method of tempting Proserpina to eat. The cook's made dishes and
artificial dainties were not half so delicious, in the good child's
opinion, as the simple fare to which Mother Ceres had accustomed her.
Wondering that he had never thought of it before, the king now sent one of
his trusty attendants, with a large basket, to get some of the finest and
juiciest pears, peaches, and plums which could anywhere be found in the
upper world. Unfortunately, however, this was during the time when Ceres
had forbidden any fruits or vegetables to grow; and, after seeking all
over the earth, King Pluto's servants found only a single pomegranate, and
that so dried up as to be not worth eating. Nevertheless, since there was
no better to be had, he brought this dry, old, withered pomegranate home
to the palace, put it on a magnificent golden salver, and carried it up to
Proserpina. Now it happened, curiously enough, that, just as the servant
was bringing the pomegranate into the back door of the palace, our friend
Quicksilver had gone up the front steps, on his errand to get Proserpina
away from King Pluto.
As soon as Proserpina saw the pomegranate on the golden salver, she told
the servant he had better take it away again.
"I shall not touch it, I assure you," said she. "If I were ever so hungry,
I should never think of eating such a miserable, dry pomegranate as that."
"It is the only one in the world," said the servant.
He set down the golden salver, with the wizened pomegranate upon it, and
left the room. When he was gone, Proserpina could not help coming close to
the table, and looking at this poor specimen of dried fruit with a great
deal of eagerness; for, to say the truth, on seeing something that suited
her taste, she felt all the six months' appetite taking possession of her
at once. To be sure, it was a very wretched-looking pomegranate, and
seemed to have no more juice in it than an oyster-shell. But there was no
choice of such things in King Pluto's palace. This was the first fruit she
had seen there, and the last she was ever likely to see; and unless she
ate it up immediately, it would grow drier than it already was, and be
wholly unfit to eat.
"At least, I may smell it," thought Proserpina.
So she took up the pomegranate, and applied it to her nose; and, somehow
or other, being in such close neighborhood to her mouth, the fruit found
its way into that little red cave. Dear me! what an everlasting pity!
Before Proserpina knew what she was about, her teeth had actually bitten
it, of their own accord. Just as this fatal deed was done, the door of the
apartment opened, and in came King Pluto, followed by Quicksilver, who had
been urging him to let his little prisoner go. At the first noise of their
entrance, Proserpina withdrew the pomegranate from her mouth. But
Quicksilver (whose eyes were very keen, and his wits the sharpest that
ever anybody had) perceived that the child was a little confused; and
seeing the empty salver, he suspected that she had been taking a sly
nibble of something or other. As for honest Pluto, he never guessed at the
secret.
"My little Proserpina," said the king, sitting down, and affectionately
drawing her between his knees, "here is Quicksilver, who tells me that a
great many misfortunes have befallen innocent people on account of my
detaining you in my dominions. To confess the truth, I myself had already
reflected that it was an unjustifiable act to take you away from your good
mother. But, then, you must consider, my dear child, that this vast palace
is apt to be gloomy (although the precious stones certainly shine very
bright), and that I am not of the most cheerful disposition, and that
therefore it was a natural thing enough to seek for the society of some
merrier creature than myself. I hoped you would take my crown for a
plaything, and me--ah, you laugh, naughty Proserpina--me, grim as I am,
for a playmate. It was a silly expectation."
"Not so extremely silly," whispered Proserpina. "You have really amused me
very much, sometimes."
"Thank you," said King Pluto, rather dryly. "But I can see, plainly
enough, that you think my palace a dusky prison, and me the iron-hearted
keeper of it. And an iron heart I should surely have, if I could detain
you here any longer, my poor child, when it is now six months since you
tasted food. I give you your liberty. Go with Quicksilver. Hasten home to
your dear mother."
Now, although you may not have supposed it, Proserpina found it impossible
to take leave of poor King Pluto without some regrets, and a good deal of
compunction for not telling him about the pomegranate. She even shed a
tear or two, thinking how lonely and cheerless the great palace would seem
to him, with all its ugly glare of artificial light, after she
herself,--his one little ray of natural sunshine, whom he had stolen, to
be sure, but only because he valued her so much,--after she should have
departed. I know not how many kind things she might have said to the
disconsolate king of the mines, had not Quicksilver hurried her away.
"Come along quickly," whispered he in her ear, "or his majesty may change
his royal mind. And take care, above all things, that you say nothing of
what was brought you on the golden salver."
In a very short time, they had passed the great gateway (leaving the
three-headed Cerberus, barking and yelping, and growling, with threefold
din, behind them), and emerged upon the surface of the earth. It was
delightful to behold, as Proserpina hastened along, how the path grew
verdant behind and on either side of her. Wherever she set her blessed
foot, there was at once a dewy flower. The violets gushed up along the
wayside. The grass and the grain began to sprout with tenfold vigor and
luxuriance, to make up for the dreary months that had been wasted in
barrenness. The starved cattle immediately set to work grazing, after
their long fast, and ate enormously all day, and got up at midnight to eat
more. But I can assure you it was a busy time of year with the farmers,
when they found the summer coming upon them with such a rush. Nor must I
forget to say that all the birds in the whole world hopped about upon the
newly blossoming trees, and sang together in a prodigious ecstasy of joy.
Mother Ceres had returned to her deserted home, and was sitting
disconsolately on the doorstep, with her torch burning in her hand. She
had been idly watching the flame for some moments past, when, all at once,
it flickered and went out.
"What does this mean?" thought she. "It was an enchanted torch, and should
have kept burning till my child came back."
Lifting her eyes, she was surprised to see a sudden verdure flashing over
the brown and barren fields, exactly as you may have observed a golden hue
gleaming far and wide across the landscape, from the just risen sun.
"Does the earth disobey me?" exclaimed Mother Ceres indignantly. "Does it
presume to be green, when I have bidden it be barren until my daughter
shall be restored to my arms?"
"Then open your arms, dear mother," cried a well-known voice, "and take
your little daughter into them."
And Proserpina came running, and flung herself upon her mother's bosom.
Their mutual transport is not to be described. The grief of their
separation had caused both of them to shed a great many tears; and now
they shed a great many more, because their joy could not so well express
itself in any other way.
When their hearts had grown a little more quiet, Mother Ceres looked
anxiously at Proserpina.
"My child," said she, "did you taste any food while you were in King
Pluto's palace?"
"Dearest mother," answered Proserpina. "I will tell you the whole truth.
Until this very morning, not a morsel of food had passed my lips. But
to-day, they brought me a pomegranate (a very dry one it was, and all
shriveled up, till there was little left of it but seeds and skin), and
having seen no fruit for so long a time, and being faint with hunger, I
was tempted just to bite it. The instant I tasted it, King Pluto and
Quicksilver came into the room. I had not swallowed a morsel; but--dear
mother, I hope it was no harm--but six of the pomegranate seeds, I am
afraid, remained in my mouth."
"Ah, unfortunate child, and miserable me!" exclaimed Ceres. "For each of
those six pomegranate seeds you must spend one month of each year in King
Pluto's palace. You are but half restored to your mother. Only six months
with me, and six with that good-for-nothing King of Darkness!"
"Do not speak so harshly of poor King Pluto," said Proserpina, kissing her
mother. "He has some very good qualities, and I really think I can bear to
spend six months in his palace, if he will only let me spend the other six
with you. He certainly did very wrong to carry me off; but then, as he
says, it was but a dismal sort of life for him, to live in that great
gloomy place, all alone; and it has made a wonderful change in his spirits
to have a little girl to run up stairs and down. There is some comfort in
making him so happy; and so, upon the whole, dearest mother, let us be
thankful that he is not to keep me the whole year round."
OLD GREEK FOLK-STORIES
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE
By Josephine Preston Peabody
When gods and shepherds piped and the stars sang, that was the day of
musicians! But the triumph of Phoebus Apollo himself was not so wonderful
as the triumph of a mortal man who lived on earth, though some say that he
came of divine lineage. This was Orpheus, that best of harpers, who went
with the Grecian heroes of the great ship Argo in search of the Golden
Fleece.
After his return from the quest, he won Eurydice for his wife, and they
were as happy as people can be who love each other and every one else. The
very wild beasts loved them, and the trees clustered about their home as
if they were watered with music. But even the gods themselves were not
always free from sorrow, and one day misfortune came upon that harper
Orpheus whom all men loved to honor.
Eurydice, his lovely wife, as she was wandering with the nymphs,
unwittingly trod upon a serpent in the grass. Surely, if Orpheus had been
with her, playing upon his lyre, no creature could have harmed her. But
Orpheus came too late. She died of the sting, and was lost to him in the
Underworld.
For days he wandered from his home, singing the story of his loss and his
despair to the helpless passers-by. His grief moved the very stones in the
wilderness, and roused a dumb distress in the hearts of savage beasts.
Even the gods on Mount Olympus gave ear, but they held no power over the
darkness of Hades.
Wherever Orpheus wandered with his lyre, no one had the will to forbid him
entrance; and at length he found unguarded that very cave that leads to
the Underworld, where Pluto rules the spirits of the dead. He went down
without fear. The fire in his living heart found him a way through the
gloom of that place. He crossed the Styx, the black river that the Gods
name as their most sacred oath. Charon, the harsh old ferryman who takes
the shades across, forgot to ask of him the coin that every soul must pay.
For Orpheus sang. There in the Underworld the song of Apollo would not
have moved the poor ghosts so much. It would have amazed them, like a star
far off that no one understands. But here was a human singer, and he sang
of things that grow in every human heart, youth and love and death, the
sweetness of the Earth, and the bitterness of losing aught that is dear to
us.
Now the dead, when they go to the Underworld, drink of the pool of Lethe;
and forgetfulness of all that has passed comes upon them like a sleep, and
they lose their longing for the world, they lose their memory of pain, and
live content with that cool twilight. But not the pool of Lethe itself
could withstand the song of Orpheus; and in the hearts of the shades all
the old dreams awoke wondering. They remembered once more the life of men
on earth, the glory of the sun and moon, the sweetness of new grass, the
warmth of their homes, all the old joy and grief that they had known. And
they wept.
Even the Furies were moved to pity. Those, too, who were suffering
punishment for evil deeds ceased to be tormented for themselves, and
grieved only for the innocent Orpheus who had lost Eurydice. Sisyphus,
that fraudulent king (who is doomed to roll a monstrous boulder uphill
forever), stopped to listen. The daughters of Danaus left off their task
of drawing water in a sieve. Tantalus forgot hunger and thirst, though
before his eyes hung magical fruits that were wont to vanish out of his
grasp, and just beyond reach bubbled the water that was a torment to his
ears; he did not hear it while Orpheus sang.
So, among a crowd of eager ghosts, Orpheus came, singing with all his
heart, before the king and queen of Hades. And the queen Proserpina wept
as she listened and grew homesick, remembering the fields of Enna and the
growing of the wheat, and her own beautiful mother, Demeter. Then Pluto
gave way.
They called Eurydice and she came, like a young guest unused to the
darkness of the Underworld. She was to return with Orpheus, but on one
condition. If he turned to look at her once before they reached the upper
air, he must lose her again and go back to the world alone.
Rapt with joy, the happy Orpheus hastened on the way, thinking only of
Eurydice, who was following him. Past Lethe, across the Styx they went, he
and his lovely wife, still silent as a shade. But the place was full of
gloom, the silence weighed upon him, he had not seen her for so long; her
footsteps made no sound; and he could hardly believe the miracle, for
Pluto seldom relents. When the first gleam of upper daylight broke through
the cleft to the dismal world, he forgot all, save that he must know if
she still followed. He turned to see her face, and the promise was broken!
She smiled at him forgivingly, but it was too late. He stretched out his
arms to take her, but she faded from them, as the bright snow, that none
may keep, melts in our very hands. A murmur of farewell came to his
ears,--no more. She was gone.
He would have followed, but Charon, now on guard, drove him back. Seven
days he lingered there between the worlds of life and death, but after the
broken promise Hades would not listen to his song. Back to the earth he
wandered, though it was sweet to him no longer. He died young, singing to
the last, and round about the place where his body rested, nightingales
nested in the trees. His lyre was set among the stars; and he himself went
down to join Eurydice, unforbidden.
Those two had no need of Lethe, for their life on earth had been wholly
fair, and now that they are together they no longer own a sorrow.
ICARUS AND DÆDALUS
By Josephine Preston Peabody
Among all those mortals who grew so wise that they learned the secrets of
the gods, none was more cunning than Dædalus.
He once built, for King Minos of Crete, a wonderful Labyrinth of winding
ways so cunningly tangled up and twisted around that, once inside, you
could never find your way out again without a magic clue. But the king's
favor veered with the wind, and one day he had his master architect
imprisoned in a tower. Dædalus managed to escape from his cell; but it
seemed impossible to leave the island, since every ship that came or went
was well guarded by order of the king.
At length, watching the sea-gulls in the air,--the only creatures that
were sure of liberty,--he thought of a plan for himself and his young son
Icarus, who was captive with him.
Little by little, he gathered a store of feathers great and small. He
fastened these together with thread, moulded them in with wax, and so
fashioned two great wings like those of a bird. When they were done,
Dædalus fitted them to his own shoulders, and after one or two efforts, he
found that by waving his arms he could winnow the air and cleave it, as a
swimmer does the sea. He held himself aloft, wavered this way and that,
with the wind, and at last, like a great fledgling, he learned to fly.
Without delay, he fell to work on a pair of wings for the boy Icarus, and
taught him carefully how to use them, bidding him beware of rash
adventures among the stars. "Remember," said the father, "never to fly
very low or very high, for the fogs about the earth would weigh you down,
but the blaze of the sun will surely melt your feathers apart if you go
too near."
For Icarus, these cautions went in at one ear and out by the other. Who
could remember to be careful when he was to fly for the first time? Are
birds careful? Not they! And not an idea remained in the boy's head but
the one joy of escape.
The day came, and the fair wind that was to set them free. The father bird
put on his wings, and, while the light urged them to be gone, he waited to
see that all was well with Icarus, for the two could not fly hand in hand.
Up they rose, the boy after his father. The hateful ground of Crete sank
beneath them; and the country folk, who caught a glimpse of them when they
were high above the tree-tops, took it for a vision of the gods,--Apollo,
perhaps, with Cupid after him.
At first there was a terror in the joy. The wide vacancy of the air dazed
them,--a glance downward made their brains reel. But when a great wind
filled their wings, and Icarus felt himself sustained, like a halcyon-bird
in the hollow of a wave, like a child uplifted by his mother, he forgot
everything in the world but joy. He forgot Crete and the other islands
that he had passed over: he saw but vaguely that winged thing in the
distance before him that was his father Dædalus. He longed for one draught
of flight to quench the thirst of his captivity: he stretched out his arms
to the sky and made towards the highest heavens.
Alas for him! Warmer and warmer grew the air. Those arms, that had seemed
to uphold him, relaxed. His wings wavered, drooped. He fluttered his young
hands vainly,--he was falling,--and in that terror he remembered. The heat
of the sun had melted the wax from his wings; the feathers were falling,
one by one, like snowflakes; and there was none to help.
He fell like a leaf tossed down the wind, down, down, with one cry that
overtook Dædalus far away. When he returned, and sought high and low for
the poor boy, he saw nothing but the bird-like feathers afloat on the
water, and he knew that Icarus was drowned.
The nearest island he named Icaria, in memory of the child; but he, in
heavy grief, went to the temple of Apollo in Sicily, and there hung up his
wings as an offering. Never again did he attempt to fly.
PHAETHON
By Josephine Preston Peabody
Once upon a time, the reckless whim of a lad came near to destroying the
Earth and robbing the spheres of their wits.
There were two playmates, said to be of heavenly parentage. One was
Epaphus, who claimed Zeus as a father; and one was Phaethon, the earthly
child of Phoebus Apollo (or Helios, as some name the sun-god). One day
they were boasting together, each of his own father, and Epaphus, angry at
the other's fine story, dared him to go prove his kinship with the Sun.
Full of rage and humiliation, Phaethon went to his mother, Clymene, where
she sat with his young sisters, the Heliades.
"It is true, my child," she said, "I swear it in the light of yonder Sun.
If you have any doubt, go to the land whence he rises at morning and ask
of him any gift you will; he is your father, and he cannot refuse you."
As soon as might be, Phaethon set out for the country of sunrise. He
journeyed by day and by night far into the east, till he came to the
palace of the Sun. It towered high as the clouds, glorious with gold and
all manner of gems that looked like frozen fire, if that might be. The
mighty walls were wrought with images of earth and sea and sky. Vulcan,
the smith of the Gods, had made them in his workshop (for Mount Ætna is
one of his forges, and he has the central fires of the earth to help him
fashion gold and iron, as men do glass). On the doors blazed the twelve
signs of the Zodiac, in silver that shone like snow in the sunlight.
Phaethon was dazzled with the sight, but when he entered the palace hall
he could hardly bear the radiance.
In one glimpse through his half-shut eyes, he beheld a glorious being,
none other than Phoebus himself, seated upon a throne. He was clothed in
purple raiment, and round his head there shone a blinding light, that
enveloped even his courtiers upon the right and upon the left,--the
Seasons with their emblems, Day, Month, Year, and the beautiful young
Hours in a row. In one glance of those all-seeing eyes, the sun-god knew
his child; but in order to try him he asked the boy his errand.
"O my father," stammered Phaethon, "if you are my father indeed"--and then
he took courage; for the god came down from his throne, put off the
glorious halo that hurt mortal eyes, and embraced him tenderly.
"Indeed, thou art my son," said he. "Ask any gift of me, and it shall be
thine; I call the Styx to witness."
"Ah!" cried Phaethon rapturously. "Let me drive thy chariot for one day!"
For an instant the Sun's looks clouded. "Choose again, my child," said he.
"Thou art only a mortal, and this task is mine alone of all the Gods. Not
Zeus himself dare drive the chariot of the Sun. The way is full of
terrors, both for the horses and for all the stars along the roadside, and
for the Earth, who has all blessings from me. Listen, and choose again."
And therewith he warned Phaethon of all the dangers that beset the
way,--the great steep that the steeds must climb, the numbing dizziness of
the height, the fierce constellations that breathe out fire, and that
descent in the west where the Sun seems to go headlong.
But these counsels only made the reckless boy more eager to win honor of
such a high enterprise.
"I will take care; only let me go," he begged.
Now Phoebus had sworn by the black river Styx, an oath that none of the
Gods dare break, and he was forced to keep his promise.
Already Aurora, goddess of dawn, had thrown open the gates of the east,
and the stars were beginning to wane. The Hours came forth to harness the
four horses, and Phaethon looked with exultation at the splendid
creatures, whose lord he was for a day. Wild, immortal steeds they were,
fed with ambrosia, untamed as the winds; their very pet names signified
flame, and all that flame can do,--Pyrois, Eoüs, Æthon, Phlegon.
As the lad stood by, watching, Phoebus anointed his face with a philter
that should make him strong to endure the terrible heat and light, then
set the halo upon his head, with a last word of counsel.
"Follow the road," said he, "and never turn aside. Go not too high or too
low, for the sake of heavens and earth; else men and Gods will suffer. The
Fates alone know whether evil is to come of this. Yet if your heart fails
you, as I hope, abide here and I will make the journey, as I am wont to
do."
But Phaethon held to his choice and bade his father farewell. He took his
place in the chariot, gathered up the reins, and the horses sprang away,
eager for the road.
As they went, they bent their splendid necks to see the meaning of the
strange hand upon the reins,--the slender weight in the chariot. They
turned their wild eyes upon Phaethon, to his secret foreboding, and
neighed one to another. This was no master charioteer, but a mere lad, a
feather riding the wind. It was holiday for the horses of the Sun, and
away they went.
Grasping the reins that dragged him after, like an enemy, Phaethon looked
down from the fearful ascent and saw the Earth far beneath him, dim and
fair. He was blind with dizziness and bewilderment. His hold slackened and
the horses redoubled their speed, wild with new liberty. They left the old
tracks. Before he knew where he was, they had startled the constellations
and well-nigh grazed the Serpent, so that it woke from its torpor and
hissed.
The steeds took fright. This way and that they went, terrified by the
monsters they had never encountered before, shaking out of their silver
quiet the cool stars towards the north, then fleeing as far to the south
among new wonders. The heavens were full of terror.
Up, far above the clouds, they went, and down again, towards the
defenseless Earth, that could not flee from the chariot of the Sun. Great
rivers hid themselves in the ground, and mountains were consumed. Harvests
perished like a moth that is singed in a candle-flame.
In vain did Phaethon call to the horses and pull upon the reins. As in a
hideous dream, he saw his own Earth, his beautiful home and the home of
all men, his kindred, parched by the fires of this mad chariot, and
blackening beneath him. The ground cracked open and the sea shrank.
Heedless water-nymphs, who had lingered in the shallows, were left gasping
like bright fishes. The dryads shrank, and tried to cover themselves from
the scorching heat. The poor Earth lifted her withered face in a last
prayer to Zeus to save her if he might.
Then Zeus, calling all the Gods to witness that there was no other means
of safety, hurled his thunderbolt; and Phaethon knew no more.
His body fell through the heavens, aflame like a shooting star; and the
horses of the Sun dashed homeward with the empty chariot.