He lifted his eyes at last. “Oh, beautiful creature that I am!” said he. “I am indeed the most divine creature in the whole wide world. I love myself madly. Go away. I want to be with my beautiful image, with myself, all alone. I can’t marry you. I shall never love anybody but myself for the rest of my days.” And he kneeled down and gazed at himself once more, while poor Echo had to go weeping away.
Narcissus had spoken truly. He loved himself and his own face so much that he could think of nothing else: he spent all his days and nights by the lake, and never took his eyes away. But unluckily his image, which was only a shadow in the water, could not love him back again. And so he pined away until he died. And when his friends came to look for his body, they found nothing but a flower, into which his soul had turned. So they called it the Narcissus, and we call it so still. And yet I don’t know that it is a particularly conceited or selfish flower.
As for poor Echo, she pined away too. She faded and faded until nothing was left of her but her voice. There are many places where she can even now be heard. And she still has the same trick of saying to vain and foolish people whatever they say to themselves, or whatever they would like best to hear said to them. If you go where Echo is, and call out loudly, “I am beautiful!”—she will echo your very words.
PART VI.—PRESUMPTION; OR, THE STORY OF PHAËTHON.
THERE was a nymph named Clymene, who had a son so handsome that he was called Phaëthon, which means in Greek, “bright, radiant, shining,” like the sun. When he grew up the goddess Venus was so charmed with him that she made him the chief ruler of all her temples, and took him into such high favor that all his friends and companions were filled with envy.
One day, when Phaëthon was foolishly bragging about his own beauty and greatness, and how much he was put by a goddess above other men, one of his companions, named Epaphus, answered him, scornfully:—
“Ah! you may boast and brag, but you are a nobody after all! My father was Jupiter, as everybody knows; but who was yours?”
So Phaëthon went to his mother Clymene, and said:—
“Mother, they taunt me for not being the son of a god; me, who am fit to be a god myself for my grace and beauty. Who was my father? He must at least have been some great king, to be the father of such a son as I.”
“A king!” said Clymene. “Ay—and a greater than all kings! Tell them, from me, that your father is Phœbus Apollo, the god of the Sun!”