A Legend from Olympus: Love on the Sacred Mountain

The sun leaned toward its setting, and Aphrodite came out of the sea and sat upon a smooth rock, the warm ray kissing her skin, drying the drops that clung to her golden hair, and kneeling at her small feet to caress them, playful and content. Around her gathered a cluster of nymphs, singing her the melody of love, perfumed with her fragrance, drunk on her aged wine, bewitched by her magic... Is she not the goddess of beauty? And it pleased Aphrodite to toy with the assembly, to vaunt herself over her peers among the gods of the sacred mountain, and to tower in wonder at being the most beautiful creature in existence. So she asked her handmaidens, courting praise like any woman: "Do you see among all creatures one more beautiful than I?" And for the first time since Aphrodite had known herself, she felt that she was courting praise and it had defied her: the nymphs stood bewildered, finding no answer. Aphrodite was astounded! What had tied their tongues, which had always been so free?... She repeated the question, and a whisper from one bold nymph struck her like a slap: "She!"

— "She? Who is she?"

"Your pardon, my mistress!... She is Psyche, a mortal woman who dwells in a white house near the temple of Athena."

And Aphrodite returned to the mountain, rage inflaming her and jealousy searing her. "Woe to the maiden of Athens! Her loveliness has blasphemed against the beauty of the gods, and the wage of blasphemy is nothing but death! Nay, worse!"

Aphrodite summoned to her side her son, the god of love, and commanded him to go to her rival Psyche and strike her with the deadliest arrow in his quiver, that she might fall in love with the ugliest graybeard who ever trod the soil of Athens. He obeyed the command and mounted the wind, devouring space with his two strong wings. And his mother sank back upon her bed, drunk with the wine of triumph and the fragrance of revenge. The god of love saw Psyche from afar; he nocked his arrow and drew near to take his aim, that he might not miss the mark. He saw her as the moon poured its silver rays upon her enchanting face and her golden hair, her tender body breathing the freshness of youth and the nectar of beauty... a maiden whose loveliness mocked the beauty of the gods, whose beauty vaunted itself over the loveliness of Astarte. His virgin heart leapt for her, her radiant splendor dazzled his eye, his hands trembled, and his arrow flew astray and struck him in his own heart — a mortal wound! The god of love fell madly in love with her and bore her on his wings to the sacred mountain.

And Psyche opened her eyes and flung herself into the bliss of love, drinking from it the nectar of happiness, growing drunk on the perfume of divinity.

The years passed, and every night was a wedding, every morning bliss, every evening an overflow of desire and a harvest of paradise. Then came the April moon, and the god of love pressed her to his warm breast and asked her softly and tenderly: "Do you not long, my beloved, for your family and your kin? Do you not wish to visit them?" She was on the point of saying "No," out of devotion to him, but shyness held her back, and she murmured: "Yes... I long to see my parents and my brothers, for my absence from them has grown long." So he carried her to her family and retraced his way to the mountain to await her return.

Her family received her with eagerness and joy and curiosity,

and the questions poured down on her in torrents: "Where were you?... With whom were you? Why did you tarry? Why did you not tell us when you went?" She answered her sisters simply, with a touch of triumphant pride: "I was on the sacred mountain. The god of love saw me and loved me and carried me on his wings to bliss..."
— "Is he beautiful, my little one?"
— "I feel that he has the beauty of the gods. Nay, he is the most beautiful of gods, for he is the god of love! Yet I have never seen him, for it is forbidden me to look upon him by light."
— "How strange! Would he forbid you to see him if he were beautiful? Shame on you, you simple girl! And have you obeyed his unjust, foolish commands? Why should he keep you from seeing him, unless there were in him something he fears your eye might fall upon? He is a deformed monster! Nay, a terrifying, hideous ghoul! I fear he will destroy you one day. Beware, my sister... when you go back to him, take with you a knife and a lamp, and when he sleeps, light the lamp and strike him in a mortal spot! Kill him and free yourself from his yoke."
The elder sister had grasped that her younger sister Psyche had won favor in the eyes of Eros, the god of love — that from him springs the beauty of the universe and its pulsing, fruitful face, and that her sister was the happiest creature in existence. But jealousy mingled with envy would not suffer another to enjoy what she herself had been denied; so she dictated to her what she had said, slipping her sister poison hidden in sweetness. And she kept at her until she had persuaded her, and Psyche carried within the folds of her gown a sharp knife and a small lamp.
And Eros bore her up and returned with her, knowing nothing of the treachery and evil she harbored against him.
The world grew still, and the bed embraced them; he slumbered beside her, content and trusting. Now she rises, lights the lamp, draws the knife, and is on the point of striking... when the light of the lamp falls on the enchanting, beautiful face of Eros, and Psyche trembles; a shudder shakes her whole being and makes her hand quiver... and a hot drop of oil falls from the lamp on the forearm of Eros. He woke and opened his eyes... There
was his beloved, the knife in her right hand and the lamp in her left... She had betrayed his trust. What a traitress! She had meant him harm!
He rose, stricken, and loosed his wings to the wind, to where she knew not. She clung to his mantle, but he cast it off to her and slipped from her grasp, leaving her a broken remnant fed on grief and remorse, weeping for her lost love and her longed-for hope.
And Aphrodite heard of her fate, and of the withering and wasting to which she had come. She mocked her and seared her with the stings of scorn: "She is no longer fit for the love of a god. Her freshness has faded, her radiance has run dry, her beauty has withered." And Aphrodite kept at her until she had shattered her pride and broken her heart, bloodied already by the desertion of her adored beloved.
And wishing to plot against her rival, she counseled her to go down to Hades and bring back from it a vial of ointment to restore her withered beauty to its radiance and freshness.
So Psyche descended to Hades and implored the dark, tyrannical king to grant her plea. He took pity on her and gave her the vial, and she clasped it and guarded it, for it was a ray of hope in her grievous darkness.
She came upon a lush meadow through which flowed a stream like molten silver, and she sat down near it to rest. She caught sight of her reflection on the crystal surface of the water, so she took out the vial and anointed her face and her neck — and behold, she sank into a deep slumber on the bank of the stream, for an age of time...
The April moon shone full, and the buds of the flowers opened, smiling at the dew of spring; love returned to flutter through the reaches of the sky, and its god passed by the meadow and saw the beloved of yesterday sound asleep, a smile of contentment on her lips. He remembered the past and yearned for it; he took pity on her and forgave. Love lowered the pride of his wings and descended to her; he bent his breast over her and pressed upon her mouth a kiss that woke her from her deep slumber... Then he carried her on his wings to the sacred mountain, to dwell there in bliss forever...