The Maidens

by Alex Michaelides

Mariana grew up with a keen awareness of this loss. As a therapist, she knew a baby’s first sense of self comes through its parents’ gaze. We are born being watched—our parents’ expressions, what we see reflected in the mirror of their eyes, determines how we see ourselves.

The temple was dedicated to Demeter, goddess of the harvest—goddess of life—and to her daughter, Persephone—goddess of death. The two goddesses were often worshipped together, two sides of the same coin—mother and daughter, life and death. In Greek, Persephone was known simply as Kore, meaning “maiden.”

And then Mariana stumbled on those lines that had become so famous they passed into the English language itself—coming across them here, buried among so much other verse, they retained their ability to sneak up behind her, take her by surprise, and leave her breathless: I hold it true, whate’er befall; I feel it when I sorrow most; ’Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all …

The word “psychopath” was coined by a German psychiatrist in 1888—the same year Jack the Ripper terrorized London—from the German word psychopastiche, literally meaning “suffering soul.” For Mariana this was the clue—the suffering—the sense that these monsters were also in pain.

“When she lost her daughter at Eleusis, Demeter plunged the world into wintry darkness, until Zeus was forced to intervene. He allowed Persephone to return from the dead, every year, for six months, which is our spring and summer. And then, for the six months she resides in the Underworld, we have fall and winter. Light and dark—life and death.

😮

In preparation, you had a drink called kykeon—which was made of barley. And on this particular barley there was a black fungus called ergot, which had hallucinogenic properties; thousands of years later, LSD would be made from it. Whether the Greeks knew it or not, they were all tripping slightly. Which might account for some of the visions.”

“Let me tell you something—this is what those old Greek plays are about. What it means to be human. What it means to be alive. And if you miss that when you read them—if all you see is a bunch of dead words—then you’re missing the whole damn thing. I don’t just mean in the plays—I mean in your lives, right now. If you’re not aware of the transcendent, if you’re not awake to the glorious mystery of life and death that you’re lucky enough to be part of—if that doesn’t fill you with joy and strike you with awe … you might as well not be alive. That’s the message of the tragedies. Participate in the wonder.

“Ah. St. Lucy, if I’m not mistaken.” “St. Lucy?” “You’re not familiar with her? I suppose she’s a little obscure, as saints go. A martyr during Diocletian’s scourge of Christians—around 300 AD. Her eyes were gouged out before she was stabbed to death.” “Poor Lucy.” “Quite. Hence patron saint of the blind. She’s usually depicted like this, carrying her eyes on a platter.”

“Well,” she said, “this time, it’s from Iphigenia in Aulis, by Euripides.” “What does it say?” “It’s about Iphigenia being led to her death.” Clarissa took a gulp of wine, and translated it: “‘Behold the maiden … with garlands in her hair, and holy water sprinkled upon her … walking to the sacrificial altar of the unspeakable goddess—which will flow with blood’—‘αἱματορρύτοις’ is the word in Greek—‘as her beautiful neck is severed.’”