Cupid loves Psyche as Pururavas Urva_s_i, but here the story is so far changed that the woman breaks the condition laid upon their union. Not this time by accident, but from the evil counselling of her two sisters, Psyche disobeys her husband. They have long been married, but she has never seen his face; and doubts begin to arise lest some horrid monster, and not a god, may be the sharer of her couch. So she takes the lamp, and when she deems her husband is fast locked in sleep, gazes upon the face of the god of love.
‘But as she turned at last To quench the lamp, there happed a little thing That quenched her new delight, for flickering, The treacherous flame cast on his shoulder fair A burning drop; he woke, and seeing her there, The meaning of that sad sight knew full well; Nor was there need the piteous tale to tell.’[115]
Here, it is true, we have wandered away from the adventures of the sun. Cupid or Eros is in no sense a sun-god; nor has Psyche any proved connection with Ushas, the Dawn. Once a sun-myth does not mean always a sun-myth.[116] So much the contrary, that it is part of our business to show how stories, first appropriated to Olympus or Asgard, may descend to take their place among the commonest collection of nursery tales. It is the case with this myth of the Dawn. The reader’s acquaintance with nursery literature has probably already anticipated the kinship to be claimed by one of the most familiar childish legends. But as one more link to rivet the bond of union between _Urvasi and Pururavas_ and _Beauty and the Beast_, let us look at a story of Swedish origin called _Prince Hatt under the Earth_.
‘There was once, very very long ago, a king who had three daughters, all exquisitely fair, and much more amiable than other maidens, so that their like was not to be found far or near. But the youngest princess excelled her sisters, not only in beauty, but in goodness of heart and kindness of disposition. She was consequently greatly beloved by all, and the king himself was more fondly attached to her than to either of his other daughters.
‘It happened one autumn that there was a fair in a town not far from the king’s residence, and the king himself resolved on going to it with his attendants. When on the eve of departure, he asked his three daughters what they would like for fairings, it being his constant custom to make them some present on his return home. The two elder princesses began instantly to enumerate precious things of curious kinds; one would have this, the other that; but the youngest daughter asked for nothing. At this the king was surprised, and asked her whether she would not like some ornament or other; but she answered that she had plenty of gold and jewels. When the king, however, would not desist from urging her, she at length said, “There is one thing which I would gladly have, if only I might venture to ask it of my father.” “What may that be?” inquired the king; “say what it is, and if it be in my power you shall have it.” “It is this,” replied the princess, “I have heard talk of the _three singing leaves_, and them I wish to have before anything else in the world.” The king laughed at her for making so trifling a request, and at length exclaimed, “I cannot say that you are very covetous, and would rather by half that you had asked for some greater gift. You shall, however, have what you desire, though it should cost me half my realm.” He then bade his daughters farewell and rode away.’