Sun-myths.
To begin, then, with the sun-god. His love-stories relate most commonly the pursuit of the dawn, a woman, by the god of day. She flies at the approach of the sun; or, if the two are married in early morning, when the day advances, the dawn dies or the sun leaves her to pursue his allotted journey. We read how Apollo pursued Daphnê, while she still fled from him, and at last, praying to the gods, was changed into a laurel, which ever afterwards remained sacred to the son of Lêtô. There is nothing new in the story; it might be related of any hero. Yet, as we find Greek art so often busy with it, we might guess that it had obtained for some reason a hold more than commonly firm upon the popular imagination. And when we turn from the Greek to the Sanskrit we are able to unravel the myth and show it, so far as the names are concerned, peculiar to the sun-god. Daphnê (it is believed) is the Sanskrit Ahanâ, that is to say, the Dawn.
A tenderer love-story is that which speaks of the sun and the dawn as united at the opening of the day, but of the separation which follows when the sun reveals himself in his true splendour. The parting, however, will not be eternal, for the sun in the evening shall sink into the arms of the west, as in the morning he left those of the east—all the physical appearances at sundown will correspond with those of the dawn—so in poetical language he will be said to return to his love again at the evening of life. In right accord with its natural origin and native attractiveness, we find this story repeated almost identically as regards its chief incidents by all the branches of the Aryan family. For an Indian version of it the reader may consult the story of Urvasi and Pururavas, told by Mr. Max Müller from one of the Vedas.[114] Urvasi is a fairy who falls in love with Pururavas, a mortal, and consents to become his wife, on condition that she should never see him without his royal garment on, ‘for this is the manner of women.’ For a while they lived together happily; but the Gandhavas, the fairy beings to whom Urvasi belonged, were jealous of her love for a mortal, and they laid a plot to separate them. ‘Now, there was a ewe with two lambs tied to the couch of Urvasi and Pururavas, and the fairies stole one of them, so that Urvasi upbraided her husband and said, “They steal my darlings as though I lived in a land where there is no hero, and no man.” And Pururavas said, “How can that be a land without heroes or men where I am?” and naked he sprang up. Then the Gandhavas sent a flash of lightning, and Urvasi saw her husband naked as by daylight. Then she vanished. “I come back,” she said; and went.’
Cupid loves Psyche as Pururavas Urvasi, but here the story is so far changed that the woman breaks the condition laid upon their union. Not this time by accident, but from the evil counselling of her two sisters, Psyche disobeys her husband. They have long been married, but she has never seen his face; and doubts begin to arise lest some horrid monster, and not a god, may be the sharer of her couch. So she takes the lamp, and when she deems her husband is fast locked in sleep, gazes upon the face of the god of love.
‘But as she turned at last
To quench the lamp, there happed a little thing
That quenched her new delight, for flickering,
The treacherous flame cast on his shoulder fair
A burning drop; he woke, and seeing her there,
The meaning of that sad sight knew full well;
Nor was there need the piteous tale to tell.’[115]
Here, it is true, we have wandered away from the adventures of the sun. Cupid or Eros is in no sense a sun-god; nor has Psyche any proved connection with Ushas, the Dawn. Once a sun-myth does not mean always a sun-myth.[116] So much the contrary, that it is part of our business to show how stories, first appropriated to Olympus or Asgard, may descend to take their place among the commonest collection of nursery tales. It is the case with this myth of the Dawn. The reader’s acquaintance with nursery literature has probably already anticipated the kinship to be claimed by one of the most familiar childish legends. But as one more link to rivet the bond of union between Urvasi and Pururavas and Beauty and the Beast, let us look at a story of Swedish origin called Prince Hatt under the Earth.
‘There was once, very very long ago, a king who had three daughters, all exquisitely fair, and much more amiable than other maidens, so that their like was not to be found far or near. But the youngest princess excelled her sisters, not only in beauty, but in goodness of heart and kindness of disposition. She was consequently greatly beloved by all, and the king himself was more fondly attached to her than to either of his other daughters.
‘It happened one autumn that there was a fair in a town not far from the king’s residence, and the king himself resolved on going to it with his attendants. When on the eve of departure, he asked his three daughters what they would like for fairings, it being his constant custom to make them some present on his return home. The two elder princesses began instantly to enumerate precious things of curious kinds; one would have this, the other that; but the youngest daughter asked for nothing. At this the king was surprised, and asked her whether she would not like some ornament or other; but she answered that she had plenty of gold and jewels. When the king, however, would not desist from urging her, she at length said, “There is one thing which I would gladly have, if only I might venture to ask it of my father.” “What may that be?” inquired the king; “say what it is, and if it be in my power you shall have it.” “It is this,” replied the princess, “I have heard talk of the three singing leaves, and them I wish to have before anything else in the world.” The king laughed at her for making so trifling a request, and at length exclaimed, “I cannot say that you are very covetous, and would rather by half that you had asked for some greater gift. You shall, however, have what you desire, though it should cost me half my realm.” He then bade his daughters farewell and rode away.’
Of course he goes to the fair, and on his way home happens to hear the three singing leaves, ‘which moved to and fro, and as they swayed there came forth a sound such as it would be impossible to describe.’ The king was glad to have found what his daughter had wished for, and was about to pluck them, but the instant he stretched forth his hand towards them, they withdrew from his grasp, and a powerful voice was heard from under the earth saying, ‘Touch not my leaves.’ ‘At this the king was somewhat surprised, and asked who it was, and whether he could not purchase the leaves for gold or good words. The voice answered, “I am Prince Hatt under the Earth, and you will not get my leaves either with good or bad as you desire. Nevertheless I will propose to you one condition.” “What condition is that?” asked the king with eagerness. “It is,” answered the voice, “that you promise me the first living thing that you meet when you return to your palace.” ’ As we anticipate, the first thing which he meets is his youngest daughter, who therefore is left with lamentation under the hazel bush: and, as is its wont on such occasions, the ground opens, and she finds herself in a beautiful palace. Here she lives long and happily with Prince Hatt, upon condition that she shall never see him. But at last she is permitted to pay a visit to her father and sisters; and her stepmother succeeds in awakening her curiosity and her fears, lest she should really be married to some horrid monster. The princess thus allows herself to be persuaded to strike a light and gaze on her husband while he is asleep. Of course, just as her eyes have lighted upon a beautiful youth he awakes, and as a consequence of her disobedience—(here the story alters somewhat)—he is struck blind, and the two are obliged to wander over the earth, and endure all manner of misfortunes before Prince Hatt’s sight is at last restored.
The sun is so apt to take the place of an almost super-human hero, that most of the stories of such when they are purely mythical relate some part of the sun’s daily course and labours. Thus in the Greek, Perseus, Theseus, Jason, are in the main sun-heroes, though they mingle with their histories tales of real human adventure. One of the most easily traceable sun-stories is that of Perseus and the Gorgon. The later representations of Medusa in Greek art give her a beautiful dead face shrouded by luxurious snaky tresses; but the earlier art presents us with a round face, distorted by a hideous grin from ear to ear, broad cheeks, low forehead, over which curl a few flattened locks. We at once see the likeness of this face to the full moon; a likeness which, without regard to mythology, forces itself upon us; and then the true story of Perseus flashes upon us as the extinction of the moon by the sun’s light. This is the baneful Gorgon’s head, the full moon, which so many nations superstitiously believed could exert a fatal power over the sleeper; and when slain by the son of Danaê, it is the pale ghostlike disc which we see by day. It is very interesting to see how the Greeks made a myth of the moon in its—one may say—literal unidealized aspect, in addition to the countless more poetical myths which spoke of the moon as a beautiful goddess, queen of the night, the virgin huntress surrounded by her pack of dogs—the stars. In the instance of Medusa these two aspects of one natural appearance are brought into close relationship, for Athênê—who is sometimes a moon-goddess—wears the Gorgon’s head upon her shield.