Narcissus and Echo

Taken from Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book Three: This passage follows on from a description of Teiresias, who has just lost his sight but gained clairvoyance.

Soon the prophet’s fame was rumoured throughout Boeotia. Folk consulted, and none could fault, his oracular powers.

The first to put his trusted authority under test was sea-green Líriope, whom once Cephisus the river-god caught in the folds of his sinuous stream and then proceeded to rape. The nymph’s womb swelled and, now at her very loveliest, Liriope gave birth to a child, already adorable, called Narcíssus. In course of time she consulted the seer;

‘Tell me,’ she asked, ‘will my baby live to a ripe old age?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘so long as he never knows himself’ – empty words, as they long appeared, but the prophet was proved right. 

In the event, Narcissus died of a curious passion. Sixteen years went by and already the son of Cephisus was changing each day from beautiful youth to comely manhood. Legions of lusty men and bevies of girls desired him; but the heart was so hard and proud in that soft and slender body, that none of the lusty men or languishing girls could approach him.

One day he was sighted, blithely chasing the scampering roebuck into the huntsman’s nets, by a nymph whose babbling voice would always answer a call but never speak first. It was Echo. Echo still was a body, not a mere voice, but her chattering tongue could only do what it does today, that is to parrot the last few words of the many spoken by others. Juno had done this to her. The goddess would be all ready to catch her husband Jupiter making love to some nymph in a mountain dell, when crafty Echo would keep her engaged in a long conversation, until the nymph could scurry to safety. When Saturn’s daughter perceived what Echo was doing, she said to her, ‘I’ve been cheated enough by your prattling tongue. From now on your words will be short and sweet!’ Her curse took effect at once. Echo could only repeat the words she heard at the end of a sentence and never reply for herself.

So when she saw Narcissus wandering over the country fields, she burned with desire and stealthily followed along his tracks. The closer she followed, the flames of her passion grew nearer and nearer, as sulphur smeared on the tip of a pine-torch quickly catches fire when another flame is brought into close proximity. Oh, how often she longed, poor creature, to say sweet nothings and beg him softly to stay! But her nature imposed a block and would not allow her to make a start. She was merely permitted and ready to wait for the sounds which her voice could return to the speaker.

Narcissus once took a different path from his trusty companions. ‘Is anyone there?’ he said ‘... one there?’ came Echo’s answer. Startled, he searched with his eyes all round the glade and loudly shouted, ‘Come here!’ ‘Come here!’ the voice threw back to the caller. He looks behind him and, once again, when no one emerges, ‘Why are you running away?’ he cries. His words come ringing back. His body freezes. Deceived by his voice’s reflection, the youth calls out yet again, ‘This way! We must come together.’ Echo with rapturous joy responds, ‘We must come together!’ To prove her words, she burst in excitement out of the forest, arms outstretched to fling them around the shoulders she yearned for. Shrinking in horror, he yelled, ‘Hands off! May I die before you enjoy my body.’ Her only reply was ‘… enjoy my body.’

Scorned and rejected, with burning cheeks, she fled to the forest to hide her shame and live thenceforward in lonely caves. But her love persisted and steadily grew with the pain of rejection. Wretched and sleepless with anguish, she started to waste away. Her skin grew dry and shrivelled, the lovely bloom of her flesh lost all its moisture; nothing remained but voice and bones; then only voice, for her bones (so they say) were transformed to stone. Buried away in the forest, seen no more on the mountains, heard all over the world, she survives in the sound of the echo.

Not only Echo, the other nymphs of the waves and mountains incurred Narcissus’ mockery; so did his male companions. Finally one of his scorned admirers lifted his hands to the heavens: ‘I pray Narcissus may fall in love and never obtain his desire!’ His prayer was just and Némesis heard it.

Picture a clear, unmuddied pool of silvery, shimmering water. The shepherds have not been near it; the mountain-goats and cattle have not come down to drink there; its surface has never been ruffled by bird or beast or branch from a rotting cypress. Imagine a ring of grass, well-watered and lush, and a circle of trees for cooling shade in the burning summer sunshine. Here Narcissus arrived, all hot and exhausted from hunting, and sank to the ground. The place looked pleasant, and here was a spring! Thirsty for water, he started to drink, but soon grew thirsty for something else. His being was suddenly overwhelmed by a vision of beauty. He fell in love with an empty hope, a shadow mistaken for substance. He gazed at himself in amazement, limbs and expression as still as a statue of Párian marble. Stretched on the grass, he saw twin stars, his own two eyes, rippling curls like the locks of a god, Apollo or Bacchus, cheeks as smooth as silk, an ivory neck and a glorious face with a mixture of blushing red and a creamy whiteness. All that his lovers adored he worshipped in self-adoration.

Blindly rapt with desire for himself, he was votary and idol, suitor and sweetheart, taper and fire – at one and the same time. Those beautiful lips would implore a kiss, but as he bent forward the pool would always betray him. He plunges his arms in the water to clasp that ivory neck and finds himself clutching at no one. He knows not what he is seeing; the sight still fires him with passion. His eyes are deceived, but the strange illusion excites his senses. Trusting fool, how futile to woo a fleeting phantom! You’ll never grasp it. Turn away and your love will have vanished. The shape now haunting your sight is only a wraith, a reflection consisting of nothing; there with you when you arrived, here now, and there with you when you decide to go – if ever you can go!

Nothing could drag him away from the place, not hunger for food nor need for sleep. As he lay stretched out in the grassy shade, he never could gaze his fill on that fraudulent image of beauty; and gazing proved his demise. He raised his body a little, then stretching his arms in grief to the witnessing trees all round him, ‘Wise old trees,’ he exclaimed, ‘has anyone loved more cruelly? Lovers have often kissed in secret under your branches. Here you have stood for hundreds of years. In all that time has anyone suffered for love like me? Whom can you remember? I’ve looked and have longed. But looking and longing is far from enough. I still have to find!’ (His lover’s delusion was overpowering.)

‘My pain is the more since we’re not divided by stretches of ocean, unending roads, by mountains or walls with impassable gates. All that keeps us apart is a thin, thin line of water. He wants to be held in my arms. Whenever I move to kiss the clear bright surface, his upturned face strains closer to mine. We all but touch! The paltriest barrier thwarts our pleasure. Come out to me here, whoever you are! Why keep eluding me, peerless boy? When I seek you, where do you steal away? It can’t be my looks or my age which makes you want to avoid me; even the nymphs have longed to possess me! … Your looks of affection offer a grain of hope. When my arms reach out to embrace you, you reach out too. I smile at you, and you smile at me back. I weep and your tears flow fast. You nod when I show my approval. When I read those exquisite lips, I can watch them gently repeating my words – but I never can hear you repeat them! ..... I know you now and I know myself. Yes, I am the cause of the fire inside me, the fuel that burns and the flame that lights it. What can I do? Must I woo or be wooed? What else can I plead for? All I desire I have. My wealth has left me a pauper. Oh, how I wish that I and my body could now be parted, I wish my love were not here! – a curious prayer for a lover. Now my sorrow is sapping my strength. My life is almost over. Its candle is guttering out in the prime of my manhood. Death will be easy to bear, since dying will cure my heartache. Better indeed if the one I love could have lived for longer, but now, two soulmates in one, we shall face our ending together.’

With that he turned distractedly back to his own reflection; his tears were troubling the limpid waters and blurring the picture that showed in the ruffled pool. When he saw it fast disappearing, ‘Don’t hurry away, please stay! You cannot desert me so cruelly. I love you!’ he shouted. ‘Please, if I’m not able to touch you, I must be allowed to see you, to feed my unhappy passion!’

In wild distress he ripped the top of his tunic aside and bared his breast to the blows he rained with his milk-white hand. His fist brought up a crimson weal on his naked torso, like apples tinted both white and red, or a multi-coloured cluster of grapes just ripening into a blushing purple.

Once the water had cleared again and he saw what his hand had done, the boy could bear it no longer. As yellow wax melts in a gentle flame, or the frost on a winter morning thaws in the rays of the sunshine, so Narcissus faded away and melted, slowly consumed by the fire inside him. His face had lost that wonderful blend of red and whiteness, gone was the physical vigour and all he had looked at and longed for, broken the godlike frame which once poor Echo had worshipped.

Echo had watched his decline, still filled with angry resentment but moved to pity. Whenever the poor unhappy youth uttered a pitiful sigh, her own voice uttered a pitiful sigh in return. When he beat with his hand on his shoulders, she also mimicked the sound of the blows. His final words, as he gazed once more in the pool, rang back from the rocks: ‘Oh marvellous boy, I loved you in vain!’ Then he said, ‘Farewell.’ ‘Farewell,’ said Echo.

He rested his weary head in the fresh green grass, till Death’s hand gently closed his eyes still rapt with their master’s beauty. Even then, as he crossed the Styx to ghostly Hades, he gazed at himself in the river. At once his sister naiads beat their breasts and cut their tresses in mourning tribute; the dryads wailed their lament; and Echo re-echoed their wailing. A pyre was raised, the bier made ready, the funeral torches brandished on high. The body, however, was not to be found – only a flower with a trumpet of gold and pale white petals.