# Psyche (Couperus)/Chapter 5

CHAPTER V
Psyche was often very lonely, but yet she had much: she had the flowers, the birds; she had the butterflies, which thought that she was a bigger sister; she had the lizards, with which she played, and which, like little things of emerald, she held against her veil; she had the swans in the deep castle moats, which followed her when she walked on the ramparts; she had the clouds, which came floating from distant islands and paradises beyond; she had the wind, which sang her ballads; the rain, which fell down wet upon her and covered her wings with pearls. She would gladly have played with the pages in the halls, have laughed with the shield-bearers in the armoury, have listened to the martial tales of the bearded halberdiers at the gates, but she was a princess and knew she could not do that, and she always walked past them with great dignity, maidenly modest in her fine, ​thin veil, which left her tender limbs half exposed. That was the noble Nakedness, which was her privilege as a princess, a privilege given her at her cradle, together with her wings by the Fairy of Births, as to Emeralda was given the Jewel and to Astra the Star. For never might Psyche wear Jewel or Star, and never might Emeralda or Astra go naked. Each princess had her own privilege, her birthright. Adorable was Psyche as, unconscious of her maidenly, tender purity, she was seen with her crimson glittering wings, naked in the folds of her veil, walking past the armour-bearers and soldiers, who presented their swords or halberds as the princess, nymph-white, stepped past them.
The Ramparts
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​whom she had seen milking the cows, or plucking the thick bunches of grapes in the vineyard at harvest-time, whilst the pressers, handsome brown lads with sturdy arms, encircled the girls and danced.
But Psyche wandered along the ramparts; she looked at the clouds and spoke with the wind, and she asked the wind to give flight to her wings, so that she could fly far off to the opal landscapes that kept shifting and changing. But the wind rushed away with a flapping noise of wings that Psyche envied, and her own wings flapped a little, but in vain.
Psyche looked at the clouds. They floated along so stately in all kinds of forms—in the forms of sheep, swans, horses—and the form never remained: the seeming forms, thick-white in the blue ether, were constantly changing. Now she saw three swans which were drawing a boat, in which stood three women, who guided the swans; then she saw the women become a tower, the swans a dragon, and from far, far away came a knight, sitting on a winged horse. But now slowly the scene changed into a flock of little silver-fleeced, downy sheep, which were browsing ​far off in the sunshine as in a golden meadow. The knight disappeared, but the horse glided nearer and flew on his wings, high over the castle, towards the sheep.
Then Psyche dreamed at night of the swans, the tower, the dragon, the knight, the horse; but the horse she liked best, because it had strong wings. And next morning she gazed from the battlements to see if the horse would come again.
But then the sky was either gloomy from the rain or blue from the absence of clouds, or covered with white peacock’s feathers, splendid plumes, but motionless, far, far away in the air. The wind changed, when she said: “Away! blow now from the East again! Begone, North wind, with your dark perils, begone! Begone, West wind, with your rainurns! Begone, South wind, with your peacock’s feathers! Come now, wind from the East, with your treasures of luxurious visions, ye dragons, ye horses, ye girls with swans!. . . .” Then the clouds began to shift, the winds to blow, and play an opera high up in the air, and Psyche, enchanted, sat and gazed.
Then after weeks, after she had missed it for weeks, came again the winged horse. ​And she beckoned to it to approach, to descend to her; but it flew past over the castle. Then she missed it again for many days, and, angry, she looked at the sky and scolded the wind. But then the horse came again, and, laughing, she beckoned to it. The horse ascended high, its wings expanded in the air, and oh, wonder! it beckoned to her to come up, up to it. She gave a sign that she could not, shook her little shoulders helplessly, and, trembling, flapped her wings and spread her arms wide out to say that she could not. And the horse sped away on the breath of the wind from the East.
Then Psyche wept, and, sad at heart, sat looking at the far, far-off landscapes which she would never reach.
But weeks afterwards the treasure-bringing wind blew again, and again appeared the horse in the horizon, and it flew near and beckoned to Psyche, her heart heavy with hope and fear. . . . The horse mounted up; it beckoned to her. . . . She gave a sign that she could not; and oh! she feared that it would speed away again, the horse with the strong wings.
No . . . . no . . . . the horse descended! ​Then Psyche uttered a joyful cry, sprang up, danced with delight and clapped her little hands. From the lofty, lofty sky the horse came down, gliding on its broad wings. It came down.
And Psyche, the little, joyful, excited Psyche, saw it coming, coming down to her. It descended—it approached. Oh, what a beautiful horse it was! Greater than the greatest horses, and then with wings! Fair it was, fair as the sun, with a long curly mane and long flowing tail, like a streamer of sunny gold. The noble head on its arched neck proudly raised and its eyes shone like fire, and a stream of breath came from its expanded nostrils, cloud after cloud. Big, powerful, muscular, its wings were stretched out like silvery quills, as Psyche had never seen in a bird before. And its golden hoofs struck the clouds and made them thunder; and sparks of fire shot forth in the pure, clear daylight. Enraptured Psyche had never seen such a beautiful horse before, never a bird so beautiful; and breathless, with her head raised, she waited till it should descend, descend on the terrace. . . . At last there it stood before her. Its nostrils steamed, and its hoofs struck sparks from the ​basalt rock, and it waved its mane and switched its tail.
“Splendid, beautiful horse,” said Psyche, “who are you?”
“I am the Chimera,” answered the horse, and his voice sounded deep as the clang of a brazen clock.
“Can you really speak?” asked Psyche, astonished. “And fly? Oh, how happy you must be!!”
“Why have you called me, little princess?” said the Chimera.
“I wanted to see you quite near,” replied Psyche. “I only saw you dart like winged lightning through the air, so soon were you away again; and I was always sorry when I could not see you any more. Then I became, oh, so sad!”
“And why did you want to see me quite near, little princess with the wings?”
“I find you so beautiful. I have never seen anything so beautiful; I did not know that anything so beautiful existed. What are you? A horse you are not. Nor a dragon either, nor a man. What are you?”
“I am the Chimera.”
“Where do you come from?” ​“From far away. From the lands which are beyond the lands, from the worlds beyond the worlds, from the heavens beyond the heavens.”
“Where are you going?”
“Very far. Do you see those distant regions yonder, of silver and opal? Well, thousands of times so far I am going. . . . I go from illimitableness to illimitableness; I come from nothingness and I am going to nothingness.”
“What is nothingness?”
“Everything. Nothingness is as far as your brains can think, my little princess; and then still farther, and nothingness is more than all that you see from this high tower. . . .”
“Are you never tired?”
“No, my wings are strong; I can bear all mankind on my back, and I could carry them away to the stars behind the stars.”
“If Astra knew that!”
“Astra knows it. But she does not want me. She reckons out the stars with figures.”
“Why do you fly from one end to the other, O splendid Chimera? What is your object? What are you for?” ​“What is your own object, little Psyche? What are you yourself for? For what are flowers, men, the stars? Who knows?”
“Astra. . . .”
“No, Astra knows nothing. Her knowledge is founded on a fundamental error. All her knowledge is like a tower, which will fall down.”
“I should like to know much. I should like to know more. I should like to seek far through the universe. I long for what is most beautiful. . . . But I do not know what it is. Perhaps you yourself are what is most beautiful, Chimera. . . . But why are you now spreading out your wings?”
“I must go.”
“So soon? Whence? Oh, why are you going so soon, splendid Chimera?”
“I must. I must traverse illimitableness. I have already stayed here too long.”
“Stay a little longer. . . .”
“I cannot. I may not.”
“Who compels you, O powerful horse, quick as lightning? . . . .”
“Power.”
“What is power?”
“God. . . .” ​“Who is God? Oh, tell me more! Tell me more! Don’t go away yet! I want to ask you so much, to hear so much. I am so stupid. I have longed so for you. Now you have come, and now you want to go away again.”
“Do not ask me for wisdom; I have none. Ask the Sphinx for wisdom; ask me for flight.”
“Oh, stay a little longer! Don’t flap so with your flaming wings! Who is the Sphinx? O Chimera, do not give me wisdom, but flight!”
“Not now. . . .”
“When, then?”
“Later. . . .”
“When is that?”
“Farewell.”
“O Chimera, Chimera . . . .!”
The horse had already spread out his wings broad. He was ascending. But Psyche suddenly threw both her arms round his neck and hung on to his mane.
“Let me go, little princess!” cried the horse. “I ascend quickly, and you will fall, to be dashed to pieces on the rock! Loose me!” ​And slowly he ascended. . . .
Psyche was afraid; she let go her arms; she became dizzy, fell against the pinnacle, and bruised one of her wings. That pained her . . . . but she heeded it not; the horse was already high in the air, and she followed his track with her eyes. . . .
“He is gone,” thought she. “Will he come again? Or have I seen him for the first and last time?”
“As a dream he came from far-off regions, and to still farther regions he has gone. . . . Oh, how dull the world seems! How dead is the horizon! And how dizzy I feel. . . . My wing pains me. . . .”
With her hand she smoothed the wrinkle out of her wing; she stroked it till it was smooth again, and tears ran down her cheeks.
“Horrid wings! They cannot fly, they cannot follow the strong Chimera! I’m in such trouble, such trouble!! But . . . . no. . . . Is that trouble? Is that happiness? I know not. . . . I am very happy . . . .! I am so sorrowful. . . . How beautiful he was! how strong, how sleek, how splendid, how quick, how wise, how noble, how broad ​his wings! how broad his wings!! How weak I am compared to him. . . . A child, a weak child; a weak, naked child with little wings. . . . O Chimera, my Chimera, O Chimera of my desire, come back! Come back!! Come back!! I cannot live without you; and if you do not come again, Chimera, then I will not live any longer lonely in this high castle. I will throw myself into the cataract. . . .”
She stood up, her eyes looking eagerly into the empty air. She pressed her hands to her bosom, she wept, and her wings trembled as if from fever.
Then suddenly she saw the king, her father, sitting at the bow-window of his room. He did not see her, he was reading a scroll. But anxious lest he should see her trouble, her despair, and longing desire, she fled, along the battlements, the ramparts, through the passages and halls of the castle, till she came to the tower, where her nurse sat at her spinning-wheel, and then she fell down at the feet of the old woman and sobbed aloud.
“What is it, darling?” asked the old crone, frightened. “Princess, what is it?”
“I have hurt my wing!” sobbed Psyche. ​And she showed the nurse the wrinkle in her wing, which was not yet quite gone.
Then, with soothing voice and wrinkled hand, the old nurse slowly stroked the painful wing till it became smooth.