This was not a case into which any hope of redemption could enter, and there was nothing for it but to slay her.  To do this, Perseus set out upon his long journey, equipped with the magic gifts of swiftness and invisibility, and bearing on his arm the shield that was also a mirror.  The whole picture is infinitely dreary.  As he travels across the dark sea to the land where the pillars of Atlas are visible far off, towering into the sky, the light decreases.  In the murky and dangerous twilight he forces the Graiai, those grey-haired sisters with their miserable fragmentary life, to bestir their aged limbs and guide him to the Gorgons’ den.  By the dark stream, where the yellow light brooded everlastingly, he reached at last that cave of horrors.  Well was it then for Perseus that he was invisible, for the snakes that were Medusa’s hair could see all round.  But at that time Medusa was asleep and the snakes asleep, and in the silence and twilight of the land where there is “neither night nor day, nor cloud nor breeze nor storm,” he held the magic mirror over against the monster, beheld her in it without change or injury to himself, severed the head, and bore it away to place it on Athene’s shield.

It is very interesting to notice how Art has treated the legend.  It was natural that so vivid an image should become a favourite alike with poets and with sculptors, but there was a gradual development from the old hideous and terrible representations, back to the calm repose of a beautiful dead face.  This might indeed more worthily record the maiden’s tragedy, but it missed entirely the thing that the old myth had said.  The oldest idea was horrible beyond horror, for the darker side of things is always the most impressive to primitive man, and sheer ugliness is a category with which it is easy to work on simple minds.  The rudest art can achieve such grotesque hideousness long before it can depict beauty.  Later, as we have seen, Art tempered the face to beauty, but in so doing forgot the meaning of the story.  It was the old story that has been often told, of the fair and frail one who had fallen among the pitiless.  For her there was no compassion either in mortals or in immortals.  It was the tragedy of sweet beauty desecrated and lost, the petrifying horror of which has found its most unflinching modern expression in Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Corruptio optimi pessima.

To interpret such stories as these by any reference to the rising sun, or the rivalry between night and dawn, is simply to stultify the science of interpretation.  It may, indeed, have been true that most of those who told and heard the tale in ancient times accepted it in its own right, and without either the desire or the thought of further meanings.  Yet, even told in that fashion, as it clung to memory and imagination, it must continually have reminded men of certain features of essential human nature, which it but too evidently recorded.  Here was one of the sad troop of soulless women who appear in the legends of all the races of mankind.  Medusa had herself been petrified before she turned others to stone.  The horror that had come upon her life had been too much to bear, and it had killed her heart within her.