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 moun-tain, and to tower in wonder at being the most beautiful creature in exis-tence. So she asked her handmaid-ens, 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 court-ing 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 fra-grance 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