The Nine of Cups recently made an appearance during a reading someone did on Earth Day (the Ubuntu spread I shared on Instagram). It’s not exactly the kind of card that hits you over the head with spiritual fireworks. A man on a bench, arms contentedly crossed, looks out at the world with a face that says, “Look at me, doing just fine.” Behind him: nine perfectly arranged cups. Red cheeks, ample belly, open coat. You don’t have to be psychic to think: this guy’s enjoying himself.
This card is often labeled as “superficial satisfaction.” Or worse: smugness. And let’s be honest, in our culture, being that pleased with yourself is frowned upon. Real spirituality, the message seems to be, should involve suffering, depth, and a solid dose of introspection. A tortured mystic is preferred over a contented hedonist — such is the New Age dogma.
But that interpretation doesn’t quite tell the whole story. The Nine of Cups expresses how it feels when things are simply going well. You feel good in your skin, you’re enjoying life, your affairs are in order. And that feeling — even if it’s worldly — is also valuable. Tarot isn’t just a spiritual tool; it’s a mirror of everyday life. And for most of us, that life takes place firmly on this earthly plane.
The idea that true joy only exists beyond the material realm seems more rooted in our Christian cultural heritage (or should I say: collective Christian trauma?) — where real happiness is reserved for heaven, and life is just preparation for death.
But when Tarot was born — in Renaissance Italy — it was the Greek philosophers who were all the rage. And they were deeply concerned with what it means to be human on earth. A well-known definition of philosophy (I believe it’s from Joep Dohmen) puts it beautifully: “A coherence of thinking and living living and thinking. Eat as a human being, drink as a human being, participate in social life, learn to deal with ridicule and defamation and tolerate other people” Not mystical, but grounded. And refreshingly usable.
In the Thoth Tarot, this card is titled Happiness. In Eteilla’s system, it means Success, and when reversed: Business Success. So yes — sometimes a card is just a good time.
Shakespeare and the Nine of Cups
According to Tarot scholars Marcus Katz and Tali Goodwin, Pamela Colman Smith — the artist behind the Rider-Waite-Smith deck — drew her inspiration for this card from Sir John Falstaff, the iconic character in Shakespeare’s Henry IV. In their book Secrets of the Waite-Smith Tarot, they’re quite certain of this — though they don’t provide concrete proof.
Their interpretation of the card is also based on Book T, the secret instruction manual for Golden Dawn initiates, written by Samuel Liddell MacGregor Mathers. This book, in turn, was based on a mysterious document supposedly acquired by another Golden Dawn founder, William Wynn Westcott — the so-called Cipher Manuscript. Coincidentally, this manuscript also happened to contain all kinds of handy tips on how to start your own esoteric order. Which Westcott promptly did 😊.
Later, it turned out that the Cipher Manuscript had probably been fabricated by Westcott himself. That doesn’t mean the contents are worthless — but let’s just say a healthy dose of skepticism is in order.
Falstaff: Fiction With a Historical Wink
So who was Falstaff? In early versions of Henry IV, Shakespeare named him Sir John Oldcastle, after a real 15th-century knight. The problem? Oldcastle’s noble descendants were still alive — and not amused. Shakespeare was kindly but firmly asked to change the name. Thus, Falstaff was born — probably a nod to Sir John Fastolf, a knight from the Hundred Years’ War with a rather murky reputation.
The name Falstaff itself sounds like a pun: false staff — a fake pillar of support. Fitting, because Falstaff is anything but a hero. He’s a coward, a liar, a fraud, and a fabulist. But also: witty, lively, charming, and irresistibly human. His appeal lies in his imperfection — his oversized appetite for life and his equally grand self-deception.
Falstaff is Prince Hal’s drinking buddy — Hal, who later becomes King Henry V. They seem inseparable, until Hal trades wine for a crown and discards Falstaff like a pair of old shoes. Falstaff is cast off as a youthful folly with no place in adulthood. His naive belief in friendship shatters. And here, too, we see the shadow side of the Nine of Cups: believing you’ve arrived, just before reality takes a sharp turn.
Falstaff is arguably literature’s first antihero. And antiheroes are beloved — because they are, well… human. Over the centuries, Falstaff has become a cultural icon. His name adorns operas (Verdi’s Falstaff, 1893), appears in films, comics, even beer brands. In most stage renditions, he’s portrayed with an enormous mug of ale in hand, ready to toast to the absurdity of life.
Queen Elizabeth I was apparently such a fan that she asked Shakespeare to give Falstaff his own spin-off play. And so he did: The Merry Wives of Windsor, a raucous comedy in which Falstaff, broke and desperate, tries to seduce wealthy women — with predictably disastrous (and hilarious) results. A complete departure from Shakespeare’s usual repertoire.
Expectation, Joy, and a Little Bit of Hurt
To me, the deeper layer of the Nine of Cups doesn’t lie in the cups themselves, but in the expectation — the belief in goodness, magic, positivity, and the comforting idea that everything will stay just as it is. Everything’s going great. The sun is shining. You’re filled with hope, joy, and anticipation. Like that moment just before something wonderful is about to happen.
But just like with Falstaff — if the blow comes, it hits harder. You believed in the good, and the world turns out to be more complicated.
That doesn’t mean we should distrust joy. The number nine represents completion, fulfillment. Simply being content — without drama or depth — is already an achievement. Maybe even a spiritual one.
Long live Falstaff. Long live the Nine of Cups. And why not — go ahead and pour another.