ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE - IV

Adapted from the retelling by Elsie Finnimore Buckley

Fourth Story
In which Orpheus visits a royal court, cheers a queen up, and stirs a heart of steel

And Orpheus went on his way, with hope beating high in his heart, till he came to the portals of the palace of Death. On the threshold lay Cerberus, the three-headed hound of hell, who night and day kept watch beside the gate to see that no one passed in save those who had died upon earth, and that those who had passed him once should pass him never again. When he heard Orpheus coming, he sprang to his feet and snarled and growled and bared his sharp white fangs; but as the strains of music grew clearer he sank silent to the ground, and stretched his three great heads between his paws. Orpheus, as he passed by, bent down and stroked him, and the fierce beast licked his hands. So did he enter into the gates of Death, and passed through the shadowy halls, till he stood before the throne of Hades, the king. A dim and awful form did he sit, wrapped about in darkness and mist, and on his right hand sat Persephone, his wife, whom he stole from the meadows of Sicily. When he saw Orpheus his eyes gleamed like the gleam of cold steel, and he stretched forth his gaunt right arm towards him.

"What dost thou here, Orpheus?" he asked.

"I am come to ask thee a boon, O King," he answered.

"There be many that ask me a boon," said Hades, "but none that receive it."

"Yet none have stood before thee in the flesh, as I do, O King, to ask their boon."

"Because thou hast trespassed unlawfully on my domain, dost thou think I will grant thee thy boon?"

"Nay; but because my grief is so great that I have dared what none have dared before me, I pray thee to hear me."

Without waiting for an answer, he struck his lyre and sang to them the story of his life, and of how he had loved and lost Eurydice. The eyes of the pale queen brightened when she heard him, and the colour came back to her cheeks, as the song brought back to her mind the days of her girlhood and the sunlit meadows of Sicily. Then a great pity filled her heart for Eurydice, who had left the green earth for ever, and might not return, as she herself did, in the springtime, living only the dark winter months below. As Orpheus ceased his song she laid her hand upon her husband's.

"My lord," she said, "grant his boon, I pray thee. He is brave and true-hearted, and he sings as no man has ever sung before."

But the stern king sat with his head upon his hand and eyes cast down, deep in thought. At length he spoke, and his voice was soft and kind.

"Orpheus," he said, "thou hast touched my heart with thy singing. Yet it lies not with me to grant thee thy boon."

"But if the Queen, thy wife, may return to the earth in the springtime, may not Eurydice, too, come back at thy command?" asked Orpheus.

"The ways of the gods are not the ways of mortals, Orpheus; they walk by paths you may not tread. Yet, though I have no power to give thee back Eurydice, thou mayest win her thyself if thou hast the strength."

"How may that be?" cried Orpheus. "For the sake of Eurydice I have strength for any venture."

"No strength of the flesh can win her, Orpheus, but the strength of a faith unfaltering. I will send for her, and when thou seest her stand within the hall, holding out her hands towards thee, thou must harden thy heart, and turn and flee before her by the way thou camest. For the love of thee she will follow, and she will entreat thee to look at her and give her thy hand over the stony way. But thou must neither look at her nor speak to her. One look, one word, will be thine undoing, and she must vanish from thine eyes for ever. The spell of thy song still rests upon the guardians of my kingdom, and they will let thee and thy wife pass by. But think not by word nor deed to help her. Alone she passed from life to death, and alone she must pass back from death to life. Her love and thy faith can be the only bond between you. Hast thou the strength for this?"

"My Lord," cried Orpheus, "'tis but a small thing to ask of a love like mine."

EXIT, PURSUED BY A BEAR

Nowadays, every English speaker knows the line "Exit, pursued by a bear". William Shakespeare, The Winter's Tale, Act 3 Scene 3.
In The Winter's Tale, one of Shakespeare's last romantic comedies, a courtier is chased on stage (and presumably devoured offstage) by a brown bear on the coast of Bohemia.
Since the Kingdom of Bohemia is analogous, sociohistorically, with our days' landlocked Czech Republic... that scene may betray that Shakespeare, who appeared so clever (peppering his works with French and Latin), was somewhat ignorant when it came to geography.
Most people in our days are unaware of the Bohemia/Czech Republic analogy, which they clearly overlook.
However, it's the bear that catches their attention (by the way, brown bears are not that out of place in Bohemia/the Czech Republic).
Now, on stage, should it be two actors in a suit (like the cow in Jack and the Beanstalk pantomimes) or a live brown bear to appear?
Something tells me that a live brown bear would be used in Stuart times.
When Shakespeare was young, actually, the performing arts weren't considered high culture. Which explains why he debuted in front of an audience of peasants and artisans, in an arena-like theatre in suburban London. That theatre, the Globe, also resembled a cinema, aside from a sports arena.
To entertain themselves, courtiers hunted for big game in the woods. During the reign of Elizabeth I, a modality known as bear-baiting was especially popular at court: the bear was drugged and captured alive, then brought to the palace, then pitted against bulldogs in a fight to the death. That was Tudor high culture.
With the change of reign and dynasty, Shakespeare's reputation reached the royal halls... and thus, tragedies like Macbeth and Othello were written for King James and his nobles. The performing arts had started to attract the elite.
Though there were still old-fashioned courtiers who would rather see a brown bear against a half-dozen bulldogs rather than a great general strangling his beloved spouse.
With these preferences in mind, and the royal favour on his side, it was not hard for William to get a live brown bear for the first premiere of The Winter's Tale.