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The Melancholic Gaze
There are two gazes of Orpheus.The first is well-known, almost to the point of being hackneyed. It is the gaze, full of impatience and therefore untimely, of the lover who managed to descend into the underworld, charm Charon, Cerberus and Hades himself with song, and deliver his beloved wife from eternal darkness and silence. The one condition the singer had to fulfill in order for this miracle, a miracle rivaled only by the story of Persephone, to take place may seem banal, disproportionate to the promise of future happiness. Eurydice would leave the depths of Hades with him and return to life, but during the journey home Orpheus, who had to lead the way, was for-bidden to look behind him; forbidden to gaze upon his beloved. Hermes would walk behind her in order to keep an eye on the singer; to follow his movements and check his impulses, and, should Orpheus once turn around, to pull Eurydice back into the underworld. Remember, you cannot look at her! That was the con-dition set by Hades. It seems little enough to ask in exchange for a new life; for love regained. It seems even less when we consider the imbalance between what must have been a short journey home and the promise of a long and happy life on earth.Indeed, it was not much to ask, except of someone who loved. Anyone who has ever loved knows that the gaze of the beloved can eclipse the whole world. What, then, could Orpheus do? He was no longer saddened by the death of Eury-dice; no longer paralyzed by the fear of life, life which for him would once again soon know the delights of the past. Just then, in the moment that divides van-ished pain from future joy, Orpheus was seized with the desire to see his beloved. Virgil recalls the event in the following passage from the Georgics:1 René Descartes, The Passions of the Soul, trans. Stephen Voss (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1989), p. 79. And now with homeward footstep he had passed [...],Eurydice to realms of upper airHad well-nigh won, behind him following –So Proserpine had ruled it – when his heartA sudden mad desire surprised and seized [...]For at the very threshold of the day,Heedless, alas! and vanquished of resolve,He stopped, turned, looked upon EurydiceHis own once more. But even with the look,Poured out was all his labor.2Orpheus forgot about the command not to look, and his desire got the better of him. He gazed at his beloved, wanting to enjoy the sight of her and to reassure himself that she was there, walking behind him. The moment is preserved in the work of a nameless sculptor from the fifth century B.C.E., a relief depicting Hermes, Eurydice, and Orpheus. The winged god and the woman walk behind the poet, who, overwhelmed by his passions, has already stopped and turned to look at his beloved. This relief is strange indeed. We cannot tell whether the trag-edy has already happened or is just about to happen. Eurydice’s left arm rests on Orpheus’s shoulder, as if she never wanted to leave her lover again. Yet her right arm is nervously reaching out for Hermes, which may indicate that Eurydice has had a premonition that she will never get out of the hellish underworld. Eurydice and Orpheus keep their gazes low, crossing at the level of their lips. Perhaps this is a reflection of the legend according to which Orpheus wished not only to look at his beloved, but also to kiss her. Virgil alludes to precisely that story in the Culex: “But cruel, more than cruel, Orpheus, thou, / Desiring kisses dear, didst break the gods’ / Commands.”3 In the relief, they appear still not to have looked into each other’s face, since they are standing opposite each other. Will these faces catch the glimpse they seek? Will they gaze into each other’s eyes? When will Hermes intervene and interrupt this foretaste of happiness, transforming it into the pain of everlasting loss? Will Orpheus’s gaze touch, even fleetingly, on Eurydice’s face? Will it meet her gaze? No one can answer these questions; Eury-dice wonders aloud in the Georgics, with a note of indifference that presages the melancholy to come: “once again / The unpitying fates recall me [...] / Girt with enormous night I am borne away.
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