Orpheus and Eurydice

The son of the Thracian King Oeagrus, Prince Orpheus, seemed to many who met him an unremarkable man, neither tall of stature like Hercules, nor divinely handsome as Adonis. He was not a renowned warrior, as Achilles, or even notably silver tongued as Odysseus. The son of a King, and the Muse Calliope, Orpheus did however possess two qualities so rare in the great men of his time. For the Thracian Prince was blessed with a heart of gold, and was gifted lyre player, a trait handed down from his mother and grandfather - the god Apollo. Both of these things would be his greatest asset, and his ultimate ruin...

Orpheus serenades the Nymphs of the Forest
Painting by Charles Jalabert

While the lyre was the creation of the god Hermes, it was Orpheus who perfected it. As a young child Apollo gifted his favoured grandson with a lyre of burnished gold, and his mother, the patron of lofty poetry, taught him many a verse of heroic lore, and the Prince set it all to heart-warming music. Any doubts old King Oeagrus may have had at his son's disinterest in military pursuits were at once silenced the moment young Orpheus began to play, for the hearts of the King and all his court were moved by the heavenly notes. Many a summer's afternoon would young Orpheus spend in the wild forests of Thrace, his refuge of body, his music, his sanctuary of mind. Oblivious he was too, to the enchanting power of his tunes. The nymphs of the forest lay all around, entranced by the Prince's songs, as they had been for his brother Marsyas. The beasts of the glades, boars, wolves and the like all stood alert and spellbound. Even the stones of the forest floor lent their attention to the sound that soothed the air, such was the power of the music that Orpheus created. The Prince's quiet life, however, did not endure for long. As a young man, Orpheus volunteered to join Jason and his fellow Argonauts on their arduous quest to the ends of the Earth for the Golden Fleece (a story which shall be told in the future on this site). The crew of heroes, including mighty Hercules himself, grew to respect and admire Orpheus, whose humble demeanour and beautiful compositions came to their rescue on many an occasion when morale was low, saving the lives of the whole crew when faced with the deadly Sirens.


When at last the voyage was over, Orpheus returned a grown man to his native Thrace, desiring a quiet life as of old. He soon grew to care for a nymph, Eurydice, a spirit who once admired his songs deep in the forest. Over time both Orpheus and Eurydice became deeply attached to one another, and the Prince was overjoyed when she agreed to wed him. The day arrived, and it was wondrous to behold, such was the array of beings present. Apollo made the rays of the Sun touch all the fields and faces that day, his grandson's wedding day. In their tens and hundreds the dryads and naiads marched forth from their abodes, bedecked in garlands and fine robes. It was a happy day, and even high on Olympus the joy was felt. Alas that such calamity would strike utopia that day. In the commotion and revelry, a drunken Satyr chased the bride through the party. Eurydice, surprised, fled into the fields, but ruinous was her fortune. Into the long grass of the meadow she fled. She turned to try and catch a glimpse of her pursuer, but in that moment she felt a lethal pain in her foot. She screamed and looked for the source of her doom. There at her feet, a viper. A glance she stole at Orpheus, face white with raw terror, before death moved to claim her on her wedding day.

The River Styx
Painting by Joachim Patinir

Devastation was the mere beginning of feeling which struck Orpheus now. Holding her close to him, he grieved terribly, and the whole world grieved with him. Shattered as a man, for an age after, a new song pierced the air, but it was not the tune of joy which touched the soul, it was a lament, a tearful mourning indeed. The spirits of the forest could restrain their pity no more. His heart afire with longing and despair, Orpheus refused to accept his loss of Heaven. At the urging of the nymphs, he decided to take the dark road to Hades himself and plead for mercy. So the Prince set off on his morbid journey, one fraught with danger. Seldom had a mortal ventured into the land of the dead and ever seen the light of day again. But even the hearts of the gods on high were with him that day. At his approach, fearsome Cerberus skulked away in the darkness at the gates of death. Eerie silence fell on the Prince's ears. Such a heavy silence the greatest musician in the world had never before heard, and it saddened him. Taking out his lyre, he did the only thing he knew, he played. Even the monstrous guardian of Hell was soothed by the song, and allowed his passage. Charon, the ferryman of the dead, taking pity too, granted him a journey across the River Styx, the true boundary between the Overworld and Hades. The smell of decay grew overwhelming, and at last, to the throne room of the god of the dead himself he came in humility. Hades and his Queen Persephone were astonished at the sight of the broken man, his robes defiled with filth and tears, and heard his call.


Orpheus came forth and spake his mind, "I come not curious to explore thy domain, nor come to boast... My wife alone I seek, for her sake these terrors I support, this journey take". The gods high on Olympus, powerless in the abode of death, wept for Orpheus. The Prince, wavering at the fearsome gaze of Hades, continued:


             " A hope within my heart prevails...
               Let me again Eurydice receive,
               Let Fate her quick spun thread of life re-weave...
               She, when ripen'd years she shall attain,
               Must, of avoidless right, be yours again:
               I but the transient use of that require,
               Which soon, too soon, I must resign entire... "
                  - ORPHEUS' PLEA TO HADES

Orpheus leads Eurydice
Painting by Jacopo Vignali

The Prince's fingers moved toward his lyre, he couldn't help it, it was his only solace now. He began to play, and even the bloodless shades of the dead turned to see. Far in Tartarus,  Sisyphus laid down his mighty burden to listen, far above Ixion squirmed for a glance, and away in the pool Tantalus forgot his hunger and thirst. Even the vengeful Furies relaxed their snarls, tears stinging their ferocius cheeks. The hand of Queen Persephone tensed. Too well did she know what it was like to be torn from a dear one. To her husband, the lord of death did she intercede, asking pity this one time. Not even the cold heart of Hades remained unmoved that day. To the grieving Prince the son of Kronos turned, and declared that he would grant his wish, and restore Eurydice to life, but upon one condition. The rules of the cosmos were absolute - Hades commanded Orpheus to return to the Overworld, but until both he and Eurydice had crossed the threshold of the land of the living, he was forbidden to look behind him into the deadlands. If he did, the pact would be forfeit, and he would lose Eurydice forever. The Thracian Prince nodded gently, and Hades snapped his fingers. A troop of deathly shades approached from the darkness, bearing in their midst the shadowy form of the his beloved. Wincing slightly from the deadly bite, she stopped perfectly still at the sight of her Prince, joy spreading through her body, reviving now with breath, though as yet unable to speak. It was as though her wretched misfortune had never befallen her, as Orpheus, crying with joy, moved to embrace her. Alas they passed through her, for the ritual was not yet complete. Thanking the dead god and his Queen from the deepest chamber of his heart, Orpheus bid Eurydice come with him quick before the Sun set that day, so they might enjoy anew an evening upon the Earth. Leading the way Orpheus put his first foot upon the deathly stairs, rising high above the Halls of Hell.


Immediately his resolve was tested to breaking point, such was his desire and the temptation to look behind. Lost and again found, alas that he was forbidden to look back at his beloved and that he must lead the way!

   
                     " Now thro' the noiseless throng their way they bend,
                       And both with pain the rugged road ascend;
                       Dark was the path, and difficult, and steep... "
                              - ORPHEUS' ESCAPE


Orpheus found the dread silence agony to bear, unbroken by song. For the laws of the cosmos decreed it easy for a man to enter the realm of the dead, but far harder to leave, and both hands did the Prince require on the ascent. As the sweat poured from his brow, he fought his urge to turn and assist, terrified of breaking his oath. He called to her, naught but heavy silence replied. Not until restored fully to life would breath pass her lips again. Trying desperately to cast his thoughts away from horrid visions of his beloved lost far below in the darkness, Orpheus continued his climb.

Eurydice lost
Painting by Christian Gottlieb Kratzenstein

At last, after what seemed days of silent struggle, the black shroud seemed to ease all around. Colour could be seen again, and the harsh, jagged rocks around the tunnel. They seemed as teeth of the jaws of some infernal beast, binding the dead within that realm, never to leave. Orpheus' excitement grew - at last, redemption lay just over the crest! For hours and hours he toiled against the rock, alone to his ears. As the light grew, hand in hand with it walked his paranoia. Was Eurydice still there? Had Hades deceived him? The desire to look grew painful to resist. With every reserve of will, Orpheus forced his head forward. Up and over the last precipice, the rays of the late afternoon Sun struck his forehead, embracing him with their reassuring heat. Ecstatic, he hauled himself up and over, and rushed into the cool air, blazing with light. In that moment his happiness was absolute, unbroken and willed to live for ever. Puzzled he was, however, when the cry of freedom at his side he could not hear. Doubt racked his mind again - was she there? He wheeled around, seeking Eurydice. There she stood after all, she had followed him all the way from the root of the Earth, but something was amiss. He glimpsed her fair face, near full again, but the expression upon it he would never forget. White as snow, a look of terror on her face, a visage to freeze the soul. The joy of Orpheus stopped dead in its tracks. Cold dread flooded every inch of him, as he saw too late his folly. A mere footstep it was from the mouth of the Underworld his beloved stood. Behind it. His legs and arms began to shake, a soft no all he could utter, and his eyes welled up. The word of Hades rang in his ear, and for the second time Death claimed Eurydice, this time for good. One last look of hopeless longing she gave him, before the darkness took her spirit, as Orpheus fell to his knees...

United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

The Flute and the Flayed

Ancient lore is ripe with tales of gods and monster, heroes and heroines and their wars, affairs and voyages. Oft is fate written in the stars, virtue praised and pride punished. When mortals rise above their stations, they are punished. But the divine powers are flawed too. Sometimes even the gods could go too far...

Athena
2nd Century AD Roman copy of a Greek original

Legend says that a long time ago, in the Golden Age of the Olympians and heroes, the goddess Athena, daughter of Zeus the Thunderer, was wandering in the sunny vales of the forest of Phrygia. The goddess' chaste ears pricked up at the sound of the birdsong in the breeze, a soothing accompaniment to the percussion of the rustling leaves. Filled with a peculiar joy, she was filled with a passion to make merry in the forest. Taking from the leaf strewn earth the bones of a young doe, the goddess fashioned from them a strange instrument. Whittling a series of pipes from the matter, she lashed them together and considered her new craft. With a modest intrigue, she placed the pipes to her mouth and blew. What a fair sound it was indeed; a soft vibration, a gentle melody and hypnotising note. Spurred on, bolstered by the music of the forest, the virgin goddess could scarcely put them down. Soon her absence was noted on the snowy peaks of lofty Olympus, and gossip flew to and fro, from scheming god and intrigued goddess. All too happy to share her new art, Athena proposed to show them all the sweet sounds at a lavish banquet in Heaven's Halls.


The eve came and the resplendent array of the skies awaited, fascinated by what was to come. When the moment came, the goblets were empty, the ambrosia consumed, the goddess rose to her feet. Brimming with excitement and nerves, she began to play. In the beginning, all was well, as the dulcet tune serenaded the divine array, and seldom were such sweet tones heard in the Palace of Olympus. Zeus the father of gods and men looked merrily on, proud of his daughter's talents. Hephaestus, master of the forge, sat entranced by the music so seldom heard in the roar of the furnace. Ares, lord of war, for whom the screams of the dying were oft his cadence, could scarce hide his delight. But it was then that the eyes of Pallas Athena saw Hera and Aphrodite. Far from listening with rapture, it was with a fits of laughter they returned her song. Though fair and noble, terrible could be the warrior maiden's fury. In anger she departed, seeking solace in the wilderness. When strolling the paths of the Forest of Ida, she stopped by a great pool of glassy water, her joy poisoned by doubt. She took up the pipes once more, and for the last time did she play. In the soft ripples of the water did she see her image cast, and within was held the revelation she sought. She had not noticed until now that as she played, she puffed her cheeks out proudly, their oft white complexion soon a crimson red. Frustrated by the immaturity of her fellow goddesses, with whom she bore a ruinous rivalry, she cast her creation aside. Laying upon the pipes a curse, she vowed calamity upon whomsoever should play them again. Woe that her malediction should have found a mark.

Marsyas in the Forest
Painting by Pyotr Basin

One day, when the memory of the pipes had passed into legend, there lived a shepherd who made Forest of Ida his serene home. His name was Marsyas the son of Oeagrus, and no man was he, but a Satyr. A servant of the god Bacchus, the Satyrs lived a merry life of revelry, dancing and song, frequently spreading havoc and drunken anarchy where their cloven feet trod. Marsyas, however, possessed a gentler spirit, preferring the solitude of the forest to the chaos of the plains. There came a day, however, that neither the Satyr nor the forest would ever forget. Stumbling upon a clearing in the thick canopy of the trees, where lay a crystal pool of ice cool water, Marsyas stopped to refresh. Throwing the pleasant water over his face, he gave a sigh of satisfaction, droplets from his tangled beard breaking the mirror like reflection of the surface. Turning to dry his face, however, he spotted a strange yet curious thing cast in the bushes at the water's edge. Stained with earth and covered in moss, it seemed a relic of an ancient past. Picking the strange object up, the Satyr, acquainted as all Satyrs are with the ways of merriment, realised at once that it bore the form of an instrument. Scraping aside the grime and muck, dousing it in the clear water, he saw the simple pipes in their fresh glory.


Tentatively, the Satyr put the pipes to his lips and blew. The note was rough, but charming. He blew again. Better, but a shade of the performance of the instruments original creator. For an age did Marsyas obsess over the pipes, unable to resist the allure he could not explain, the will to keep playing. Throughout the hours when the sun drenches the Earth did the Satyr practice anew, studious and assiduous. Day by day the Satyr's prowess grew, and with his talent came music sweeter than ever before. Birds began to perch upon nearby boughs, listening intently to Marsyas' song, the notes fairer even than their own. Creatures and being from far and wide began to marvel at the Satyr's song, but before long the curse began to manifest. Pride, the ruin of the great, wove its intoxicating spell in the Satyr's mind, as his humility could deflect the shower of praise no more. Time passed, and soon Marsyas declared himself a musician beyond compare in the world. The fatal hour arrived when the Satyr challenged Apollo, the god of music himself, to a contest.


High on Olympus, Apollo heard his challenge, and the god was angered by the daring of a mortal. Soaring down from the frozen summit, Phoebus Apollo came before Marsyas, and the admiring crowds scattered in fear and awe. Shaking with rage, Apollo declared the contest begun. The Muses, the spirits of the arts, were summoned to judge, and the terms were set. Whoever showed the greater mastery of music would triumph, and the victor won the right to treat the defeated as he pleased. Alas that Marsyas was deaf to the subtle warning that lay veiled within, as the curse brandished its edge, and the proud Satyr accepted. The stage was set. Marsyas took the pipes his beloved pipes, Apollo the lyre with which he was so skilled. The god played first. What ambience the grove had never known! With each pluck of the god's fingers upon the strings, soothed was the soul of all beings present, and the Muses sighed in awe of their master. When the god finished his piece, all gathered saw the end coming for the Satyr. But Marsyas, spurred on by the curse, boldly raised the pipes to his lips. With a jolt the gathered assembly was stunned into silence. With each honey soaked note, the very forest itself seemed to sing, vibrating with raw power. All earthly woes lay distant and forgotten for all mortals there that day, and warmed were the hearts of the Muses. Incensed by fire, alas, was the heart of Apollo. Just as the Satyr neared the boundary of the grove, victory near at hand, the god called to him. If the Satyr could play as he could now, Apollo would concede defeat. Intrigued, yet proud, Marsyas agreed. Without delay did the sun god spin his lyre around, striking a haunting melody, his instrument upside down. The Muses, delighted, applauded the god's performance, before turning to Marsyas, expectant. With a glint of malice in his eye, well did Apollo know that it was impossible to play the pipes upside down. Too late did the Satyr realise this too. His mouth went dry with terror, as the judges were struck with disappointment. To the son of Zeus was triumph assigned, and to the Satyr, ignoble defeat

Marsyas Flayed
Painting by Titian

Near dumbstruck, the Satyr watched helplessly as the god approached, vengeance that only a god could muster flaming in his eyes. Poor Marsyas searched for words but none could be found, none to quench the fire before him now. Hands grabbed him from all around, and terror flooded his veins. Thus was begun a punishment terrible to behold. Strapped to a nearby oak was the quivering Satyr, and tightly bound. The servants of Apollo seized their blades and descended upon poor Marsyas.







                  " 'Why do you tear me from myself, he cries?
                     Ah cruel! Must my flesh be made the prize?
                     This for a mere pipe?' He roaring said,
                     Meanwhile the skin from off his limbs were flay'd.
                     All bare, and raw, one large continu'd wound,
                     With streams of blood his body bath'd the ground.
                     The blueish veins their trembling pulse disclos'd,
                     The stringy nerves lay naked and expos'd;
                     His guts appear'd, distinctly each express'd,
                    With ev'ry shining fibre of his breast... "
                      - THE PUNISHMENT OF MARSYAS


His muffled screams were the last song of Marsyas, raw muscle and tendon bare to the elements now. Such was the justice of Apollo, so great the price of a mortal daring to raise himself above a god.

But not all beings shared Apollo's wrath. The fauns, silvans, nymphs, naiads and spirits of the forest, once serenaded by the Satyr's song, came to his mutilated corpse. Tears flowed from their eyes at their gaping loss, the knowledge that his pure song might never woo them again. It is said that even vengeful Apollo himself was later moved to regret, and not readily did he string his lyre in ages to come, remorseful of his act. "With their tears that flow'd, a kindly moisture on the earth bestow'd, that soon, conjoin'd, and in a body rang'd, sprung from the ground, to limpid water chang'd; which, down thro' Phrygia's rocks, a mighty stream, comes tumbling to the sea, and Marsya is its name..."

Like poor Actaeon before him, Marsyas felt the terrible fate of stumbling innocently in the path of a god. It was the folly of a fool to violate the laws of Heaven, but to challenge them openly, why only those blind to all other things would dice with such death. Nevertheless, even in the ancient world there were many who questioned the magnitude of poor Marsyas' punishment...

United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)