ADAPTED BY ALICE ZIMMERN
In Babylon, the great and wonderful city on the Euphrates, there lived in two
adjoining houses a youth and a maiden named Pyramus and Thisbe. Hardly a day
passed without their meeting, and at last they came to know and love one
another. But when Pyramus sought Thisbe in marriage, the parents would not hear
of it, and even forbade the lovers to meet or speak to each other any more. But
though they could no longer be openly together, they saw each other at a
distance and sent messages by signs and tokens.
One day to their great delight they discovered a tiny crack in the wall
between the two houses, through which they could hear each other speak. But a
few words whispered through a chink in the wall could not satisfy two ardent
lovers, and they tried to arrange a meeting. They would slip away one night
unnoticed and meet somewhere outside the city. A spot near the tomb of Ninus was
chosen, where a mulberry tree grew near a pleasant spring of water.
At nightfall Thisbe put on a thick veil, slipped out of the house unobserved
and made her way in haste to the city gates. She was first at the trysting-place
and sat down under the tree to wait for her lover. A strange noise made her look
up, and [pg 52] she saw
by the clear moonlight a lioness with bloody jaws coming to drink at the spring.
Thisbe sprang up, and dropping her cloak in her haste ran to hide herself in a
neighboring cave. The lioness, who had already eaten, did not care to pursue
her, but finding the cloak lying on the ground, pulled it to bits and left the
marks of blood on the torn mantle. Now Pyramus in his turn came to the place and
found no Thisbe, but only her torn and bloodstained cloak. "Surely," he thought,
"some beast must have devoured her, for here lies her cloak, all mangled and
bloodstained. Alas, that I came too late! Her love for me led Thisbe to brave
the perils of night and danger, and I was not here to protect and save her. She
dies a victim to her love, but she shall not perish alone. One same night will
see the end of both lovers. Come, ye lions, and devour me too, 'tis my one
prayer. Yet 'tis a coward's part to pray for death when his own hands can give
it."
With these words he drew Thisbe's cloak towards him, and covered it with
kisses. "My blood too shall stain you," he cried, and plunged his sword with
true aim in his breast. The blood spouted forth as from a fountain and stained
the white fruit of the mulberry overhead.
While Pyramus lay dying under the tree, Thisbe had recovered from her fright,
and now stole forth from her hiding-place, hoping that her lover might be at
hand. What was her dismay when she saw Pyramus stretched lifeless on the ground.
Kneeling down beside him, she washed his wound with her tears, and kissed his
cold lips, calling on him in vain to speak. "Speak to me, Pyramus," she cried,
"'tis your beloved Thisbe that calls."
At the sound of her voice Pyramus opened his failing eyes, and gave his love
one last look, then he closed them for ever. When Thisbe saw her own cloak and
the empty sheath, she guessed that, thinking her dead, he had sought death
himself.
"'Twas by your own hand you fell," she cried, "a victim to love, and love
will give my hand strength to do the like. Since those who were parted in life
are united in death, perhaps our sorrowing parents will grant us the boon of a
common tomb. May we rest side by side, even as we have fallen, and may this
[pg 53] tree, which has
witnessed our despair and our death, bear the traces for evermore. Let its fruit
be clothed in mourning garb for the death of two hapless lovers."
With these words she threw herself on the sword of Pyramus. Her last prayer
was granted, for one urn held the ashes of the faithful pair. And since that
night the mulberry tree bears purple fruit to recall to all generations of
lovers the cruel fate of Pyramus and Thisbe.
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