Pluto sits on his ebony throne enchanted. “Beautiful,” he sighs. “Ah, beautiful.” Iron tears trickle down his cheeks. He puts his hand on Persephone’s arm. “My dear,” he says, “we must grant this young man’s request.”
The young queen thinks for a moment. She has ripened since her first, unwilling, visit to the underworld, when all the forms were shadowy, and behind each shadow lurked a fear. Now she can see clearly in the dreamlight. She is on a first-name basis with all the inhabitants, from the gentlest to the most savage. She has learned never to look back.
But this poor boy, this exquisite singer, will have a hard time ahead of him; she can tell by looking at his eyes. It is one thing to charm animals, trees, and rocks, and quite another to be in harmony with a woman. She recognizes his attitude, she has seen it before: fear protected by longing. Hence the bridal image, forever unattainable, forever ideal. No wonder Eurydice took the serpent’s way out. Girls who are seen that way grow up to be maenads. If only, she thinks: if only there were some way to tell him. But, of course, he will have to learn for himself. To lose his love again and again, precipitously, as if by chance. To be torn in pieces, again and again.
She turns to the king. “Yes, darling,” she says. “Let them go.”