Part 12 (1/2)
She hurried on to the valley, where the irises were in blossom. There, near the brook, in the light of the moon, stood the Satyr, tripping to the sound of his pipe, and round him, hand in hand, madly danced the Bacchantes, naked, a panther's skin cast about them, their wild streaming hair encircled with vine-leaves. They danced like drunken spectres in the pale moonlight night; they waved their thyrsus, and pelted each other with grapes, which smashed to juice upon their faces.
”Come, come!” they cried triumphantly.
Psyche was startled by their voices, rough and hoa.r.s.e. But they opened their circle, two stretched their hand out to Psyche, and they danced round with her. The wild dance excited her; she had never known till then what dancing was, and she danced with sparkling eyes. She waved a thyrsus, and pressed the grapes to her mouth.... Then suddenly the Satyr caught hold of her and kissed her pa.s.sionately, pressing the grapes to her lips....
”Psyche! Psyche!”
She started and stood still. The Bacchantes, the Satyr, fled.
Psyche hastened back; with her hand she wiped her contaminated, burning lips.
”... Psyche!”
She ran to meet Eros, but when she saw him, G.o.dlike and beautiful as an image, spotlessly pure in the moonlight, with his n.o.ble countenance, his deep brown eyes full of love, she was so disgusted with herself that she fell at his feet in a swoon.
He lifted her up and laid her on the bed.
He watched while she slumbered.
The whole night he watched by her....
And it seemed as if she were wandering in her mind....
Her face glowed with fever, and ever and anon she wiped her lips.
Outside in the garden the flowers drooped in sorrow. The lark was silent, and the little angels sat together with their wings drawn in. The sky was ash-coloured and gloomy.
That night Psyche slept in Eros' arms, and afar off the pipe allured her....
She extracted herself from Eros' embrace and got up....
She wanted to kiss him for the last time, but durst not, for fear of waking him.
”Farewell!” she whispered very gently. ”n.o.ble Eros, beloved husband, farewell! I am unworthy of you. The Satyr's kiss is still burning on my lips; my mouth is on fire from the juice of the grapes. Farewell...! And if you can, forgive me!”
She went.
The night was sultry and heavy with thunder; the flowers, exhausted, hung their heads; the nightingale uttered a cry, and she thought it was an owl. Bats flitted about with flapping wings.
She walked with a firm step. She followed the brook to where it flowed into the valley. Yonder ... with the Satyr in their midst, danced the Bacchantes.
”Hurrah! Hurrah!” they cried out, rough and hoa.r.s.e, and threw at her a bunch of grapes.
She hesitated a moment.... She raised her eyes. Through the gloomy night a single star glistened like a cold, proud eye.
”Sacred star!” said Psyche, ”you who watched over me before, and now leave me for ever ... tell him that I am unworthy of him and beg him to forgive me!”