phaedrus, which supposes men's spirits
susceptible to certain influences, diffused, after the manner of
streams or currents, by fair things or persons visibly present--green
fields, for instance, or children's faces--into the air around them,
acting, in the case of some peculiar natures, like potent material
essences, and conforming the seer to themselves as with some cunning
physical necessity. This theory,* in itself so fantastic, had
however determined in a range of methodical suggestions, altogether
quaint here and there from their circumstantial minuteness. And
throughout, the possibility of some vision, as of a new city coming
down "like a bride out of heaven," a vision still indeed, it might
seem, a long way off, but to be granted perhaps one day to the eyes
thus trained, was presented as the motive of this laboriously
practical direction.

"If thou wouldst have all about thee like the colours of some fresh
picture, in a clear [33] light," so the discourse recommenced after a
pause, "be temperate in thy religious notions, in love, in wine, in
all things, and of a peaceful heart with thy fellows." To keep the
eye clear by a sort of exquisite personal alacrity and cleanliness,
extending even to his dwelling-place; to discriminate, ever more and
more fastidiously, select form and colour in things from what was
less select; to meditate much on beautiful visible objects, on
objects, more especially, connected with the period of youth--on
children at play in the morning, the trees in early spring, on young
animals, on the fashions and amusements of young men; to keep ever by
him if it were but a single choice flower, a graceful animal or sea-
shell, as a token and representative of the whole kingdom of such
things; to avoid jealously, in his way through the world, everything
repugnant to sight; and, should any circumstance tempt him to a
general converse in the range of such objects, to disentangle himself
from that circumstance at any cost of place, money, or opportunity;
such were in brief outline the duties recognised, the rights
demanded, in this new formula of life. And it was delivered with
conviction; as if the speaker verily saw into the recesses of the
mental and physical being of the listener, while his own expression
of perfect temperance had in it a fascinating power--the merely
negative element of purity, the mere freedom from taint or flaw, in
exercise [34] as a positive influence. Long afterwards, when Marius
read the Charmides--that other dialogue of Plato, into which he seems
to have expressed the very genius of old Greek temperance--the image
of this speaker came back vividly before him, to take the chief part
in the conversation.

It was as a weighty sanction of such temperance, in almost visible
symbolism (an outward imagery identifying itself with unseen
moralities) that the memory of that night's double experience, the
dream of the great sallow snake and the utterance of the young
priest, always returned to him, and the contrast therein involved
made him revolt with unfaltering instinct from the bare thought of an
excess in sleep, or diet, or even in matters of taste, still more
from any excess of a coarser kind.

When he awoke again, still in the exceeding freshness he had felt on
his arrival, and now in full sunlight, it was as if his sickness had
really departed with the terror of the night: a confusion had passed
from the brain, a painful dryness from his hands. Simply to be alive
and there was a delight; and as he bathed in the fresh water set
ready for his use, the air of the room about him seemed like pure
gold, the very shadows rich with colour. Summoned at length by one
of the white-robed brethren, he went out to walk in the temple
garden. At a distance, on either side, his guide pointed out to him
the Houses of Birth and Death, erected for the reception [35]
respectively of women about to become mothers, and of persons about
to die; neither of those incidents being allowed to defile, as was
thought, the actual precincts of the shrine. His visitor of the
previous night he saw nowhere again. But among the official
ministers of the place there was one, already marked as of great
celebrity, whom Marius saw often in later days at Rome, the physician
Galen, now about thirty years old. He was standing, the hood partly
drawn over his face, beside the holy well, as Marius and his guide
approached it.

This famous well or conduit, primary cause of the temple and its
surrounding institutions, was supplied by the water of a spring
flowing directly out of the rocky foundations of the shrine. From
the rim of its basin rose a circle of trim columns to support a
cupola of singular lightness and grace, itself full of reflected
light from the rippling surface, through which might be traced the
wavy figure-work of the marble lining below as the stream of water
rushed in. Legend told of a visit of Aesculapius to this place,
earlier and happier than his first coming to Rome: an inscription
around the cupola recorded it in letters of gold. "Being come unto
this place the son of God loved it exceedingly:"--Huc profectus
filius Dei maxime amavit hunc locum;--and it was then that that most
intimately human of the gods had given men the well, with all its
salutary properties. The [36] element itself when received into the
mouth, in consequence of its entire freedom from adhering organic
matter, was more like a draught of wonderfully pure air than water;
and after tasting, Marius was told many mysterious circumstances
concerning it, by one and another of the bystanders:--he who drank
often thereof might well think he had tasted of the Homeric lotus, so
great became his desire to remain always on that spot: carried to
other places, it was almost indefinitely conservative of its fine
qualities: nay! a few drops of it would amend other water; and it
flowed not only with unvarying abundance but with a volume so oddly
rhythmical that the well stood always full to the brim, whatever
quantity might be drawn from it, seeming to answer with strange
alacrity of service to human needs, like a true creature and pupil of
the philanthropic god. Certainly the little crowd around seemed to
find singular refreshment in gazing on it. The whole place appeared
sensibly influenced by the amiable and healthful spirit of the thing.
All the objects of the country were there at their freshest. In the
great park-like enclosure for the maintenance of the sacred animals
offered by the convalescent, grass and trees were allowed to grow
with a kind of graceful wildness; otherwise, all was wonderfully
nice. And that freshness seemed to have something moral in its
influence, as if it acted upon the body and the merely bodily [37]
powers of apprehension, through the intelligence; and to the end of
his visit Marius saw no more serpents.

A lad was just then drawing water for ritual uses, and Marius
followed him as he returned from the well, more and more impressed by
the religiousness of all he saw, on his way through a long cloister
or corridor, the walls well-nigh hidden under votive inscriptions
recording favours from the son of Apollo, and with a distant
fragrance of incense in the air, explained when he turned aside
through an open doorway into the temple itself. His heart bounded as
the refined and dainty magnificence of the place came upon him
suddenly, in the flood of early sunshine, with the ceremonial lights
burning here and there, and withal a singular expression of sacred
order, a surprising cleanliness and simplicity. Certain priests, men
whose countenances bore a deep impression of cultivated mind, each
with his little group of assistants, were gliding round silently to
perform their morning salutation to the god, raising the closed thumb
and finger of the right hand with a kiss in the air, as they came and
went on their sacred business, bearing their frankincense and lustral
water. Around the walls, at such a level that the worshippers might
read, as in a book, the story of the god and his sons, the
brotherhood of the Asclepiadae, ran a series of imageries, in low
relief, their delicate light and shade being [38] heightened, here
and there, with gold. Fullest of inspired and sacred expression, as
if in this place the chisel of the artist had indeed dealt not with
marble but with the very breath of feeling and thought, was the scene
in which the earliest generation of the sons of Aesculapius were
transformed into healing dreams; for "grown now too glorious to abide
longer among men, by the aid of their sire they put away their mortal
bodies, and came into another country, yet not indeed into Elysium
nor into the Islands of the Blest. But being made like to the
immortal gods, they began to pass about through the world, changed
thus far from their first form that they appear eternally young, as
many persons have seen them in many places--ministers and heralds of
their father, passing to and fro over the earth, like gliding stars.
Which thing is, indeed, the most wonderful concerning them!" And in
this scene, as throughout the series, with all its crowded
personages, Marius noted on the carved faces the same peculiar union
of unction, almost of hilarity, with a certain self-possession and
reserve, which was conspicuous in the living ministrants around him.

In the central space, upon a pillar or pedestal, hung, ex voto, with
the richest personal ornaments, stood the image of Aesculapius
himself, surrounded by choice flowering plants. It presented the
type, still with something of the [39] severity of the earlier art of
Greece about it, not of an aged and crafty physician, but of a youth,
earnest and strong of aspect, carrying an ampulla or bottle in one
hand, and in the other a traveller's staff, a pilgrim among his
pilgrim worshippers; and one of the ministers explained to Marius
this pilgrim guise.--One chief source of the master's knowledge of
healing had been observation of the remedies resorted to by animals
labouring under disease or pain--what leaf or berry the lizard or
dormouse lay upon its wounded fellow; to which purpose for long years
he had led the life of a wanderer, in wild places. The boy took his
place as the last comer, a little way behind the group of worshippers
who stood in front of the image. There, with uplifted face, the
palms of his two hands raised and open before him, and taught by the
priest, he said his collect of thanksgiving and prayer (Aristeides
has recorded it at the end of his Asclepiadae) to the Inspired

"O ye children of Apollo! who in time past have stilled the waves of
sorrow for many people, lighting up a lamp of safety before those who
travel by sea and land, be pleased, in your great condescension,
though ye be equal in glory with your elder brethren the Dioscuri,
and your lot in immortal youth be as theirs, to accept this prayer,
which in sleep and vision ye have inspired. Order it aright, I pray
you, according to your loving-kindness to men. Preserve me [40] from
sickness; and endue my body with such a measure of health as may
suffice it for the obeying of the spirit, that I may pass my days
unhindered and in quietness."

On the last morning of his visit Marius entered the shrine again, and
just before his departure the priest, who had been his special
director during his stay at the place, lifting a cunningly contrived
panel, which formed the back of one of the carved seats, bade him
look through. What he saw was like the vision of a new world, by the
opening of some unsuspected window in a familiar dwelling-place. He
looked out upon a long-drawn valley of singularly cheerful aspect,
hidden, by the peculiar conformation of the locality, from all points
of observation but this. In a green meadow at the foot of the steep
olive-clad rocks below, the novices were taking their exercise. The
softly sloping sides of the vale lay alike in full sunlight; and its
distant opening was closed by a beautifully formed mountain, from
which the last wreaths of morning mist were rising under the heat.
It might have seemed the very presentment of a land of hope, its
hollows brimful of a shadow of blue flowers; and lo! on the one level
space of the horizon, in a long dark line, were towers and a dome:
and that was Pisa.--Or Rome, was it? asked Marius, ready to believe
the utmost, in his excitement.

All this served, as he understood afterwards [41] in retrospect, at
once to strengthen and to purify a certain vein of character in him.
Developing the ideal, pre-existent there, of a religious beauty,
associated for the future with the exquisite splendour of the temple
of Aesculapius, as it dawned upon him on that morning of his first
visit--it developed that ideal in connexion with a vivid sense of the
value of mental and bodily sanity. And this recognition of the
beauty, even for the aesthetic sense, of mere bodily health, now
acquired, operated afterwards as an influence morally salutary,
counteracting the less desirable or hazardous tendencies of some
phases of thought, through which he was to pass.

He came home brown with health to find the health of his mother
failing; and about her death, which occurred not long afterwards,
there was a circumstance which rested with him as the cruellest touch
of all, in an event which for a time seemed to have taken the light
out of the sunshine. She died away from home, but sent for him at
the last, with a painful effort on her part, but to his great
gratitude, pondering, as he always believed, that he might chance
otherwise to look back all his life long upon a single fault with
something like remorse, and find the burden a great one. For it
happened that, through some sudden, incomprehensible petulance there
had been an angry childish gesture, and a slighting word, at the very
moment of her departure, actually for the last time. Remembering
this [42] he would ever afterwards pray to be saved from offences
against his own affections; the thought of that marred parting having
peculiar bitterness for one, who set so much store, both by principle
and habit, on the sentiment of home.


32. *[Transliteration:]   aporroÍ tou kallous. +Translation:
"Emanation from a thing of beauty."


O mare! O littus! verum secretumque Mouseion,+
quam multa invenitis, quam multa dictatis!
Pliny's Letters.

[43] IT would hardly have been possible to feel more seriously than
did Marius in those grave years of his early life. But the death of
his mother turned seriousness of feeling into a matter of the
intelligence: it made him a questioner; and, by bringing into full
evidence to him the force of his affections and the probable
importance of their place in his future, developed in him generally
the more human and earthly elements of character. A singularly
virile consciousness of the realities of life pronounced itself in
him; still however as in the main a poetic apprehension, though
united already with something of personal ambition and the instinct
of self-assertion. There were days when he could suspect, though it
was a suspicion he was careful at first to put from him, that that
early, much [44] cherished religion of the villa might come to count
with him as but one form of poetic beauty, or of the ideal, in
things; as but one voice, in a world where there were many voices it
would be a moral weakness not to listen to. And yet this voice,
through its forcible pre-occupation of his childish conscience, still
seemed to make a claim of a quite exclusive character, defining
itself as essentially one of but two possible leaders of his spirit,
the other proposing to him unlimited self-expansion in a world of
various sunshine. The contrast was so pronounced as to make the
easy, light-hearted, unsuspecting exercise of himself, among the
temptations of the new phase of life which had now begun, seem
nothing less than a rival religion, a rival religious service. The
temptations, the various sunshine, were those of the old town of
Pisa, where Marius was now a tall schoolboy. Pisa was a place lying
just far enough from home to make his rare visits to it in childhood
seem like adventures, such as had never failed to supply new and
refreshing impulses to the imagination. The partly decayed pensive
town, which still had its commerce by sea, and its fashion at the
bathing-season, had lent, at one time the vivid memory of its fair
streets of marble, at another the solemn outline of the dark hills of
Luna on its background, at another the living glances of its men and
women, to the thickly gathering crowd [45] of impressions, out of
which his notion of the world was then forming. And while he learned
that the object, the experience, as it will be known to memory, is
really from first to last the chief point for consideration in the
conduct of life, these things were feeding also the idealism
constitutional with him--his innate and habitual longing for a world
altogether fairer than that he saw. The child could find his way in
thought along those streets of the old town, expecting duly the
shrines at their corners, and their recurrent intervals of garden-
courts, or side-views of distant sea. The great temple of the place,
as he could remember it, on turning back once for a last look from an
angle of his homeward road, counting its tall gray columns between
the blue of the bay and the blue fields of blossoming flax beyond;
the harbour and its lights; the foreign ships lying there; the
sailors' chapel of Venus, and her gilded image, hung with votive
gifts; the seamen themselves, their women and children, who had a
whole peculiar colour-world of their own--the boy's superficial
delight in the broad light and shadow of all that was mingled with
the sense of power, of unknown distance, of the danger of storm and
possible death.

To this place, then, Marius came down now from White-nights, to live
in the house of his guardian or tutor, that he might attend the
school of a famous rhetorician, and learn, among [46] other things,
Greek. The school, one of many imitations of Plato's Academy in the
old Athenian garden, lay in a quiet suburb of Pisa, and had its grove
of cypresses, its porticoes, a house for the master, its chapel and
images. For the memory of Marius in after-days, a clear morning
sunlight seemed to lie perpetually on that severe picture in old gray
and green. The lad went to this school daily betimes, in state at
first, with a young slave to carry the books, and certainly with no
reluctance, for the sight of his fellow-scholars, and their petulant
activity, coming upon the sadder sentimental moods of his childhood,
awoke at once that instinct of emulation which is but the other side
of sympathy; and he was not aware, of course, how completely the
difference of his previous training had made him, even in his most
enthusiastic participation in the ways of that little world, still
essentially but a spectator. While all their heart was in their
limited boyish race, and its transitory prizes, he was already
entertaining himself, very pleasurably meditative, with the tiny
drama in action before him, as but the mimic, preliminary exercise
for a larger contest, and already with an implicit epicureanism.
Watching all the gallant effects of their small rivalries--a scene in
the main of fresh delightful sunshine--he entered at once into the
sensations of a rivalry beyond them, into the passion of men, and had
already recognised a certain [47] appetite for fame, for distinction
among his fellows, as his dominant motive to be.

The fame he conceived for himself at this time was, as the reader
will have anticipated, of the intellectual order, that of a poet
perhaps. And as, in that gray monastic tranquillity of the villa,
inward voices from the reality of unseen things had come abundantly;
so here, with the sounds and aspects of the shore, and amid the
urbanities, the graceful follies, of a bathing-place, it was the
reality, the tyrannous reality, of things visible that was borne in
upon him. The real world around--a present humanity not less comely,
it might seem, than that of the old heroic days--endowing everything
it touched upon, however remotely, down to its little passing tricks
of fashion even, with a kind of fleeting beauty, exercised over him
just then a great fascination.

That sense had come upon him in all its power one exceptionally fine
summer, the summer when, at a somewhat earlier age than was usual, he
had formally assumed the dress of manhood, going into the Forum for
that purpose, accompanied by his friends in festal array. At night,
after the full measure of those cloudless days, he would feel well-
nigh wearied out, as if with a long succession of pictures and music.
As he wandered through the gay streets or on the sea-shore, the real
world seemed indeed boundless, and himself almost absolutely free in
it, with a boundless [48] appetite for experience, for adventure,
whether physical or of the spirit. His entire rearing hitherto had
lent itself to an imaginative exaltation of the past; but now the
spectacle actually afforded to his untired and freely open senses,
suggested the reflection that the present had, it might be, really
advanced beyond the past, and he was ready to boast in the very fact
that it was modern. If, in a voluntary archaism, the polite world of
that day went back to a choicer generation, as it fancied, for the
purpose of a fastidious self-correction, in matters of art, of
literature, and even, as we have seen, of religion, at least it
improved, by a shade or two of more scrupulous finish, on the old
pattern; and the new era, like the Neu-zeit of the German enthusiasts
at the beginning of our own century, might perhaps be discerned,
awaiting one just a single step onward--the perfected new manner, in
the consummation of time, alike as regards the things of the
imagination and the actual conduct of life. Only, while the pursuit
of an ideal like this demanded entire liberty of heart and brain,
that old, staid, conservative religion of his childhood certainly had
its being in a world of somewhat narrow restrictions. But then, the
one was absolutely real, with nothing less than the reality of seeing
and hearing--the other, how vague, shadowy, problematical! Could its
so limited probabilities be worth taking into account in any
practical question as to the rejecting or receiving [49] of what was
indeed so real, and, on the face of it, so desirable?

And, dating from the time of his first coming to school, a great
friendship had grown up for him, in that life of so few attachments--
the pure and disinterested friendship of schoolmates. He had seen
Flavian for the first time the day on which he had come to Pisa, at
the moment when his mind was full of wistful thoughts regarding the
new life to begin for him to-morrow, and he gazed curiously at the
crowd of bustling scholars as they came from their classes. There
was something in Flavian a shade disdainful, as he stood isolated
from the others for a moment, explained in part by his stature and
the distinction of the low, broad forehead; though there was
pleasantness also for the newcomer in the roving blue eyes which
seemed somehow to take a fuller hold upon things around than is usual
with boys. Marius knew that those proud glances made kindly note of
him for a moment, and felt something like friendship at first sight.
There was a tone of reserve or gravity there, amid perfectly
disciplined health, which, to his fancy, seemed to carry forward the
expression of the austere sky and the clear song of the blackbird on
that gray March evening. Flavian indeed was a creature who changed
much with the changes of the passing light and shade about him, and
was brilliant enough under the early sunshine in [50] school next
morning. Of all that little world of more or less gifted youth,
surely the centre was this lad of servile birth. Prince of the
school, he had gained an easy dominion over the old Greek master by
the fascination of his parts, and over his fellow-scholars by the
figure he bore. He wore already the manly dress; and standing there
in class, as he displayed his wonderful quickness in reckoning, or
his taste in declaiming Homer, he was like a carved figure in motion,
thought Marius, but with that indescribable gleam upon it which the
words of Homer actually suggested, as perceptible on the visible
forms of the gods--hoia theous epenÍnothen aien eontas.+

A story hung by him, a story which his comrades acutely connected
with his habitual air of somewhat peevish pride. Two points were
held to be clear amid its general vagueness--a rich stranger paid his
schooling, and he was himself very poor, though there was an
attractive piquancy in the poverty of Flavian which in a scholar of
another figure might have been despised. Over Marius too his
dominion was entire. Three years older than he, Flavian was
appointed to help the younger boy in his studies, and Marius thus
became virtually his servant in many things, taking his humours with
a sort of grateful pride in being noticed at all, and, thinking over
all this afterwards, found that the [51] fascination experienced by
him had been a sentimental one, dependent on the concession to
himself of an intimacy, a certain tolerance of his company, granted
to none beside.

That was in the earliest days; and then, as their intimacy grew, the
genius, the intellectual power of Flavian began its sway over him.
The brilliant youth who loved dress, and dainty food, and flowers,
and seemed to have a natural alliance with, and claim upon,
everything else which was physically select and bright, cultivated
also that foppery of words, of choice diction which was common among
the ťlite spirits of that day; and Marius, early an expert and
elegant penman, transcribed his verses (the euphuism of which, amid a
genuine original power, was then so delightful to him) in beautiful
ink, receiving in return the profit of Flavian's really great
intellectual capacities, developed and accomplished under the
ambitious desire to make his way effectively in life. Among other
things he introduced him to the writings of a sprightly wit, then
very busy with the pen, one Lucian--writings seeming to overflow with
that intellectual light turned upon dim places, which, at least in
seasons of mental fair weather, can make people laugh where they have
been wont, perhaps, to pray. And, surely, the sunlight which filled
those well-remembered early mornings in school, had had more than the
usual measure of gold in it! [52] Marius, at least, would lie awake
before the time, thinking with delight of the long coming hours of
hard work in the presence of Flavian, as other boys dream of a

It was almost by accident at last, so wayward and capricious was he,
that reserve gave way, and Flavian told the story of his father--a
freedman, presented late in life, and almost against his will, with
the liberty so fondly desired in youth, but on condition of the
sacrifice of part of his peculium--the slave's diminutive hoard--
amassed by many a self-denial, in an existence necessarily hard. The
rich man, interested in the promise of the fair child born on his
estate, had sent him to school. The meanness and dejection,
nevertheless, of that unoccupied old age defined the leading memory
of Flavian, revived sometimes, after this first confidence, with a
burst of angry tears amid the sunshine. But nature had had her
economy in nursing the strength of that one natural affection; for,
save his half-selfish care for Marius, it was the single, really
generous part, the one piety, in the lad's character. In him Marius
saw the spirit of unbelief, achieved as if at one step. The much-
admired freedman's son, as with the privilege of a natural
aristocracy, believed only in himself, in the brilliant, and mainly
sensuous gifts, he had, or meant to acquire.

And then, he had certainly yielded himself, [53] though still with
untouched health, in a world where manhood comes early, to the
seductions of that luxurious town, and Marius wondered sometimes, in
the freer revelation of himself by conversation, at the extent of his
early corruption. How often, afterwards, did evil things present
themselves in malign association with the memory of that beautiful
head, and with a kind of borrowed sanction and charm in its natural
grace! To Marius, at a later time, he counted for as it were an
epitome of the whole pagan world, the depth of its corruption, and
its perfection of form. And still, in his mobility, his animation,
in his eager capacity for various life, he was so real an object,
after that visionary idealism of the villa. His voice, his glance,
were like the breaking in of the solid world upon one, amid the
flimsy fictions of a dream. A shadow, handling all things as
shadows, had felt a sudden real and poignant heat in them.

Meantime, under his guidance, Marius was learning quickly and
abundantly, because with a good will. There was that in the actual
effectiveness of his figure which stimulated the younger lad to make
the most of opportunity; and he had experience already that education
largely increased one's capacity for enjoyment. He was acquiring
what it is the chief function of all higher education to impart, the
art, namely, of so relieving the ideal or poetic traits, [54] the
elements of distinction, in our everyday life--of so exclusively
living in them--that the unadorned remainder of it, the mere drift or
dťbris of our days, comes to be as though it were not. And the
consciousness of this aim came with the reading of one particular
book, then fresh in the world, with which he fell in about this time-
-a book which awakened the poetic or romantic capacity as perhaps
some other book might have done, but was peculiar in giving it a
direction emphatically sensuous. It made him, in that visionary
reception of every-day life, the seer, more especially, of a
revelation in colour and form. If our modern education, in its
better efforts, really conveys to any of us that kind of idealising
power, it does so (though dealing mainly, as its professed
instruments, with the most select and ideal remains of ancient
literature) oftenest by truant reading; and thus it happened also,
long ago, with Marius and his friend.


43. +Transliteration: Mouseion. The word means "seat of the muses."
Translation: "O sea! O shore! my own Helicon, / How many things have
you uncovered to me, how many things suggested!" Pliny, Letters,
Book I, ix, to Minicius Fundanus.

50. +Transliteration: hoia theous epenÍnothen aien eontas. Translation:
"such as the gods are endowed with." Homer, Odyssey, 8.365.


[55] THE two lads were lounging together over a book, half-buried in
a heap of dry corn, in an old granary--the quiet corner to which they
had climbed out of the way of their noisier companions on one of
their blandest holiday afternoons. They looked round: the western
sun smote through the broad chinks of the shutters. How like a
picture! and it was precisely the scene described in what they were
reading, with just that added poetic touch in the book which made it
delightful and select, and, in the actual place, the ray of sunlight
transforming the rough grain among the cool brown shadows into heaps
of gold. What they were intent on was, indeed, the book of books,
the "golden" book of that day, a gift to Flavian, as was shown by the
purple writing on the handsome yellow wrapper, following the title
Flaviane!--it said,

Flaviane! lege Felicitur!
Flaviane! Vivas! Fioreas!
Flaviane! Vivas! Gaudeas!

[56] It was perfumed with oil of sandal-wood, and decorated with
carved and gilt ivory bosses at the ends of the roller.

And the inside was something not less dainty and fine, full of the
archaisms and curious felicities in which that generation delighted,
quaint terms and images picked fresh from the early dramatists, the
lifelike phrases of some lost poet preserved by an old grammarian,
racy morsels of the vernacular and studied prettinesses:--all alike,
mere playthings for the genuine power and natural eloquence of the
erudite artist, unsuppressed by his erudition, which, however, made
some people angry, chiefly less well "got-up" people, and especially
those who were untidy from indolence.

No! it was certainly not that old-fashioned, unconscious ease of the
early literature, which could never come again; which, after all, had
had more in common with the "infinite patience" of Apuleius than with
the hack-work readiness of his detractors, who might so well have
been "self-conscious" of going slip-shod. And at least his success
was unmistakable as to the precise literary effect he had intended,
including a certain tincture of "neology" in expression--nonnihil
interdum elocutione novella parum signatum--in the language of
Cornelius Fronto, the contemporary prince of rhetoricians. What
words he had found for conveying, with a single touch, the sense of
textures, colours, [57] incidents! "Like jewellers' work! Like a
myrrhine vase!"--admirers said of his writing. "The golden fibre in
the hair, the gold thread-work in the gown marked her as the
mistress"--aurum in comis et in tunicis, ibi inflexum hic intextum,
matronam profecto confitebatur--he writes, with his "curious
felicity," of one of his heroines. Aurum intextum: gold fibre:--
well! there was something of that kind in his own work. And then, in
an age when people, from the emperor Aurelius downwards, prided
themselves unwisely on writing in Greek, he had written for Latin
people in their own tongue; though still, in truth, with all the care
of a learned language. Not less happily inventive were the incidents
recorded--story within story--stories with the sudden, unlooked-for
changes of dreams. He had his humorous touches also. And what went
to the ordinary boyish taste, in those somewhat peculiar readers,
what would have charmed boys more purely boyish, was the adventure:--
the bear loose in the house at night, the wolves storming the farms
in winter, the exploits of the robbers, their charming caves, the
delightful thrill one had at the question--"Don't you know that these
roads are infested by robbers?"

The scene of the romance was laid in Thessaly, the original land of
witchcraft, and took one up and down its mountains, and into its old
weird towns, haunts of magic and [58] incantation, where all the more
genuine appliances of the black art, left behind her by Medea when
she fled through that country, were still in use. In the city of
Hypata, indeed, nothing seemed to be its true self--"You might think
that through the murmuring of some cadaverous spell, all things had
been changed into forms not their own; that there was humanity in the
hardness of the stones you stumbled on; that the birds you heard
singing were feathered men; that the trees around the walls drew
their leaves from a like source. The statues seemed about to move,
the walls to speak, the dumb cattle to break out in prophecy; nay!
the very sky and the sunbeams, as if they might suddenly cry out."
Witches are there who can draw down the moon, or at least the lunar
virus--that white fluid she sheds, to be found, so rarely, "on high,
heathy places: which is a poison. A touch of it will drive men mad."

And in one very remote village lives the sorceress Pamphile, who
turns her neighbours into various animals. What true humour in the
scene where, after mounting the rickety stairs, Lucius, peeping
curiously through a chink in the door, is a spectator of the
transformation of the old witch herself into a bird, that she may
take flight to the object of her affections--into an owl! "First she
stripped off every rag she had. Then opening a certain chest she
took from it many small boxes, and removing the lid [59] of one of
them, rubbed herself over for a long time, from head to foot, with an
ointment it contained, and after much low muttering to her lamp,
began to jerk at last and shake her limbs. And as her limbs moved to
and fro, out burst the soft feathers: stout wings came forth to view:
the nose grew hard and hooked: her nails were crooked into claws; and
Pamphile was an owl. She uttered a queasy screech; and, leaping
little by little from the ground, making trial of herself, fled
presently, on full wing, out of doors."

By clumsy imitation of this process, Lucius, the hero of the romance,
transforms himself, not as he had intended into a showy winged
creature, but into the animal which has given name to the book; for
throughout it there runs a vein of racy, homely satire on the love of
magic then prevalent, curiosity concerning which had led Lucius to
meddle with the old woman's appliances. "Be you my Venus," he says
to the pretty maid-servant who has introduced him to the view of
Pamphile, "and let me stand by you a winged Cupid!" and, freely
applying the magic ointment, sees himself transformed, "not into a
bird, but into an ass!"

Well! the proper remedy for his distress is a supper of roses, could
such be found, and many are his quaintly picturesque attempts to come
by them at that adverse season; as he contrives to do at last, when,
the grotesque procession of Isis [60] passing by with a bear and
other strange animals in its train, the ass following along with the
rest suddenly crunches the chaplet of roses carried in the High-
priest's hand.

Meantime, however, he must wait for the spring, with more than the
outside of an ass; "though I was not so much a fool, nor so truly an
ass," he tells us, when he happens to be left alone with a daintily
spread table, "as to neglect this most delicious fare, and feed upon
coarse hay." For, in truth, all through the book, there is an
unmistakably real feeling for asses, with bold touches like Swift's,
and a genuine animal breadth. Lucius was the original ass, who
peeping slily from the window of his hiding-place forgot all about
the big shade he cast just above him, and gave occasion to the joke
or proverb about "the peeping ass and his shadow."

But the marvellous, delight in which is one of the really serious
elements in most boys, passed at times, those young readers still
feeling its fascination, into what French writers call the macabre--
that species of almost insane pre-occupation with the materialities
of our mouldering flesh, that luxury of disgust in gazing on
corruption, which was connected, in this writer at least, with not a
little obvious coarseness. It was a strange notion of the gross lust
of the actual world, that Marius took from some of these episodes.
"I am told," they read, "that [61] when foreigners are interred, the
old witches are in the habit of out-racing the funeral procession, to
ravage the corpse"--in order to obtain certain cuttings and remnants
from it, with which to injure the living--"especially if the witch
has happened to cast her eye upon some goodly young man." And the
scene of the night-watching of a dead body lest the witches should
come to tear off the flesh with their teeth, is worthy of Thťophile

But set as one of the episodes in the main narrative, a true gem amid
its mockeries, its coarse though genuine humanity, its burlesque
horrors, came the tale of Cupid and Psyche, full of brilliant, life-
like situations, speciosa locis, and abounding in lovely visible
imagery (one seemed to see and handle the golden hair, the fresh
flowers, the precious works of art in it!) yet full also of a gentle
idealism, so that you might take it, if you chose, for an allegory.
With a concentration of all his finer literary gifts, Apuleius had
gathered into it the floating star-matter of many a delightful old

The Story of Cupid and Psyche.

In a certain city lived a king and queen who had three daughters
exceeding fair. But the beauty of the elder sisters, though pleasant
to behold, yet passed not the measure of human praise, while such was
the loveliness of the [62] youngest that men's speech was too poor to
commend it worthily and could express it not at all. Many of the
citizens and of strangers, whom the fame of this excellent vision had
gathered thither, confounded by that matchless beauty, could but kiss
the finger-tips of their right hands at sight of her, as in adoration
to the goddess Venus herself. And soon a rumour passed through the
country that she whom the blue deep had borne, forbearing her divine
dignity, was even then moving among men, or that by some fresh
germination from the stars, not the sea now, but the earth, had put
forth a new Venus, endued with the flower of virginity.

This belief, with the fame of the maiden's loveliness, went daily
further into distant lands, so that many people were drawn together
to behold that glorious model of the age. Men sailed no longer to
Paphos, to Cnidus or Cythera, to the presence of the goddess Venus:
her sacred rites were neglected, her images stood uncrowned, the cold
ashes were left to disfigure her forsaken altars. It was to a maiden
that men's prayers were offered, to a human countenance they looked,
in propitiating so great a godhead: when the girl went forth in the
morning they strewed flowers on her way, and the victims proper to
that unseen goddess were presented as she passed along. This
conveyance of divine worship to a mortal kindled meantime the anger
of the true Venus. "Lo! now, the ancient [63] parent of nature," she
cried, "the fountain of all elements! Behold me, Venus, benign
mother of the world, sharing my honours with a mortal maiden, while
my name, built up in heaven, is profaned by the mean things of
earth! Shall a perishable woman bear my image about with her? In
vain did the shepherd of Ida prefer me! Yet shall she have little
joy, whosoever she be, of her usurped and unlawful loveliness!"
Thereupon she called to her that winged, bold boy, of evil ways, who
wanders armed by night through men's houses, spoiling their
marriages; and stirring yet more by her speech his inborn wantonness,
she led him to the city, and showed him Psyche as she walked.

"I pray thee," she said, "give thy mother a full revenge. Let this
maid become the slave of an unworthy love." Then, embracing him
closely, she departed to the shore and took her throne upon the crest
of the wave. And lo! at her unuttered will, her ocean-servants are
in waiting: the daughters of Nereus are there singing their song, and
Portunus, and Salacia, and the tiny charioteer of the dolphin, with a
host of Tritons leaping through the billows. And one blows softly
through his sounding sea-shell, another spreads a silken web against
the sun, a third presents the mirror to the eyes of his mistress,
while the others swim side by side below, drawing her chariot. Such
was the escort of Venus as she went upon the sea.

[64] Psyche meantime, aware of her loveliness, had no fruit thereof.
All people regarded and admired, but none sought her in marriage. It
was but as on the finished work of the craftsman that they gazed upon
that divine likeness. Her sisters, less fair than she, were happily
wedded. She, even as a widow, sitting at home, wept over her
desolation, hating in her heart the beauty in which all men were

And the king, supposing the gods were angry, inquired of the oracle
of Apollo, and Apollo answered him thus: "Let the damsel be placed on
the top of a certain mountain, adorned as for the bed of marriage and
of death. Look not for a son-in-law of mortal birth; but for that
evil serpent-thing, by reason of whom even the gods tremble and the
shadows of Styx are afraid."

So the king returned home and made known the oracle to his wife. For
many days she lamented, but at last the fulfilment of the divine
precept is urgent upon her, and the company make ready to conduct the
maiden to her deadly bridal. And now the nuptial torch gathers dark
smoke and ashes: the pleasant sound of the pipe is changed into a
cry: the marriage hymn concludes in a sorrowful wailing: below her
yellow wedding-veil the bride shook away her tears; insomuch that the
whole city was afflicted together at the ill-luck of the stricken

But the mandate of the god impelled the hapless Psyche to her fate,
and, these solemnities [65] being ended, the funeral of the living
soul goes forth, all the people following. Psyche, bitterly weeping,
assists not at her marriage but at her own obsequies, and while the
parents hesitate to accomplish a thing so unholy the daughter cries
to them: "Wherefore torment your luckless age by long weeping? This
was the prize of my extraordinary beauty! When all people celebrated
us with divine honours, and in one voice named the New Venus, it was
then ye should have wept for me as one dead. Now at last I
understand that that one name of Venus has been my ruin. Lead me and
set me upon the appointed place. I am in haste to submit to that
well-omened marriage, to behold that goodly spouse. Why delay the
coming of him who was born for the destruction of the whole world?"

She was silent, and with firm step went on the way. And they
proceeded to the appointed place on a steep mountain, and left there
the maiden alone, and took their way homewards dejectedly. The
wretched parents, in their close-shut house, yielded themselves to
perpetual night; while to Psyche, fearful and trembling and weeping
sore upon the mountain-top, comes the gentle Zephyrus. He lifts her
mildly, and, with vesture afloat on either side, bears her by his own
soft breathing over the windings of the hills, and sets her lightly
among the flowers in the bosom of a valley below.

Psyche, in those delicate grassy places, lying [66] sweetly on her
dewy bed, rested from the agitation of her soul and arose in peace.
And lo! a grove of mighty trees, with a fount of water, clear as
glass, in the midst; and hard by the water, a dwelling-place, built
not by human hands but by some divine cunning. One recognised, even
at the entering, the delightful hostelry of a god. Golden pillars
sustained the roof, arched most curiously in cedar-wood and ivory.
The walls were hidden under wrought silver:--all tame and woodland
creatures leaping forward to the visitor's gaze. Wonderful indeed
was the craftsman, divine or half-divine, who by the subtlety of his
art had breathed so wild a soul into the silver! The very pavement
was distinct with pictures in goodly stones. In the glow of its
precious metal the house is its own daylight, having no need of the
sun. Well might it seem a place fashioned for the conversation of
gods with men!

Psyche, drawn forward by the delight of it, came near, and, her
courage growing, stood within the doorway. One by one, she admired
the beautiful things she saw; and, most wonderful of all! no lock, no
chain, nor living guardian protected that great treasure house. But
as she gazed there came a voice--a voice, as it were unclothed of
bodily vesture--"Mistress!" it said, "all these things are thine.
Lie down, and relieve thy weariness, and rise again for the bath when
thou wilt. We thy servants, whose [67] voice thou hearest, will be
beforehand with our service, and a royal feast shall be ready."

And Psyche understood that some divine care was providing, and,
refreshed with sleep and the Bath, sat down to the feast. Still she
saw no one: only she heard words falling here and there, and had
voices alone to serve her. And the feast being ended, one entered
the chamber and sang to her unseen, while another struck the chords
of a harp, invisible with him who played on it. Afterwards the sound
of a company singing together came to her, but still so that none
were present to sight; yet it appeared that a great multitude of
singers was there.

And the hour of evening inviting her, she climbed into the bed; and
as the night was far advanced, behold a sound of a certain clemency
approaches her. Then, fearing for her maidenhood in so great
solitude, she trembled, and more than any evil she knew dreaded that
she knew not. And now the husband, that unknown husband, drew near,
and ascended the couch, and made her his wife; and lo! before the
rise of dawn he had departed hastily. And the attendant voices
ministered to the needs of the newly married. And so it happened
with her for a long season. And as nature has willed, this new
thing, by continual use, became a delight to her: the sound of the
voice grew to be her solace in that condition of loneliness and

[68] One night the bridegroom spoke thus to his beloved, "O Psyche,
most pleasant bride! Fortune is grown stern with us, and threatens
thee with mortal peril. Thy sisters, troubled at the report of thy
death and seeking some trace of thee, will come to the mountain's
top. But if by chance their cries reach thee, answer not, neither
look forth at all, lest thou bring sorrow upon me and destruction
upon thyself." Then Psyche promised that she would do according to
his will. But the bridegroom was fled away again with the night.
And all that day she spent in tears, repeating that she was now dead
indeed, shut up in that golden prison, powerless to console her
sisters sorrowing after her, or to see their faces; and so went to
rest weeping.

And after a while came the bridegroom again, and lay down beside her,
and embracing her as she wept, complained, "Was this thy promise, my
Psyche? What have I to hope from thee? Even in the arms of thy
husband thou ceasest not from pain. Do now as thou wilt. Indulge
thine own desire, though it seeks what will ruin thee. Yet wilt thou
remember my warning, repentant too late." Then, protesting that she
is like to die, she obtains from him that he suffer her to see her
sisters, and present to them moreover what gifts she would of golden
ornaments; but therewith he ofttimes advised her never at any time,
yielding to pernicious counsel, to enquire concerning his bodily
form, lest she fall, [69] through unholy curiosity, from so great a
height of fortune, nor feel ever his embrace again. "I would die a
hundred times," she said, cheerful at last, "rather than be deprived
of thy most sweet usage. I love thee as my own soul, beyond
comparison even with Love himself. Only bid thy servant Zephyrus
bring hither my sisters, as he brought me. My honeycomb! My
husband! Thy Psyche's breath of life!" So he promised; and after
the embraces of the night, ere the light appeared, vanished from the
hands of his bride.

And the sisters, coming to the place where Psyche was abandoned, wept
loudly among the rocks, and called upon her by name, so that the
sound came down to her, and running out of the palace distraught, she
cried, "Wherefore afflict your souls with lamentation? I whom you
mourn am here." Then, summoning Zephyrus, she reminded him of her
husband's bidding; and he bare them down with a gentle blast. "Enter
now," she said, "into my house, and relieve your sorrow in the
company of Psyche your sister."

And Psyche displayed to them all the treasures of the golden house,
and its great family of ministering voices, nursing in them the
malice which was already at their hearts. And at last one of them
asks curiously who the lord of that celestial array may be, and what
manner of man her husband? And Psyche [70] answered dissemblingly,
"A young man, handsome and mannerly, with a goodly beard. For the
most part he hunts upon the mountains." And lest the secret should
slip from her in the way of further speech, loading her sisters with
gold and gems, she commanded Zephyrus to bear them away.

And they returned home, on fire with envy. "See now the injustice of
fortune!" cried one. "We, the elder children, are given like
servants to be the wives of strangers, while the youngest is
possessed of so great riches, who scarcely knows how to use them.
You saw, Sister! what a hoard of wealth lies in the house; what
glittering gowns; what splendour of precious gems, besides all that
gold trodden under foot. If she indeed hath, as she said, a
bridegroom so goodly, then no one in all the world is happier. And
it may be that this husband, being of divine nature, will make her
too a goddess. Nay! so in truth it is. It was even thus she bore
herself. Already she looks aloft and breathes divinity, who, though
but a woman, has voices for her handmaidens, and can command the
winds." "Think," answered the other, "how arrogantly she dealt with
us, grudging us these trifling gifts out of all that store, and when
our company became a burden, causing us to be hissed and driven away
from her through the air! But I am no woman if she keep her hold on
this great fortune; and if the insult done us has touched [71] thee
too, take we counsel together. Meanwhile let us hold our peace, and
know naught of her, alive or dead. For they are not truly happy of
whose happiness other folk are unaware."

And the bridegroom, whom still she knows not, warns her thus a second
time, as he talks with her by night: "Seest thou what peril besets
thee? Those cunning wolves have made ready for thee their snares, of
which the sum is that they persuade thee to search into the fashion
of my countenance, the seeing of which, as I have told thee often,
will be the seeing of it no more for ever. But do thou neither
listen nor make answer to aught regarding thy husband. Besides, we
have sown also the seed of our race. Even now this bosom grows with
a child to be born to us, a child, if thou but keep our secret, of
divine quality; if thou profane it, subject to death." And Psyche
was glad at the tidings, rejoicing in that solace of a divine seed,
and in the glory of that pledge of love to be, and the dignity of the
name of mother. Anxiously she notes the increase of the days, the
waning months. And again, as he tarries briefly beside her, the
bridegroom repeats his warning:

"Even now the sword is drawn with which thy sisters seek thy life.
Have pity on thyself, sweet wife, and upon our child, and see not
those evil women again." But the sisters make their way into the
palace once more, crying to her in [72] wily tones, "O Psyche! and
thou too wilt be a mother! How great will be the joy at home! Happy
indeed shall we be to have the nursing of the golden child. Truly if
he be answerable to the beauty of his parents, it will be a birth of
Cupid himself."

So, little by little, they stole upon the heart of their sister.
She, meanwhile, bids the lyre to sound for their delight, and the
playing is heard: she bids the pipes to move, the quire to sing, and
the music and the singing come invisibly, soothing the mind of the
listener with sweetest modulation. Yet not even thereby was their
malice put to sleep: once more they seek to know what manner of
husband she has, and whence that seed. And Psyche, simple over-much,
forgetful of her first story, answers, "My husband comes from a far
country, trading for great sums. He is already of middle age, with
whitening locks." And therewith she dismisses them again.

And returning home upon the soft breath of Zephyrus one cried to the
other, "What shall be said of so ugly a lie? He who was a young man
with goodly beard is now in middle life. It must be that she told a
false tale: else is she in very truth ignorant what manner of man he
is. Howsoever it be, let us destroy her quickly. For if she indeed
knows not, be sure that her bridegroom is one of the gods: it is a
god she bears in her womb. And let [73] that be far from us! If she
be called mother of a god, then will life be more than I can bear."

So, full of rage against her, they returned to Psyche, and said to
her craftily, "Thou livest in an ignorant bliss, all incurious of thy
real danger. It is a deadly serpent, as we certainly know, that
comes to sleep at thy side. Remember the words of the oracle, which
declared thee destined to a cruel beast. There are those who have
seen it at nightfall, coming back from its feeding. In no long time,
they say, it will end its blandishments. It but waits for the babe
to be formed in thee, that it may devour thee by so much the richer.
If indeed the solitude of this musical place, or it may be the
loathsome commerce of a hidden love, delight thee, we at least in
sisterly piety have done our part." And at last the unhappy Psyche,
simple and frail of soul, carried away by the terror of their words,
losing memory of her husband's precepts and her own promise, brought
upon herself a great calamity. Trembling and turning pale, she
answers them, "And they who tell those things, it may be, speak the
truth. For in very deed never have I seen the face of my husband,
nor know I at all what manner of man he is. Always he frights me
diligently from the sight of him, threatening some great evil should
I too curiously look upon his face. Do ye, if ye can help your
sister in her great peril, stand by her now."

[74] Her sisters answered her, "The way of safety we have well
considered, and will teach thee. Take a sharp knife, and hide it in
that part of the couch where thou art wont to lie: take also a lamp
filled with oil, and set it Privily behind the curtain. And when he
shall have drawn up his coils into the accustomed place, and thou
hearest him breathe in sleep, slip then from his side and discover
the lamp, and, knife in hand, put forth thy strength, and strike off
the serpent's head." And so they departed in haste.

And Psyche left alone (alone but for the furies which beset her) is
tossed up and down in her distress, like a wave of the sea; and
though her will is firm, yet, in the moment of putting hand to the
deed, she falters, and is torn asunder by various apprehension of the
great calamity upon her. She hastens and anon delays, now full of
distrust, and now of angry courage: under one bodily form she loathes
the monster and loves the bridegroom. But twilight ushers in the
night; and at length in haste she makes ready for the terrible deed.
Darkness came, and the bridegroom; and he first, after some faint
essay of love, falls into a deep sleep.

And she, erewhile of no strength, the hard purpose of destiny
assisting her, is confirmed in force. With lamp plucked forth, knife
in hand, she put by her sex; and lo! as the secrets of the bed became
manifest, the sweetest and most gentle of all creatures, Love
himself, reclined [75] there, in his own proper loveliness! At sight
of him the very flame of the lamp kindled more gladly! But Psyche
was afraid at the vision, and, faint of soul, trembled back upon her
knees, and would have hidden the steel in her own bosom. But the
knife slipped from her hand; and now, undone, yet ofttimes looking
upon the beauty of that divine countenance, she lives again. She
sees the locks of that golden head, pleasant with the unction of the
gods, shed down in graceful entanglement behind and before, about the
ruddy cheeks and white throat. The pinions of the winged god, yet
fresh with the dew, are spotless upon his shoulders, the delicate
plumage wavering over them as they lie at rest. Smooth he was, and,
touched with light, worthy of Venus his mother. At the foot of the
couch lay his bow and arrows, the instruments of his power,
propitious to men.

And Psyche, gazing hungrily thereon, draws an arrow from the quiver,
and trying the point upon her thumb, tremulous still, drave in the
barb, so that a drop of blood came forth. Thus fell she, by her own
act, and unaware, into the love of Love. Falling upon the
bridegroom, with indrawn breath, in a hurry of kisses from eager and
open lips, she shuddered as she thought how brief that sleep might
be. And it chanced that a drop of burning oil fell from the lamp
upon the god's shoulder. Ah! maladroit minister of love, thus to
wound him from whom [76] all fire comes; though 'twas a lover, I
trow, first devised thee, to have the fruit of his desire even in the
darkness! At the touch of the fire the god started up, and beholding
the overthrow of her faith, quietly took flight from her embraces.

And Psyche, as he rose upon the wing, laid hold on him with her two
hands, hanging upon him in his passage through the air, till she
sinks to the earth through weariness. And as she lay there, the
divine lover, tarrying still, lighted upon a cypress tree which grew
near, and, from the top of it, spake thus to her, in great emotion.
"Foolish one! unmindful of the command of Venus, my mother, who had
devoted thee to one of base degree, I fled to thee in his stead. Now
know I that this was vainly done. Into mine own flesh pierced mine
arrow, and I made thee my wife, only that I might seem a monster
beside thee--that thou shouldst seek to wound the head wherein lay
the eyes so full of love to thee! Again and again, I thought to put
thee on thy guard concerning these things, and warned thee in loving-
kindness. Now I would but punish thee by my flight hence." And
therewith he winged his way into the deep sky.

Psyche, prostrate upon the earth, and following far as sight might
reach the flight of the bridegroom, wept and lamented; and when the
breadth of space had parted him wholly from her, cast herself down
from the bank of a river [77] which was nigh. But the stream,
turning gentle in honour of the god, put her forth again unhurt upon
its margin. And as it happened, Pan, the rustic god, was sitting
just then by the waterside, embracing, in the body of a reed, the
goddess Canna; teaching her to respond to him in all varieties of
slender sound. Hard by, his flock of goats browsed at will. And the
shaggy god called her, wounded and outworn, kindly to him and said,
"I am but a rustic herdsman, pretty maiden, yet wise, by favour of my
great age and long experience; and if I guess truly by those
faltering steps, by thy sorrowful eyes and continual sighing, thou
labourest with excess of love. Listen then to me, and seek not death
again, in the stream or otherwise. Put aside thy woe, and turn thy
prayers to Cupid. He is in truth a delicate youth: win him by the
delicacy of thy service."

So the shepherd-god spoke, and Psyche, answering nothing, but with a
reverence to his serviceable deity, went on her way. And while she,
in her search after Cupid, wandered through many lands, he was lying
in the chamber of his mother, heart-sick. And the white bird which
floats over the waves plunged in haste into the sea, and approaching
Venus, as she bathed, made known to her that her son lies afflicted
with some grievous hurt, doubtful of life. And Venus cried, angrily,
"My son, then, has a mistress! And it is Psyche, who witched away
[78] my beauty and was the rival of my godhead, whom he loves!"

Therewith she issued from the sea, and returning to her golden
chamber, found there the lad, sick, as she had heard, and cried from
the doorway, "Well done, truly! to trample thy mother's precepts
under foot, to spare my enemy that cross of an unworthy love; nay,
unite her to thyself, child as thou art, that I might have a
daughter-in-law who hates me! I will make thee repent of thy sport,
and the savour of thy marriage bitter. There is one who shall
chasten this body of thine, put out thy torch and unstring thy bow.
Not till she has plucked forth that hair, into which so oft these
hands have smoothed the golden light, and sheared away thy wings,
shall I feel the injury done me avenged." And with this she hastened
in anger from the doors.

And Ceres and Juno met her, and sought to know the meaning of her
troubled countenance. "Ye come in season," she cried; "I pray you,
find for me Psyche. It must needs be that ye have heard the disgrace
of my house." And they, ignorant of what was done, would have
soothed her anger, saying, "What fault, Mistress, hath thy son
committed, that thou wouldst destroy the girl he loves? Knowest thou
not that he is now of age? Because he wears his years so lightly
must he seem to thee ever but a child? Wilt thou for ever thus pry
into the [79] pastimes of thy son, always accusing his wantonness,
and blaming in him those delicate wiles which are all thine own?"
Thus, in secret fear of the boy's bow, did they seek to please him
with their gracious patronage. But Venus, angry at their light
taking of her wrongs, turned her back upon them, and with hasty steps
made her way once more to the sea.

Meanwhile Psyche, tost in soul, wandering hither and thither, rested
not night or day in the pursuit of her husband, desiring, if she
might not sooth his anger by the endearments of a wife, at the least
to propitiate him with the prayers of a handmaid. And seeing a
certain temple on the top of a high mountain, she said, "Who knows
whether yonder place be not the abode of my lord?" Thither,
therefore, she turned her steps, hastening now the more because
desire and hope pressed her on, weary as she was with the labours of
the way, and so, painfully measuring out the highest ridges of the
mountain, drew near to the sacred couches. She sees ears of wheat,
in heaps or twisted into chaplets; ears of barley also, with sickles
and all the instruments of harvest, lying there in disorder, thrown
at random from the hands of the labourers in the great heat. These
she curiously sets apart, one by one, duly ordering them; for she
said within herself, "I may not neglect the shrines, nor the holy
service, of any god there be, but must rather [80] win by
supplication the kindly mercy of them all."

And Ceres found her bending sadly upon her task, and cried aloud,
"Alas, Psyche! Venus, in the furiousness of her anger, tracks thy
footsteps through the world, seeking for thee to pay her the utmost
penalty; and thou, thinking of anything rather than thine own safety,
hast taken on thee the care of what belongs to me!" Then Psyche fell
down at her feet, and sweeping the floor with her hair, washing the
footsteps of the goddess in her tears, besought her mercy, with many
prayers:--"By the gladdening rites of harvest, by the lighted lamps
and mystic marches of the Marriage and mysterious Invention of thy
daughter Proserpine, and by all beside that the holy place of Attica
veils in silence, minister, I pray thee, to the sorrowful heart of
Psyche! Suffer me to hide myself but for a few days among the heaps
of corn, till time have softened the anger of the goddess, and my
strength, out-worn in my long travail, be recovered by a little

But Ceres answered her, "Truly thy tears move me, and I would fain
help thee; only I dare not incur the ill-will of my kinswoman.
Depart hence as quickly as may be." And Psyche, repelled against
hope, afflicted now with twofold sorrow, making her way back again,
beheld among the half-lighted woods of the valley below a sanctuary
builded with cunning [81] art. And that she might lose no way of
hope, howsoever doubtful, she drew near to the sacred doors. She
sees there gifts of price, and garments fixed upon the door-posts and
to the branches of the trees, wrought with letters of gold which told
the name of the goddess to whom they were dedicated, with
thanksgiving for that she had done. So, with bent knee and hands
laid about the glowing altar, she prayed saying, "Sister and spouse
of Jupiter! be thou to these my desperate fortune's Juno the
Auspicious! I know that thou dost willingly help those in travail
with child; deliver me from the peril that is upon me." And as she
prayed thus, Juno in the majesty of her godhead, was straightway
present, and answered, "Would that I might incline favourably to
thee; but against the will of Venus, whom I have ever loved as a
daughter, I may not, for very shame, grant thy prayer."

And Psyche, dismayed by this new shipwreck of her hope, communed thus
with herself, "Whither, from the midst of the snares that beset me,
shall I take my way once more? In what dark solitude shall I hide me
from the all-seeing eye of Venus? What if I put on at length a man's
courage, and yielding myself unto her as my mistress, soften by a
humility not yet too late the fierceness of her purpose? Who knows
but that I may find him also whom my soul seeketh after, in the abode
of his mother?"

[82] And Venus, renouncing all earthly aid in her search, prepared to
return to heaven. She ordered the chariot to be made ready, wrought
for her by Vulcan as a marriage-gift, with a cunning of hand which
had left his work so much the richer by the weight of gold it lost
under his tool. From the multitude which housed about the bed-
chamber of their mistress, white doves came forth, and with joyful
motions bent their painted necks beneath the yoke. Behind it, with
playful riot, the sparrows sped onward, and other birds sweet of
song, making known by their soft notes the approach of the goddess.
Eagle and cruel hawk alarmed not the quireful family of Venus. And
the clouds broke away, as the uttermost ether opened to receive her,
daughter and goddess, with great joy.

And Venus passed straightway to the house of Jupiter to beg from him
the service of Mercury, the god of speech. And Jupiter refused not
her prayer. And Venus and Mercury descended from heaven together;
and as they went, the former said to the latter, "Thou knowest, my
brother of Arcady, that never at any time have I done anything
without thy help; for how long time, moreover, I have sought a
certain maiden in vain. And now naught remains but that, by thy
heraldry, I proclaim a reward for whomsoever shall find her. Do thou
my bidding quickly." And therewith [83] she conveyed to him a little
scrip, in the which was written the name of Psyche, with other
things; and so returned home.

And Mercury failed not in his office; but departing into all lands,
proclaimed that whosoever delivered up to Venus the fugitive girl,
should receive from herself seven kisses--one thereof full of the
inmost honey of her throat. With that the doubt of Psyche was ended.
And now, as she came near to the doors of Venus, one of the
household, whose name was Use-and-Wont, ran out to her, crying, "Hast
thou learned, Wicked Maid! now at last! that thou hast a mistress?"
And seizing her roughly by the hair, drew her into the presence of
Venus. And when Venus saw her, she cried out, saying, "Thou hast
deigned then to make thy salutations to thy mother-in-law. Now will
I in turn treat thee as becometh a dutiful daughter-in-law!"

And she took barley and millet and poppy-seed, every kind of grain
and seed, and mixed them together, and laughed, and said to her:
"Methinks so plain a maiden can earn lovers only by industrious
ministry: now will I also make trial of thy service. Sort me this
heap of seed, the one kind from the others, grain by grain; and get
thy task done before the evening." And Psyche, stunned by the
cruelty of her bidding, was silent, and moved not her hand to the
inextricable heap. And there came [84] forth a little ant, which had
understanding of the difficulty of her task, and took pity upon the
consort of the god of Love; and he ran deftly hither and thither, and
called together the whole army of his fellows. "Have pity," he
cried, "nimble scholars of the Earth, Mother of all things!--have
pity upon the wife of Love, and hasten to help her in her perilous
effort." Then, one upon the other, the hosts of the insect people
hurried together; and they sorted asunder the whole heap of seed,
separating every grain after its kind, and so departed quickly out of

And at nightfall Venus returned, and seeing that task finished with
so wonderful diligence, she cried, "The work is not thine, thou
naughty maid, but his in whose eyes thou hast found favour." And
calling her again in the morning, "See now the grove," she said,
"beyond yonder torrent. Certain sheep feed there, whose fleeces
shine with gold. Fetch me straightway a lock of that precious stuff,
having gotten it as thou mayst."

And Psyche went forth willingly, not to obey the command of Venus,
but even to seek a rest from her labour in the depths of the river.
But from the river, the green reed, lowly mother of music, spake to
her: "O Psyche! pollute not these waters by self-destruction, nor
approach that terrible flock; for, as the heat groweth, they wax
fierce. Lie down under yon plane-tree, till the [85] quiet of the
river's breath have soothed them. Thereafter thou mayst shake down
the fleecy gold from the trees of the grove, for it holdeth by the

And Psyche, instructed thus by the simple reed, in the humanity of
its heart, filled her bosom with the soft golden stuff, and returned
to Venus. But the goddess smiled bitterly, and said to her, "Well
know I who was the author of this thing also. I will make further
trial of thy discretion, and the boldness of thy heart. Seest thou
the utmost peak of yonder steep mountain? The dark stream which
flows down thence waters the Stygian fields, and swells the flood of
Cocytus. Bring me now, in this little urn, a draught from its
innermost source." And therewith she put into her hands a vessel of
wrought crystal.

And Psyche set forth in haste on her way to the mountain, looking
there at last to find the end of her hapless life. But when she came
to the region which borders on the cliff that was showed to her, she
understood the deadly nature of her task. From a great rock, steep
and slippery, a horrible river of water poured forth, falling
straightway by a channel exceeding narrow into the unseen gulf below.
And lo! creeping from the rocks on either hand, angry serpents, with
their long necks and sleepless eyes. The very waters found a voice
and bade her depart, in smothered cries of, Depart hence! and [86]
What doest thou here? Look around thee! and Destruction is upon
thee! And then sense left her, in the immensity of her peril, as one
changed to stone.

Yet not even then did the distress of this innocent soul escape the
steady eye of a gentle providence. For the bird of Jupiter spread
his wings and took flight to her, and asked her, "Didst thou think,
simple one, even thou! that thou couldst steal one drop of that
relentless stream, the holy river of Styx, terrible even to the gods?
But give me thine urn." And the bird took the urn, and filled it at
the source, and returned to her quickly from among the teeth of the
serpents, bringing with him of the waters, all unwilling--nay!
warning him to depart away and not molest them.

And she, receiving the urn with great joy, ran back quickly that she
might deliver it to Venus, and yet again satisfied not the angry
goddess. "My child!" she said, "in this one thing further must thou
serve me. Take now this tiny casket, and get thee down even unto
hell, and deliver it to Proserpine. Tell her that Venus would have
of her beauty so much at least as may suffice for but one day's use,
that beauty she possessed erewhile being foreworn and spoiled,
through her tendance upon the sick-bed of her son; and be not slow in

And Psyche perceived there the last ebbing of her fortune--that she
was now thrust openly [87] upon death, who must go down, of her own
motion, to Hades and the Shades. And straightway she climbed to the
top of an exceeding high tower, thinking within herself, "I will cast
myself down thence: so shall I descend most quickly into the kingdom
of the dead." And the tower again, broke forth into speech:
"Wretched Maid! Wretched Maid! Wilt thou destroy thyself? If the
breath quit thy body, then wilt thou indeed go down into Hades, but
by no means return hither. Listen to me. Among the pathless wilds
not far from this place lies a certain mountain, and therein one of
hell's vent-holes. Through the breach a rough way lies open,
following which thou wilt come, by straight course, to the castle of
Orcus. And thou must not go empty-handed. Take in each hand a
morsel of barley-bread, soaked in hydromel; and in thy mouth two
pieces of money. And when thou shalt be now well onward in the way
of death, then wilt thou overtake a lame ass laden with wood, and a
lame driver, who will pray thee reach him certain cords to fasten the
burden which is falling from the ass: but be thou cautious to pass on
in silence. And soon as thou comest to the river of the dead,
Charon, in that crazy bark he hath, will put thee over upon the
further side. There is greed even among the dead: and thou shalt
deliver to him, for the ferrying, one of those two pieces of money,
in such wise that he take [88] it with his hand from between thy
lips. And as thou passest over the stream, a dead old man, rising on
the water, will put up to thee his mouldering hands, and pray thee
draw him into the ferry-boat. But beware thou yield not to unlawful

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