Eyes full of venom — 'I could love you more than she ever could': The worst act of jealousy [Masterpiece Collection]

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Circe had hair that blazed like fire. Her eyes were golden, and her back was as straight and rigid as a shaft of light. The ancient Greek poet Homer openly sang that her hair was "lovely," while Apollonius described her eyes as sparkling "like light."

Circe's lineage was equally noble.

According to various traditions, the blood of Helios, the god of the sun, ran through her veins.

Perhaps it was that divine energy within her.

She possessed as many talents as she had striking looks. She was particularly skilled in magic and prophecy, and in herbs and potions — gifts she drew upon to brew all manner of elixirs. From a young age, Circe had nurtured a dream: to marry a beautiful and talented partner worthy of her, and build a life together. Yet that dream remained out of reach.

Living on an island nearly devoid of human presence was part of the problem — but there was a deeper one.

Her character.

Circe was cruel.

She delighted in destruction, casting harmful spells at the slightest provocation and killing or maiming other living beings without hesitation. It was little wonder her reputation among gods and mortals alike had sunk to its lowest depths.

Then someone came to find her.

He was Glaucus — a minor sea god, half man and half fish.

Circe stopped in her tracks. She had fallen for him at first sight. But Glaucus had someone else on his mind, and that was precisely why he had come to her. Not long before, Glaucus had confessed his love to Scylla — a nymph with translucent skin who loved water and bathing. His words had reached her, but his feelings had not. All he received in return was a firm rejection. Some accounts say Scylla was already betrothed to another; others say she simply fled from the sight of his fish-like lower body. Even so, Glaucus could not let her go. It was a misguided obsession. And so he had sought out Circe — to ask whether she might produce one vial of the love potion she was said to know how to make.

Circe approached Glaucus first, feigning sympathy.

She stroked his hair and wiped away his tears, then let slip a quiet confession: "I could love you far more than she ever could." Glaucus immediately raised his head and looked into her eyes. His expression was stone cold — not a trace of being moved or overwhelmed. "Circe," he said. "There is only Scylla for me. Consider what you said unheard." The response was brief and absolute.

Circe's face twisted. She turned the words "there is only Scylla for me" over and over in her mind.

Is there truly no one but Scylla for you? Rejected love gave birth to jealousy and a thirst for revenge — and both arrows flew straight toward the blameless Scylla.

Late at night, Circe poured the juice of poisonous herbs into the pool where Scylla bathed.

John William Waterhouse's Circe Invidiosa captures that very moment. Circe's gaze is fierce — the eyes staring downward radiate nothing but rage. Wrapped in a deep teal gown, she stands perfectly upright, even defiant, as she pours the liquid in. The green solution flows downward without resistance, churning the water beneath her bare, hovering feet into an ominous foam. Only the space around Circe roils and surges; the forest beyond is still, and the water just a hand's breadth away lies calm. That contrast throws her presence — or rather, the sheer weight of the malice she carries — into sharper relief.

This was the most terrible liquid Circe possessed: a cursed substance that, the moment it touched the body, set in motion consequences that could never be undone.

Scylla knew nothing. She could not have known. And so she plunged once more into that same pool.

Circe watched until every strand of Scylla's hair was soaked through — and only then began to chant. A scream rang out. It was Scylla's. She clutched her face in both arms as if in agony. Every part of her body twisted and contorted grotesquely. In the end, six dog-headed necks shot up like serpents, and she became a sea monster that devoured everything in its path. Not a trace of her fair appearance remained. Waterhouse, too, painted Scylla's fate into the canvas. Look again at what lies beneath Circe's feet — something is writhing there: a long neck and torso, great fins. It is, perhaps, the creature that can no longer be called Scylla. And so, Glaucus — is there still no one but Scylla for you? That was the reason Circe committed this terrible act.

And Glaucus? He fled — disappearing into the depths of the sea, away from Scylla and away from Circe alike.

In fairness, he bore some responsibility for the disaster. Having received a clear rejection, he should not have schemed behind the scenes. He should never have gone to Circe, a figure capable of anything.

Circe watched Glaucus go and scoffed.

Having tasted revenge, would she now restore Scylla to her true form as a nymph? She would not. She left her as she was — condemned to live out her days as a hideous monster. Whatever Glaucus's failings, it was Circe who showed the worst of herself, right to the very end.

What became of Scylla? Her life collapsed without warning.

Scylla was a victim of obsession and a casualty of jealousy. Consumed by resentment on one side and despair on the other, she grew more savage with each passing day. She is said to have taken to the sea in her monstrous form, seizing and devouring every fisherman and explorer she encountered. At one point, she is said to have threatened the voyage of the hero Odysseus himself.

Some accounts hold that she withdrew from the world of her own accord before she became a monster. The gods, pitying her, turned her into a reef — though one might wonder whether it would have been kinder, as with so many others, to have made her a constellation instead. She could not have welcomed that fate either. In that form, she is said to have lured passing ships onto the rocks and wrecked them, threatening sailors far and wide.

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