THE PARABLE OF THE LOST SHEEP

QUESTION: What does the parable of the lost sheep signify?

ANSWER:

The parable of the lost sheep was told by Jesus when the Pharisees criticized Him for
socializing with sinners. Through this story of compassion, Jesus revealed his rescue
mission for sinners.

“Then Jesus told them this parable: ‘Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses
one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the
lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders
and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, “Rejoice
with me; I have found my lost sheep.” I tell you that in the same way there will be
more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous
persons who do not need to repent’” (Luke 15:3-7).

The parable begins with a straying sheep. A sheep apart from its shepherd is defenseless
and in grave danger. Jesus views any person apart from Him as lost. How is he lost?
His sins alienate him from the holy God, leaving him groping aimlessly in darkness. “So
justice is far from us, and righteousness does not reach us. We look for light, but all is
darkness; for brightness, but we walk in deep shadows” (Isaiah 59:9).

The shepherd in the story, however, didn’t despise his straying sheep. With a heart of
compassion, Jesus also values each sinner the Father entrusts Him:

“And this is the will of Him who sent me, that I shall lose none of all that He has
given me, but raise them up at the last day” (John 6:39). Jesus is intent upon rescuing
the sinner not only because the Father gave them to Him but also because He loves
them. His love led Him to sacrifice His life on the cross to take their punishment for
sin.

The parable of the lost sheep also illustrates Christ’s attitude toward the saved sinner.
The parable gives no indication of the shepherd ever rebuking or chiding. Instead, he
hoists the sheep upon his shoulders and takes it home. An adult sheep may weigh
anywhere from 110 to 125 pounds; it would be no small effort to carry one over the
shoulder. For joy over finding that which was lost, the shepherd bears the discomfort.
Likewise, Jesus bore the weight of our sins upon the cross. As High Priest and
Mediator, He continues to bear our cares and infirmities before the Father. “He himself
bore our sins in his body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for
righteousness. . . . For you were like sheep going astray, but now you have returned to
the Shepherd and Overseer of your souls” (1 Peter 2:24-25).

Finally, the parable of the lost sheep offers an extraordinary glimpse of heavenly
emotions. The shepherd calls his friends and neighbors together, saying, “Rejoice with
me.” The rescue of the lost sheep was a cause for proclamation and celebration.
Similarly, Heaven rejoices when a sinner repents and is restored to fellowship with God.
This joy is cheerfulness; it is calm, considered delight. It is a deliberate emotion --
thoughtful and sustained. This is not a picture of raucous dancing and carousing but of
lasting pleasure and heartfelt satisfaction. Why? A sinner has come home! Such news
delights the heart of heaven.

Since the beginning, God has been the Good Shepherd who rescues His lost sheep.
When Adam and Eve were hiding in shame because of their sin, He sought them out.
Yes, He disciplined them. But He promised a Rescuer. Until Christ’s death for their sins,
He forgave them by their faith and covered them with animal skins. God still reaches
out for the lost to cover and recover them through the blood of Jesus Christ.

Actual Text:

Now the tax collectors and sinners were all gathering around to hear Jesus. But the
Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, “This man welcomes sinners and eats
with them.”

Then Jesus told them this parable: “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses
one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost
sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and
goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me;
I have found my lost sheep.’ I tell you that in the same way there will be more
rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons
who do not need to repent.

The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe

TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you
say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled
them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in
the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe
how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it
haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the
old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had
no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale
blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by
degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus
rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have
seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what
foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man
than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I
turned the latch of his door and opened it --oh so gently! And then, when I had made
an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no
light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how
cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly --very, very slowly, so that I might not
disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the
opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have
been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the
lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the hinges creaked) --I undid it just
so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long
nights --every night just at midnight --but I found the eye always closed; and so it was
impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye.
And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke
courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has
passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to
suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's
minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the
extent of my own powers --of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of
triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to
dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he
heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I
drew back --but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the
shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not
see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon
the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in
the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;
--just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was
not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from
the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a
night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom,
deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I
knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that
he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the
bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy
them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself --"It is nothing but the
wind in the chimney --it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket
which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these
suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching
him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it
was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel --
although he neither saw nor heard --to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I
resolved to open a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --you
cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like the
thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with
perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very
marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I
had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the
sense? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch
makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the
old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier
into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern
motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the
hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder
every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say,
louder every moment! --do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I
am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old
house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some
minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I
thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me --the sound would be
heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open
the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I
dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to
find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled
sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At
length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse.
Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many
minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eve would trouble me no
more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise
precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked
hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the
arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between
the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye
--not even his --could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out --
no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had
caught all --ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock --still dark as midnight. As
the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to
open it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who
introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been
heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused;
information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been
deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said,
was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took
my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at length,
to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of
my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their
fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own
seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease.
They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I
felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing
in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: --It
continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it
continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was not
within my ears.
No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened
voice. Yet the sound increased --and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound
--much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath
--and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the
noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent
gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced
the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the
men --but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved --I
swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards,
but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder!
And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?
Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were
making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was
better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear
those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again!
--hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks!
here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!"

Summary

An unnamed narrator opens the story by addressing the reader and claiming that he is
nervous but not mad. He says that he is going to tell a story in which he will defend
his sanity yet confess to having killed an old man. His motivation was neither passion
nor desire for money, but rather a fear of the man’s pale blue eye. Again, he insists
that he is not crazy because his cool and measured actions, though criminal, are not
those of a madman. Every night, he went to the old man’s apartment and secretly
observed the man sleeping. In the morning, he would behave as if everything were
normal. After a week of this activity, the narrator decides, somewhat randomly, that the
time is right actually to kill the old man.
When the narrator arrives late on the eighth night, though, the old man wakes up and
cries out. The narrator remains still, stalking the old man as he sits awake and
frightened. The narrator understands how frightened the old man is, having also
experienced the lonely terrors of the night. Soon, the narrator hears a dull pounding
that he interprets as the old man’s terrified heartbeat. Worried that a neighbor might
hear the loud thumping, he attacks and kills the old man. He then dismembers the body
and hides the pieces below the floorboards in the bedroom. He is careful not to leave
even a drop of blood on the floor. As he finishes his job, a clock strikes the hour of
four. At the same time, the narrator hears a knock at the street door. The police have
arrived, having been called by a neighbor who heard the old man shriek. The narrator
is careful to be chatty and to appear normal. He leads the officers all over the house
without acting suspiciously. At the height of his bravado, he even brings them into the
old man’s bedroom to sit down and talk at the scene of the crime. The policemen do
not suspect a thing. The narrator is comfortable until he starts to hear a low thumping
sound. He recognizes the low sound as the heart of the old man, pounding away
beneath the floorboards. He panics, believing that the policemen must also hear the
sound and know his guilt. Driven mad by the idea that they are mocking his agony
with their pleasant chatter, he confesses to the crime and shrieks at the men to rip up
the floorboards.

Analysis

Poe uses his words economically in the “Tell-Tale Heart”—it is one of his shortest
stories—to provide a study of paranoia and mental deterioration. Poe strips the story of
excess detail as a way to heighten the murderer’s obsession with specific and unadorned
entities: the old man’s eye, the heartbeat, and his own claim to sanity. Poe’s economic
style and pointed language thus contribute to the narrative content, and perhaps this
association of form and content truly exemplifies paranoia. Even Poe himself, like the
beating heart, is complicit in the plot to catch the narrator in his evil game.

As a study in paranoia, this story illuminates the psychological contradictions that

contribute to a murderous profile. For example, the narrator admits, in the first
sentence, to being dreadfully nervous, yet he is unable to comprehend why he should
be thought mad. He articulates his self-defense against madness in terms of heightened
sensory capacity. Unlike the similarly nervous and hypersensitive Roderick Usher in
“The Fall of the House of Usher,” who admits that he feels mentally unwell, the
narrator of “The Tell-Tale Heart” views his hypersensitivity as proof of his sanity, not a
symptom of madness. This special knowledge enables the narrator to tell this tale in a
precise and complete manner, and he uses the stylistic tools of narration for the
purposes of his own sanity plea. However, what makes this narrator mad—and most
unlike Poe—is that he fails to comprehend the coupling of narrative form and content.
He masters precise form, but he unwittingly lays out a tale of murder that betrays the
madness he wants to deny.
Another contradiction central to the story involves the tension between the narrator’s
capacities for love and hate. Poe explores here a psychological mystery—that people
sometimes harm those whom they love or need in their lives. Poe examines this paradox
half a century before Sigmund Freud made it a leading concept in his theories of the
mind. Poe’s narrator loves the old man. He is not greedy for the old man’s wealth, nor
vengeful because of any slight. The narrator thus eliminates motives that might normally
inspire such a violent murder. As he proclaims his own sanity, the narrator fixates on
the old man’s vulture-eye. He reduces the old man to the pale blue of his eye in
obsessive fashion. He wants to separate the man from his “Evil Eye” so he can spare
the man the burden of guilt that he attributes to the eye itself. The narrator fails to see
that the eye is the “I” of the old man, an inherent part of his identity that cannot be
isolated as the narrator perversely imagines.
The murder of the old man illustrates the extent to which the narrator separates the old
man’s identity from his physical eye. The narrator sees the eye as completely separate
from the man, and as a result, he is capable of murdering him while maintaining that
he loves him. The narrator’s desire to eradicate the man’s eye motivates his murder, but
the narrator does not acknowledge that this act will end the man’s life. By
dismembering his victim, the narrator further deprives the old man of his humanity. The
narrator confirms his conception of the old man’s eye as separate from the man by
ending the man altogether and turning him into so many parts. That strategy turns
against him when his mind imagines other parts of the old man’s body working against
him.
The Appointment in Samarra by Somerset Maugham
(as retold by W. Somerset Maugham [1933])

The speaker is Death

There was a merchant in Bagdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in
a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, Master, just now
when I was in the marketplace I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned
I saw it was Death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture,
now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go
to Samarra and there Death will not find me. The merchant lent him his horse, and the
servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could
gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the marketplace and he saw me
standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, Why did you make a threating
getsture to my servant when you saw him this morning? That was not a threatening
gesture, I said, it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Bagdad, for
I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.
Analysis:

The theme of this story is you can’t escape death. in the story Death is talking and
explaining to the merchant that she wasn't threatening the servant. The servant left
thinking he could run away from death. In the end Death told the merchant she had an
appointment with the servant in Samarra where the servant fled to just so he could
escape. Even though the servant though he escaped, he just ended up going along with
what fate had for him and couldn't change his fate/destiny. When the merchant asked
Death why did you make a threatening gesture towards the servant, Death herself said
“That was not a threatening gesture... for I have an appointment with him tonight in
Samarra”

Cupid and Psyche by Lucius Apuleius

A certain king and queen had three daughters. The charms of the two elder were more
than common, but the beauty of the youngest was so wonderful that the poverty of
language is unable to express its due praise. The fame of her beauty was so great that
strangers from neighboring countries came in crowds to enjoy the sight, and looked on
her with amazement, paying her that homage which is due only to Venus herself. In fact
Venus found her altars deserted, while men turned their devotion to this young virgin. As
she passed along, the people sang her praises, and strewed her way with chaplets and
flowers.
This homage to the exaltation of a mortal gave great offense to the real Venus. Shaking
her ambrosial locks with indignation, she exclaimed, "Am I then to be eclipsed in my
honors by a mortal girl? In vain then did that royal shepherd, whose judgment was
approved by Jove himself, give me the palm of beauty over my illustrious rivals, Pallas
and Juno. But she shall not so quietly usurp my honors. I will give her cause to repent of
so unlawful a beauty."
Thereupon she calls her winged son Cupid, mischievous enough in his own nature, and
rouses and provokes him yet more by her complaints. She points out Psyche to him and
says, "My dear son, punish that contumacious beauty; give your mother a revenge as
sweet as her injuries are great; infuse into the bosom of that haughty girl a passion for
some low, mean, unworthy being, so that she may reap a mortification as great as her
present exultation and triumph."
Cupid prepared to obey the commands of his mother. There are two fountains in Venus's
garden, one of sweet waters, the other of bitter. Cupid filled two amber vases, one from
each fountain, and suspending them from the top of his quiver, hastened to the chamber
of Psyche, whom he found asleep. He shed a few drops from the bitter fountain over her
lips, though the sight of her almost moved him to pity; then touched her side with the
point of his arrow. At the touch she awoke, and opened eyes upon Cupid (himself
invisible), which so startled him that in his confusion he wounded himself with his own
arrow. Heedless of his wound, his whole thought now was to repair the mischief he had
done, and he poured the balmy drops of joy over all her silken ringlets.
Psyche, henceforth frowned upon by Venus, derived no benefit from all her charms.
True, all eyes were cast eagerly upon her, and every mouth spoke her praises; but neither
king, royal youth, nor plebeian presented himself to demand her in marriage. Her two
elder sisters of moderate charms had now long been married to two royal princes; but
Psyche, in her lonely apartment, deplored her solitude, sick of that beauty which, while
it procured abundance of flattery, had failed to awaken love.
Her parents, afraid that they had unwittingly incurred the anger of the gods, consulted
the oracle of Apollo, and received this answer, "The virgin is destined for the bride of no
mortal lover. Her future husband awaits her on the top of the mountain. He is a monster
whom neither gods nor men can resist."
This dreadful decree of the oracle filled all the people with dismay, and her parents
abandoned themselves to grief. But Psyche said, "Why, my dear parents, do you now
lament me? You should rather have grieved when the people showered upon me
undeserved honors, and with one voice called me a Venus. I now perceive that I am a
victim to that name. I submit. Lead me to that rock to which my unhappy fate has
destined me."
Accordingly, all things being prepared, the royal maid took her place in the procession,
which more resembled a funeral than a nuptial pomp, and with her parents, amid the
lamentations of the people, ascended the mountain, on the summit of which they left her
alone, and with sorrowful hearts returned home.
While Psyche stood on the ridge of the mountain, panting with fear and with eyes full of
tears, the gentle Zephyr raised her from the earth and bore her with an easy motion into a
flowery dale. By degrees her mind became composed, and she laid herself down on the
grassy bank to sleep.
When she awoke refreshed with sleep, she looked round and beheld near a pleasant
grove of tall and stately trees. She entered it, and in the midst discovered a fountain,
sending forth clear and crystal waters, and fast by, a magnificent palace whose august
front impressed the spectator that it was not the work of mortal hands, but the happy
retreat of some god. Drawn by admiration and wonder, she approached the building and
ventured to enter.
Every object she met filled her with pleasure and amazement. Golden pillars supported
the vaulted roof, and the walls were enriched with carvings and paintings representing
beasts of the chase and rural scenes, adapted to delight the eye of the beholder.
Proceeding onward, she perceived that besides the apartments of state there were others
filled with all manner of treasures, and beautiful and precious productions of nature and
art.
While her eyes were thus occupied, a voice addressed her, though she saw no one,
uttering these words, "Sovereign lady, all that you see is yours. We whose voices you
hear are your servants and shall obey all your commands with our utmost care and
diligence. Retire, therefore, to your chamber and repose on your bed of down, and when
you see fit, repair to the bath. Supper awaits you in the adjoining alcove when it pleases
you to take your seat there."
Psyche gave ear to the admonitions of her vocal attendants, and after repose and the
refreshment of the bath, seated herself in the alcove, where a table immediately
presented itself, without any visible aid from waiters or servants, and covered with the
greatest delicacies of food and the most nectareous wines. Her ears too were feasted
with music from invisible performers; of whom one sang, another played on the lute,
and all closed in the wonderful harmony of a full chorus.
She had not yet seen her destined husband. He came only in the hours of darkness and
fled before the dawn of morning, but his accents were full of love, and inspired a like
passion in her. She often begged him to stay and let her behold him, but he would not
consent. On the contrary he charged her to make no attempt to see him, for it was his
pleasure, for the best of reasons, to keep concealed.
"Why should you wish to behold me?" he said. "Have you any doubt of my love? Have
you any wish ungratified? If you saw me, perhaps you would fear me, perhaps adore me,
but all I ask of you is to love me. I would rather you would love me as an equal than
adore me as a god."
This reasoning somewhat quieted Psyche for a time, and while the novelty lasted she felt
quite happy. But at length the thought of her parents, left in ignorance of her fate, and of
her sisters, precluded from sharing with her the delights of her situation, preyed on her
mind and made her begin to feel her palace as but a splendid prison. When her husband
came one night, she told him her distress, and at last drew from him an unwilling
consent that her sisters should be brought to see her.
So, calling Zephyr, she acquainted him with her husband's commands, and he, promptly
obedient, soon brought them across the mountain down to their sister's valley. They
embraced her and she returned their caresses.
"Come," said Psyche, "enter with me my house and refresh yourselves with whatever
your sister has to offer."
Then taking their hands she led them into her golden palace, and committed them to the
care of her numerous train of attendant voices, to refresh them in her baths and at her
table, and to show them all her treasures. The view of these celestial delights caused
envy to enter their bosoms, at seeing their young sister possessed of such state and
splendor, so much exceeding their own.
They asked her numberless questions, among others what sort of a person her husband
was. Psyche replied that he was a beautiful youth, who generally spent the daytime in
hunting upon the mountains.
The sisters, not satisfied with this reply, soon made her confess that she had never seen
him. Then they proceeded to fill her bosom with dark suspicions. "Call to mind," they
said, "the Pythian oracle that declared you destined to marry a direful and tremendous
monster. The inhabitants of this valley say that your husband is a terrible and monstrous
serpent, who nourishes you for a while with dainties that he may by and by devour you.
Take our advice. Provide yourself with a lamp and a sharp knife; put them in
concealment that your husband may not discover them, and when he is sound asleep,
slip out of bed, bring forth your lamp, and see for yourself whether what they say is true
or not. If it is, hesitate not to cut off the monster's head, and thereby recover your
liberty."
Psyche resisted these persuasions as well as she could, but they did not fail to have their
effect on her mind, and when her sisters were gone, their words and her own curiosity
were too strong for her to resist. So she prepared her lamp and a sharp knife, and hid
them out of sight of her husband. When he had fallen into his first sleep, she silently
rose and uncovering her lamp beheld not a hideous monster, but the most beautiful and
charming of the gods, with his golden ringlets wandering over his snowy neck and
crimson cheek, with two dewy wings on his shoulders, whiter than snow, and with
shining feathers like the tender blossoms of spring.
As she leaned the lamp over to have a better view of his face, a drop of burning oil fell
on the shoulder of the god. Startled, he opened his eyes and fixed them upon her. Then,
without saying a word, he spread his white wings and flew out of the window. Psyche, in
vain endeavoring to follow him, fell from the window to the ground.
Cupid, beholding her as she lay in the dust, stopped his flight for an instant and said,
"Oh foolish Psyche, is it thus you repay my love? After I disobeyed my mother's
commands and made you my wife, will you think me a monster and cut off my head?
But go; return to your sisters, whose advice you seem to think preferable to mine. I
inflict no other punishment on you than to leave you for ever. Love cannot dwell with
suspicion." So saying, he fled away, leaving poor Psyche prostrate on the ground, filling
the place with mournful lamentations.
When she had recovered some degree of composure she looked around her, but the
palace and gardens had vanished, and she found herself in the open field not far from the
city where her sisters dwelt. She repaired thither and told them the whole story of her
misfortunes, at which, pretending to grieve, those spiteful creatures inwardly rejoiced.
"For now," said they, "he will perhaps choose one of us." With this idea, without saying
a word of her intentions, each of them rose early the next morning and ascended the
mountain, and having reached the top, called upon Zephyr to receive her and bear her to
his lord; then leaping up, and not being sustained by Zephyr, fell down the precipice and
was dashed to pieces.
Psyche meanwhile wandered day and night, without food or repose, in search of her
husband. Casting her eyes on a lofty mountain having on its brow a magnificent temple,
she sighed and said to herself, "Perhaps my love, my lord, inhabits there," and directed
her steps thither.
She had no sooner entered than she saw heaps of corn, some in loose ears and some in
sheaves, with mingled ears of barley. Scattered about, lay sickles and rakes, and all the
instruments of harvest, without order, as if thrown carelessly out of the weary reapers'
hands in the sultry hours of the day.
This unseemly confusion the pious Psyche put an end to, by separating and sorting
everything to its proper place and kind, believing that she ought to neglect none of the
gods, but endeavor by her piety to engage them all in her behalf. The holy Ceres, whose
temple it was, finding her so religiously employed, thus spoke to her, "Oh Psyche, truly
worthy of our pity, though I cannot shield you from the frowns of Venus, yet I can teach
you how best to allay her displeasure. Go, then, and voluntarily surrender yourself to
your lady and sovereign, and try by modesty and submission to win her forgiveness, and
perhaps her favor will restore you the husband you have lost."
Psyche obeyed the commands of Ceres and took her way to the temple of Venus,
endeavoring to fortify her mind and ruminating on what she should say and how best
propitiate the angry goddess, feeling that the issue was doubtful and perhaps fatal.
Venus received her with angry countenance. "Most undutiful and faithless of servants,"
said she, "do you at last remember that you really have a mistress? Or have you rather
come to see your sick husband, yet laid up of the wound given him by his loving wife?
You are so ill favored and disagreeable that the only way you can merit your lover must
be by dint of industry and diligence. I will make trial of your housewifery." Then she
ordered Psyche to be led to the storehouse of her temple, where was laid up a great
quantity of wheat, barley, millet, vetches, beans, and lentils prepared for food for her
pigeons, and said, "Take and separate all these grains, putting all of the same kind in a
parcel by themselves, and see that you get it done before evening." Then Venus departed
and left her to her task.
But Psyche, in a perfect consternation at the enormous work, sat stupid and silent,
without moving a finger to the inextricable heap.
While she sat despairing, Cupid stirred up the little ant, a native of the fields, to take
compassion on her. The leader of the anthill, followed by whole hosts of his six-legged
subjects, approached the heap, and with the utmost diligence taking grain by grain, they
separated the pile, sorting each kind to its parcel; and when it was all done, they
vanished out of sight in a moment.
Venus at the approach of twilight returned from the banquet of the gods, breathing odors
and crowned with roses. Seeing the task done, she exclaimed, "This is no work of yours,
wicked one, but his, whom to your own and his misfortune you have enticed." So
saying, she threw her a piece of black bread for her supper and went away.
Next morning Venus ordered Psyche to be called and said to her, "Behold yonder grove
which stretches along the margin of the water. There you will find sheep feeding without
a shepherd, with golden-shining fleeces on their backs. Go, fetch me a sample of that
precious wool gathered from every one of their fleeces."
Psyche obediently went to the riverside, prepared to do her best to execute the
command. But the river god inspired the reeds with harmonious murmurs, which seemed
to say, "Oh maiden, severely tried, tempt not the dangerous flood, nor venture among the
formidable rams on the other side, for as long as they are under the influence of the
rising sun, they burn with a cruel rage to destroy mortals with their sharp horns or rude
teeth. But when the noontide sun has driven the cattle to the shade, and the serene spirit
of the flood has lulled them to rest, you may then cross in safety, and you will find the
woolly gold sticking to the bushes and the trunks of the trees."
Thus the compassionate river god gave Psyche instructions how to accomplish her task,
and by observing his directions she soon returned to Venus with her arms full of the
golden fleece; but she received not the approbation of her implacable mistress, who said,
"I know very well it is by none of your own doings that you have succeeded in this task,
and I am not satisfied yet that you have any capacity to make yourself useful. But I have
another task for you. Here, take this box and go your way to the infernal shades, and
give this box to Proserpine and say, 'My mistress Venus desires you to send her a little of
your beauty, for in tending her sick son she has lost some of her own.' Be not too long on
your errand, for I must paint myself with it to appear at the circle of the gods and
goddesses this evening."
Psyche was now satisfied that her destruction was at hand, being obliged to go with her
own feet directly down to Erebus. Wherefore, to make no delay of what was not to be
avoided, she goes to the top of a high tower to precipitate herself headlong, thus to
descend the shortest way to the shades below. But a voice from the tower said to her,
"Why, poor unlucky girl, do you design to put an end to your days in so dreadful a
manner? And what cowardice makes you sink under this last danger who have been so
miraculously supported in all your former?" Then the voice told her how by a certain
cave she might reach the realms of Pluto, and how to avoid all the dangers of the road, to
pass by Cerberus, the three-headed dog, and prevail on Charon, the ferryman, to take her
across the black river and bring her back again. But the voice added, "When Proserpine
has given you the box filled with her beauty, of all things this is chiefly to be observed
by you, that you never once open or look into the box nor allow your curiosity to pry
into the treasure of the beauty of the goddesses."
Psyche, encouraged by this advice, obeyed it in all things, and taking heed to her ways
traveled safely to the kingdom of Pluto. She was admitted to the palace of Proserpine,
and without accepting the delicate seat or delicious banquet that was offered her, but
contented with coarse bread for her food, she delivered her message from Venus.
Presently the box was returned to her, shut and filled with the precious commodity. Then
she returned the way she came, and glad was she to come out once more into the light of
day.
But having got so far successfully through her dangerous task a longing desire seized her
to examine the contents of the box. "What," said she, "shall I, the carrier of this divine
beauty, not take the least bit to put on my cheeks to appear to more advantage in the eyes
of my beloved husband!" So she carefully opened the box, but found nothing there of
any beauty at all, but an infernal and truly Stygian sleep, which being thus set free from
its prison, took possession of her, and she fell down in the midst of the road, a sleepy
corpse without sense or motion.
But Cupid, being now recovered from his wound, and not able longer to bear the
absence of his beloved Psyche, slipping through the smallest crack of the window of his
chamber which happened to be left open, flew to the spot where Psyche lay, and
gathering up the sleep from her body closed it again in the box, and waked Psyche with
a light touch of one of his arrows. "Again," said he, "have you almost perished by the
same curiosity. But now perform exactly the task imposed on you by my mother, and I
will take care of the rest."
Then Cupid, as swift as lightning penetrating the heights of heaven, presented himself
before Jupiter with his supplication. Jupiter lent a favoring ear, and pleaded the cause of
the lovers so earnestly with Venus that he won her consent. On this he sent Mercury to
bring Psyche up to the heavenly assembly, and when she arrived, handing her a cup of
ambrosia, he said, "Drink this, Psyche, and be immortal; nor shall Cupid ever break
away from the knot in which he is tied, but these nuptials shall be perpetual."
Thus Psyche became at last united to Cupid, and in due time they had a daughter born to
them whose name was Pleasure.
Summary
A stunningly beautiful girl, Psyche, is born after two older sisters. People throughout the
land worship her beauty so deeply that they forget about the goddess Venus. Venus
becomes angry that her temples are falling to ruin, so she plots to ruin Psyche. She
instructs her son, Cupid, to pierce the girl with an arrow and make her fall in love with
the most vile, hideous man alive. But when Cupid sees Psyche in her radiant glory, he
shoots himself with the arrow instead.

Meanwhile, Psyche and her family become worried that she will never find a husband,
for although men admire her beauty, they always seem content to marry someone else.
Psyche's father prays to Apollo for help, and Apollo instructs her to go to the top of a
hill, where she will marry not a man but a serpent. Psyche bravely follows the
instructions and falls asleep on the hill. When she wakes up, she discovers a stunning
mansion. Going inside, she relaxes and enjoys fine food and luxurious treatment. At
night, in the dark, she meets and falls in love with her husband.

She lives happily with him, never seeing him, until one day he tells her that her sisters
have been crying for her. She begs to see them, but her husband replies that it would
not be wise to do so. Psyche insists that they visit, and when they do, they become
extremely jealous of Psyche's beautiful mansion and lush quarters. They deduce that
Psyche has never seen her husband, and they convince her that she must sneak a look.
Confused and conflicted, Psyche turns on a lamp one night as her husband lies next to
her.

When she sees the beautiful Cupid asleep on her bed, she weeps for her lack of faith.
Cupid awakens and deserts her because Love cannot live where there is no trust. Cupid
returns to his mother, Venus, who again decides to enact revenge on the beautiful girl.

Psyche, meanwhile, journeys all over the land to find Cupid. She decides to go to Venus
herself in a plea for love and forgiveness, and when she finally sees Venus, the great
goddess laughs aloud. Venus shows her a heap of seeds and tells her that she must sort
them all in one night's time if she wants to see Cupid again. This task is impossible for
one person alone, but ants pity Psyche and sort the seeds for her. Shocked, Venus then
orders Psyche to sleep on the cold ground and eat only a piece of bread for dinner. But
Psyche survives the night easily. Finally, Venus commands her to retrieve a golden
fleece from the river. She almost drowns herself in the river because of her sorrow, but
a reed speaks to her and suggests that she collect the golden pieces of fleece from the
thorny briar that catches it. Psyche follows these instructions and returns a sizable
quantity to Venus. The amazed goddess, still at it, now orders Psyche to fill a flask
from the mouth of the River Styx. When Psyche reaches the head of the river, she
realizes that this task seems impossible because the rocks are so dangerous. This time,
an eagle helps her and fills the flask. Venus still does not give in. She challenges Psyche
to go into the underworld and have Persephone but some of her beauty in a box.
Miraculously, Psyche succeeds.

On her way toward giving the box to Venus, she becomes curious, opens the box, and
instantly falls asleep. Meanwhile, Cupid looks for Psyche and finds her sleeping. He
awakens her, puts the sleeping spell back in the box, and takes her to Zeus to request
her immortality. Zeus grants the request and makes Psyche an immortal goddess. She
and Cupid are married. Venus now supports the marriage because her son has married a
goddess—and because Psyche will no longer distract the men on earth from Venus.

Analysis
This story centers on the power of true love. Psyche first doubts that love, feeling that
she must see Cupid in the flesh. She later redeems herself many times over when she
proves her commitment, overcoming all obstacles in her way. Figuratively, love (Cupid)
and the soul ("psyche" is the Greek word for the soul) belong together in an inseparable
union. When Cupid sees Psyche, the soul in its beauty, he immediately wants to join
with her. Somehow, this beauty is admired by men but does not lead to the kind of
love that eventuates in a marriage proposal. But Cupid is able to fully appreciate
Psyche’s beauty.

The happy ending, with Venus, Psyche, and Cupid all reaching a positive resolution,
illustrates that when love is pure, all pains, sorrows, and challenges will align to ensure
that the love is realized. Even nature, as the ants and eagle demonstrate, support true
love. Of all the stories in the Greek mythology, none more clearly demonstrates that
true love exists than this story. Moreover, Psyche reveals that true love is to be
defended and supported no matter what the cost. This part of the myth is beautifully
retold by the modern author C.S. Lewis under the title Till We Have Faces.

Psyche remains an unusual example of a female character who acts like a male hero.
Although other female characters (such as Artemis) perform traditionally male activities,
none so boldly acts as a hero might: overcoming seemingly impossible obstacles, fighting
to win true love, achieving a status that is more than human.

Importantly, Psyche is a rare being who begins as a mortal and ends as a divinity. Her
unique position raises questions about spirituality. Is the soul properly a thing of the
earth or a thing of the heavens? How does Psyche's being change when she becomes
immortal? Was there something about Psyche that was more than human from the very
beginning, and why did she win the attention of Cupid in the first place?

The story continues to explore the distinction between humans and gods, as Venus is
bitterly jealous of a mortal who draws other mortals away from her, a goddess. On
earth, the soul, figured as Psyche, is amazingly beautiful but faces great trials. Order is
restored when the soul reaches the heavens. The prospect of one’s own soul following
this path can be very attractive.

It seems that the decision is up to Zeus. Must a soul earn its place (with help) in the
realm of divinity? Must there be an advocate, another god, who must bring the case to
Zeus? Although such questions are left open, it seems clear that Psyche's determination,
courage, and belief in true love help her achieve divine status.

This myth also shows some of the interlocking storylines of the myths. Psyche visits
Persephone in the underworld (it must be winter). Persephone’s box reminds us of
Pandora’s, especially because she is so curious to open it. We will see the River Styx
again, too, not to mention Zeus and Venus. The interconnected nature of the tales does
raise questions about chronology: besides the Creation of Earth, it is unclear what the
chronology might be, and which story happens before another. But as the characters and
places overlap, the myths show themselves to be not only intertextual with each other
but also unified in their depiction of one world in which all these characters and stories
exist.

The Dissatisfied Devotee

Many tales are told about Neptune the Roman god of the sea. Neptune was said to
be one of the most generous of the gods.

One day a woman who lived close to the sea went down to the beach and began
singing songs in his praise. Finally the god came to the surface and asked her
what she wanted.

“I want a cow," said the woman.

The next moment there was a cow standing beside her. The woman was thrilled.
She began singing another song. At the end of it there was another cow beside
her. The woman went on singing and every time she stopped for breath there
would be another cow on the beach. The beach was small and so as the number
of cows started growing it started getting crowded. Finally there was just enough
room for her to stand. Yet the woman was not satisfied. There was a large rock at
her feet. She felt that if she removed the rock there would be place for one more
cow there. So she picked it up and summoning all her strength heaved it into the
sea.

Unfortunately for her, Neptune himself was coming to the surface at that moment
to bestow his blessings on his devotee. The rock hit him on the head. The god was
so angry he dived back into the waters taking with him all the cows he had given
the woman.