sacrifice for a demon, and was accordingly carried off. In a mountain mansion, cared for by invisible sprites, the girl was visited in deepest darkness by one who claimed to be her husband and lord.
He was to her only the best of lovers, but warned her in the blindfold black: Never attempt to look on me .
(Hence the two titles— Nuptiae , an ironical “marriage”, and the second, perhaps perversely mimicking the instruction of Christ: ‘ See me not.”)
But Psyche had been persuaded by desire and doubt to forget this ban. When he slept she lit a lamp, and so beheld her spouse. He was the god of love himself, handsome and perfect. And in her amazement, her shaking hand let drop a scorch of oil upon his shoulder. He woke, he disowned her, and into the unkind world she was cast out lamenting.
Helise glanced at the third picture. Yes, here was the banishment of Psyche following her transgression.
And yet, it seemed to Helise that something in the vision was awry. What could it be?
The title exclaimed, once more with apparent irony, Femina varium et mutabile semper . Her Latin was restricted, but this was a quotation she had heard before. “Fickle woman is always changeable.”
And indeed, Psyche had altered from carnal curiosity to frenzied terror.
She was depicted rushing down a winding granite stair, her arms flung out, her face ugly and contorted with screaming. All the rest of the small canvas conveyed pitchy nothingness—but for one curious whorling hint of motion, seeming to come on behind her, somewhat like a flock of birds—
The door of the tower room shut in a hollow clap.
“You are here with reason?”
Helise darted about, guilty as a robber, almost afraid as one.
“I came to ask of you—’ But no, she had not come to ask.
He stood before the closed door. His doublet and hose were the colour ice, his hair nearly whiter. His face appalled her, it was so fair, so inhuman.
It occurred to her to throw herself on the floor at his feet. She did not do it. Etiquette, which had chained her to a life of slavish unhappiness also prevented such servile extremes.
“Didn’t they tell you, Helise, never to meddle with my possessions?”
“I’ve touched nothing—I was so careful—’
“Why are you here?”
She was too frightened even to cry. She loved him. But who? This god of ice and snow?
“My lord,” she said, in a little voice. Then, “Oh help me! Everywhere they accuse me—I didn’t know what I must do.”
“Who accuses you? What are you talking of?”
“Your mother, the lady—that old woman. I see—I don’t please you—but I’d suffer anything—only educate me, my Lord Heros—’
“Crucifixion of Christ,” he said.
The partial blasphemy checked her. She bowed her head and now tears streamed from her eyes.
Useless: he would not comfort her.
Presently he moved across the room and going to the table, ran his hands recklessly, as she had not had licence to do, over all the compendium of scales and jars, parchments, mummies, vertebrae. It was even violent, this sweeping, for one of the wired skeletons gave way when his fingers encountered it. At that he took the horror up and threw it across the room. It smashed to powder on a wall.
But when he spoke, his voice had no edge or noise.
“I believe they must have asked you, Helise, if you’re with child.”
Something gave way within her.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And naturally, you’re not. Poor innocent,” he said, rather as his mother had, lacking all pity. “You must learn fortitude. Now if I were a sodomite, or impotent, you might divorce me.” (These syllables were like a sentence in a foreign tongue.) “If you had the will and the power, you could seek an annulment. But do you even comprehend, Helise, how I fail you?”
And she thought of kisses and his hands upon her waist. She burned, but it was ice. She could not say anything.
“I see you nearly do comprehend,” he commented. “Well, madam. You’ll go
He was to her only the best of lovers, but warned her in the blindfold black: Never attempt to look on me .
(Hence the two titles— Nuptiae , an ironical “marriage”, and the second, perhaps perversely mimicking the instruction of Christ: ‘ See me not.”)
But Psyche had been persuaded by desire and doubt to forget this ban. When he slept she lit a lamp, and so beheld her spouse. He was the god of love himself, handsome and perfect. And in her amazement, her shaking hand let drop a scorch of oil upon his shoulder. He woke, he disowned her, and into the unkind world she was cast out lamenting.
Helise glanced at the third picture. Yes, here was the banishment of Psyche following her transgression.
And yet, it seemed to Helise that something in the vision was awry. What could it be?
The title exclaimed, once more with apparent irony, Femina varium et mutabile semper . Her Latin was restricted, but this was a quotation she had heard before. “Fickle woman is always changeable.”
And indeed, Psyche had altered from carnal curiosity to frenzied terror.
She was depicted rushing down a winding granite stair, her arms flung out, her face ugly and contorted with screaming. All the rest of the small canvas conveyed pitchy nothingness—but for one curious whorling hint of motion, seeming to come on behind her, somewhat like a flock of birds—
The door of the tower room shut in a hollow clap.
“You are here with reason?”
Helise darted about, guilty as a robber, almost afraid as one.
“I came to ask of you—’ But no, she had not come to ask.
He stood before the closed door. His doublet and hose were the colour ice, his hair nearly whiter. His face appalled her, it was so fair, so inhuman.
It occurred to her to throw herself on the floor at his feet. She did not do it. Etiquette, which had chained her to a life of slavish unhappiness also prevented such servile extremes.
“Didn’t they tell you, Helise, never to meddle with my possessions?”
“I’ve touched nothing—I was so careful—’
“Why are you here?”
She was too frightened even to cry. She loved him. But who? This god of ice and snow?
“My lord,” she said, in a little voice. Then, “Oh help me! Everywhere they accuse me—I didn’t know what I must do.”
“Who accuses you? What are you talking of?”
“Your mother, the lady—that old woman. I see—I don’t please you—but I’d suffer anything—only educate me, my Lord Heros—’
“Crucifixion of Christ,” he said.
The partial blasphemy checked her. She bowed her head and now tears streamed from her eyes.
Useless: he would not comfort her.
Presently he moved across the room and going to the table, ran his hands recklessly, as she had not had licence to do, over all the compendium of scales and jars, parchments, mummies, vertebrae. It was even violent, this sweeping, for one of the wired skeletons gave way when his fingers encountered it. At that he took the horror up and threw it across the room. It smashed to powder on a wall.
But when he spoke, his voice had no edge or noise.
“I believe they must have asked you, Helise, if you’re with child.”
Something gave way within her.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And naturally, you’re not. Poor innocent,” he said, rather as his mother had, lacking all pity. “You must learn fortitude. Now if I were a sodomite, or impotent, you might divorce me.” (These syllables were like a sentence in a foreign tongue.) “If you had the will and the power, you could seek an annulment. But do you even comprehend, Helise, how I fail you?”
And she thought of kisses and his hands upon her waist. She burned, but it was ice. She could not say anything.
“I see you nearly do comprehend,” he commented. “Well, madam. You’ll go
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