A Natural History of Love by Diane Ackerman Read Free Book Online Page B

his song of grief, Orpheus charmed his way into the kingdom of Hades. There he sang until earth was saturated with his voice, sang so beautifully that the dead rejoiced, and those vexed by punishments were granted a day of freedom so they could listen to his serenade. The king and queen of the Underworld, stirred by his pitiful lament, grew infatuated by the music. His song reasoned with them in a new, unexpected way that bypassed thought and turned their hard hearts to quicksand. So the king granted Orpheus a favor never before allowed a mortal—he could take his bride back to the world of light. But there was a stipulation.
    “One thing,” King Hades warned. “You must not look behind you. She may follow you into the upper air. If, however, you but once look back to see her ere you both have stepped fully into the light, she will be lost to you forever.” Orpheus agreed, Eurydice was summoned, and he led her back along the way he had come, singing songs of hope and deliverance as he once more gained safe passage past Cerberus, across the River Styx, and into the cave. There he began a steep ascent, clambering over the skiddy rocks, worrying that Eurydice might slip, trying to find the easiest path for her. As he climbed toward the entrance of the cave, just above, his song became wilder and more ecstatic. At last he reached the top and leapt into the blaze of daylight. Joyously turning to Eurydice, he saw to his horror that he had turned too soon; she was at the mouth of the cave, getting ready to step out. He lurched after her, but that fast she fell backward, into darkness, into death, crying “Farewell” as she disappeared down the throat of the cave. Wild with despair, Orpheus dived after her, found Charon again and begged to be taken once more across River Styx. There would be no need for a return passage, he explained; he would join his bride in death. But the boatman would not ferry him. Nothing would persuade Charon. For a week, Orpheus sat sobbing on the shore, starving away to nothing, covered in mud and slime. Finally, he brokenheartedly returned to Thrace, where he spent the next three years wandering alone, trying to erase even the thought of women. In time, he became a priest, performing simple duties in a small temple in the country. Celibate, solitary, he played his lyre for the plants and animals. As ever, his songs enchanted the woodlands and moved nature itself. That is, all but the maenads, wild-eyed, scruffy-haired, frenzied followers of Dionysus who hated him for every reason and no reason, but especially because he resisted their orgies and the favors of all womankind. They were punks with quick tempers and savage tastes, and easily annoyed. His music hit them like rock salt. It soured their mood, and it gave them the willies. So one morning this pack of bare-breasted assassins lay in wait for him outside the temple, and when they saw him they went murderous wild, attacking him with spears and rocks, then clawing him apart with their bare hands. They ripped off his arms and hurled them into the grass, yanked his legs loose, and when the ground was drenched with his blood, they ripped his head off and threw it into the river along with his lyre. That should have been the end of him. But, drifting downriver, his lyre began playing music all by itself. It played a low, mournful dirge, and then, miraculously, the tongue began to move in Orpheus’ severed head. Singing his own funeral song, he floated out to sea and sank beneath the waves, above which the sad song lingered.
    Few myths have been retold and reimagined as often as this one. Why did Orpheus look back? I’ve often wondered. Because he didn’t trust the gods? As an all-too-human reflex when he didn’t hear Eurydice’s movements—that is, because not even his magical gifts could protect him from his human traits? Out of a self-destructive, Freudian desire to fail in his life? In arrogance, because he thought his music made him more