of one last word to say.
"My beloved son," said he, grasping the prince's hand, "you observe
that the sails of this vessel are black, as indeed they ought to be,
since it goes upon a voyage of sorrow and despair. Now, being weighed
down with infirmities, I know not whether I can survive till the
vessel shall return. But as long as I do live, I shall creep daily to
the top of yonder cliff, to watch if there be a sail upon the sea.
And, dearest Theseus, if by some happy chance you should escape the
jaws of the Minotaur, then tear down those dismal sails, and hoist
others that shall be bright as the sunshine. Beholding them on the
horizon, myself and all the people will know that you are coming back
victorious, and will welcome you with such a festal uproar as Athens
never heard before."
Theseus promised that he would do so. Then, going on board, the
mariners trimmed the vessel's black sails to the wind, which blew
faintly off the shore, being pretty much made up of the sighs that
everybody kept pouring forth on this melancholy occasion. But by and
by, when they got fairly out to sea, there came a stiff breeze from
the north-west, and drove them along as merrily over the white-capped
waves as if they had been going on the most delightful errand
imaginable. And though it was a sad business enough, I rather question
whether fourteen young people, without any old persons to keep them in
order, could continue to spend the whole time of the voyage in being
miserable. There had been some few dances upon the undulating deck, I
suspect, and some hearty bursts of laughter, and other such
unseasonable merriment among the victims, before the high, blue
mountains of Crete began to show themselves among the far-off clouds.
That sight, to be sure, made them all very grave again.
No sooner had they entered the harbor than a party of the guards of
King Minos came down to the waterside and took charge of the fourteen
young men and damsels. Surrounded by these armed warriors, Prince
Theseus and his companions were led to the king's palace and ushered
into his presence. Now Minos was a stern and pitiless king. He bent
his shaggy brows upon the poor Athenian victims. Any other mortal,
beholding their fresh and tender beauty and their innocent looks,
would have felt himself sitting on thorns until he had made every soul
of them happy by bidding them go free as the summer wind. But this
immitigable Minos cared only to examine whether they were plump
enough to satisfy the Minotaur's appetite. For my part, I wish he
himself had been the only victim; and the monster would have found him
a pretty tough one.
One after another, King Minos called these pale, frightened youths and
sobbing maidens to his footstool, gave them each a poke in the ribs
with his scepter (to try whether they were in good flesh or no), and
dismissed them with a nod to his guards. But when his eyes rested on
Theseus, the king looked at him more attentively, because his face was
calm and grave.
"Young man," asked he, with his stern voice, "are you not appalled at
the certainty of being devoured by this terrible Minotaur?"
"I have offered my life in a good cause," answered Theseus, "and
therefore I give it freely and gladly. But thou, King Minos, art thou
not thyself appalled, who, year after year, hast perpetrated this
dreadful wrong, by giving seven innocent youths and as many maidens to
be devoured by a monster? Dost thou not tremble, wicked king, to turn
thine eyes inward on thine own heart? Sitting there on thy golden
throne and in thy robes of majesty, I tell thee to thy face, King
Minos, thou art a more hideous monster than the Minotaur himself!"
"Aha! do you think me so?" cried the king, laughing in his cruel way.
"To-morrow, at breakfast time, you shall have an opportunity of
judging which is the greater monster, the Minotaur or the king! Take
them away, guards; and let this free-spoken youth be the Minotaur's
first morsel!"
THESEUS AND ARIADNE
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
Near the king's throne stood his daughter Ariadne. She was a beautiful
and tender-hearted maiden, and looked at these poor doomed captives
with very different feelings from those of the iron-breasted King
Minos. She really wept, indeed, at the idea of how much human
happiness would be needlessly thrown away by giving so many young
people, in the first bloom and rose-blossom of their lives, to be
eaten up by a creature who, no doubt, would have preferred a fat ox,
or even a large pig, to the plumpest of them. And when she beheld the
brave-spirited figure of Prince Theseus bearing himself so calmly in
his terrible peril, she grew a hundred times more pitiful than before.
As the guards were taking him away, she flung herself at the king's
feet and besought him to set all the captives free, and especially
this one young man.
"Peace, foolish girl!" answered King Minos. "What hast thou to do with
an affair like this? It is a matter of state policy, and therefore
quite beyond thy weak comprehension. Go water thy flowers, and think
no more of these Athenian caitiffs, whom the Minotaur shall as
certainly eat up for breakfast as I will eat a partridge for my
supper."
So saying, the king looked cruel enough to devour Theseus and all the
rest of the captives himself, had there been no Minotaur to save him
the trouble. As he would not hear another word in their favor, the
prisoners were now led away and clapped into a dungeon, where the
jailer advised them to go to sleep as soon as possible, because the
Minotaur was in the habit of calling for breakfast early. The seven
maidens and six young men soon sobbed themselves to slumber. But
Theseus was not like them. He felt conscious that he was wiser and
braver and stronger than his companions, and that therefore he had the
responsibility of all their lives upon him, and must consider whether
there was no way to save them, even in this last extremity. So he kept
himself awake, and paced to and fro across the gloomy dungeon in which
they were shut up.
Just before midnight the door was softly unbarred, and the gentle
Ariadne showed herself, with a torch in her hand.
"Are you awake, Prince Theseus?" she whispered.
"Yes," answered Theseus. "With so little time to live, I do not choose
to waste any of it in sleep."
"Then follow me," said Ariadne, "and tread softly."
What had become of the jailer and the guards Theseus never knew. But
however that might be, Ariadne opened all the doors and led him forth
from the darksome prison into the pleasant moonlight.
"Theseus," said the maiden, "you can now get on board your vessel and
sail away for Athens."
"No," answered the young man; "I will never leave Crete unless I can
first slay the Minotaur, and save my poor companions, and deliver
Athens from this cruel tribute."
"I knew that this would be your resolution," said Ariadne. "Come,
then, with me, brave Theseus. Here is your own sword which the guards
deprived you of. You will need it; and pray Heaven you may use it
well."
Then she led Theseus along by the hand until they came to a dark,
shadowy grove, where the moonlight wasted itself on the tops of the
trees, without shedding hardly so much as a glimmering beam upon their
pathway. After going a good way through this obscurity, they reached a
high marble wall, which was overgrown with creeping plants, that made
it shaggy with their verdure. The wall seemed to have no door, nor any
windows, but rose up, lofty and massive and mysterious, and was
neither to be clambered over nor, so far as Theseus could perceive, to
be passed through. Nevertheless, Ariadne did but press one of her soft
little fingers against a particular block of marble and, though it
looked as solid as any other part of the wall, it yielded to her
touch, disclosing an entrance just wide enough to admit them. They
crept through, and the marble stone swung back into its place.
"We are now," said Ariadne, "in the famous labyrinth which Dædalus
built before he made himself a pair of wings and flew away from our
island like a bird. That Dædalus was a very cunning workman, but of
all his artful contrivances this labyrinth is the most wondrous. Were
we to take but a few steps from the doorway, we might wander about all
our lifetime and never find it again. Yet in the very center of this
labyrinth is the Minotaur, and, Theseus, you must go thither to seek
him."
"But how shall I ever find him?" asked Theseus, "if the labyrinth so
bewilders me, as you say it will?"
Just as he spoke they heard a rough and very disagreeable roar, which
greatly resembled the lowing of a fierce bull, but yet had some sort
of sound like the human voice. Theseus even fancied a rude
articulation in it, as if the creature that uttered it were trying to
shape his hoarse breath into words. It was at some distance, however,
and he really could not tell whether it sounded most like a bull's
roar or a man's harsh voice.
"That is the Minotaur's noise," whispered Ariadne, closely grasping
the hand of Theseus, and pressing one of her own hands to her heart,
which was all in a tremble. "You must follow that sound through the
windings of the labyrinth, and, by and by, you will find him. Stay!
take the end of this silken string; I will hold the other end; and
then, if you win the victory, it will lead you again to this spot.
Farewell, brave Theseus."
So the young man took the end of the silken string in his left hand,
and his gold-hilted sword, ready drawn from its scabbard, in the
other, and trod boldly into the inscrutable labyrinth. How this
labyrinth was built is more than I can tell you, but so cunningly
contrived a mizmaze was never seen in the world before nor since.
Theseus had not taken five steps before he lost sight of Ariadne; and
in five more his head was growing dizzy. But he still went on, now
creeping through a low arch, now ascending a flight of steps, now in
one crooked passage, and now in another, with here a door opening
before him, and there one banging behind, until it really seemed as if
the walls spun round and whirled him along with them. And all the
while, through these hollow avenues, now nearer, now farther off
again, resounded the cry of the Minotaur; and the sound was so fierce,
so cruel, so ugly, so like a bull's roar, and withal so like a human
voice, and yet like neither of them, that the brave heart of Theseus
grew sterner and angrier at every step; for he felt it an insult to
the moon and sky, and to our affectionate and simple Mother Earth,
that such a monster should have the audacity to exist.
As he passed onward, the clouds gathered over the moon, and the
labyrinth grew so dusky that Theseus could no longer discern the
bewilderment through which he was passing. He would have felt quite
lost, and utterly hopeless of ever again walking in a straight path,
if every little while he had not been conscious of a gentle twitch at
the silken cord. Then he knew that the tender-hearted Ariadne was
still holding the other end, and that she was fearing for him, and
hoping for him, and giving him just as much of her sympathy as if she
were close by his side. But still he followed the dreadful roar of the
Minotaur, which now grew louder and louder, and finally so very loud
that Theseus fully expected to come close upon him, at every new
zigzag and wriggle of the path. And at last, in an open space, in the
very center of the labyrinth, he did discern the hideous creature.
Sure enough, what an ugly monster it was! Only his horned head
belonged to a bull; and yet, somehow or other, he looked like a bull
all over, preposterously waddling on his hind legs; or, if you
happened to view him in another way, he seemed wholly a man, and all
the more monstrous for being so. And there he was, the wretched thing,
with no society, no companion, no kind of a mate, living only to do
mischief, and incapable of knowing what affection means. Theseus hated
him, and shuddered at him, and yet could not but be sensible of some
sort of pity; and all the more, the uglier and more detestable the
creature was. For he kept striding to and fro in a solitary frenzy of
rage, continually emitting a hoarse roar, which was oddly mixed up
with half-shaped words; and, after listening awhile, Theseus
understood that the Minotaur was saying to himself how miserable he
was, and how hungry, and how he hated everybody, and how he longed to
eat up the human race alive.
Was Theseus afraid? By no means, my dear auditors. What! a hero like
Theseus afraid! Not had the Minotaur had twenty bull heads instead of
one. Bold as he was, however, I fancy that it strengthened his valiant
heart, just at this crisis, to feel a tremulous twitch at the silken
cord, which he was still holding in his left hand. It was as if
Ariadne were giving him all her might and courage; and, much as he
already had, and little as she had to give, it made his own seem twice
as much. And to confess the honest truth, he needed the whole; for now
the Minotaur, turning suddenly about, caught sight of Theseus, and
instantly lowered his horribly sharp horns, exactly as a mad bull does
when he means to rush against an enemy. At the same time he belched
forth a tremendous roar, in which there was something like the words
of human language, but all disjointed and shaken to pieces by passing
through the gullet of a miserably enraged brute.
Theseus could only guess what the creature intended to say, and that
rather by his gestures than his words; for the Minotaur's horns were
sharper than his wits, and of a great deal more service to him than
his tongue. But probably this was the sense of what he uttered:
"Ah, wretch of a human being! I'll stick my horns through you, and
toss you fifty feet high, and eat you up the moment you come down."
"Come on, then, and try it!" was all that Theseus deigned to reply;
for he was far too magnanimous to assault his enemy with insolent
language.
Without more words on either side, there ensued the most awful fight
between Theseus and the Minotaur that ever happened beneath the sun or
moon. I really know not how it might have turned out, if the monster,
in his first headlong rush against Theseus, had not missed him, by a
hair's-breadth, and broken one of his horns short off against the
stone wall. On this mishap he bellowed so intolerably that a part of
the labyrinth tumbled down, and all the inhabitants of Crete mistook
the noise for an uncommonly heavy thunder-storm. Smarting with the
pain, he galloped around the open space in so ridiculous a way that
Theseus laughed at it long afterwards, though not precisely at the
moment. After this the two antagonists stood valiantly up to one
another, and fought sword to horn, for a long while. At last, the
Minotaur made a run at Theseus, grazed his left side with his horn,
and flung him down; and thinking that he had stabbed him to the heart,
he cut a great caper in the air, opened his bull mouth from ear to
ear, and prepared to snap his head off. But Theseus by this time had
leaped up, and caught the monster off his guard. Fetching a
sword-stroke at him with all his force, he hit him fair upon the neck,
and made his bull head skip six yards from his human body, which fell
down flat upon the ground.
So now the battle was ended. Immediately the moon shone out as
brightly as if all the troubles of the world, and all the wickedness
and the ugliness that infest human life, were past and gone forever.
And Theseus, as he leaned on his sword, taking breath, felt another
twitch of the silken cord; for all through the terrible encounter he
had held it fast in his left hand. Eager to let Ariadne know of his
success, he followed the guidance of the thread, and soon found
himself at the entrance of the labyrinth.
"Thou hast slain the monster," cried Ariadne, clasping her hands.
"Thanks to thee, dear Ariadne," answered Theseus, "I return
victorious."
"Then," said Ariadne, "we must quickly summon thy friends, and get
them and thyself on board the vessel before dawn. If morning finds
thee here, my father will avenge the Minotaur."
To make my story short, the poor captives were awakened, and hardly
knowing whether it was not a joyful dream, were told of what Theseus
had done, and that they must set sail for Athens before daybreak.
Hastening down to the vessel, they all clambered on board, except
Prince Theseus, who lingered behind them, on the strand, holding
Ariadne's hand clasped in his own.
"Dear maiden," said he, "thou wilt surely go with us. Thou art too
gentle and sweet a child for such an iron-hearted father as King
Minos. He cares no more for thee than a granite rock cares for the
little flower that grows in one of its crevices. But my father, King
Ægeus, and my dear mother, Æthra, and all the fathers and mothers in
Athens, and all the sons and daughters too, will love and honor thee
as their benefactress. Come with us, then; for King Minos will be very
angry when he knows what thou hast done."
Now, some low-minded people, who pretend to tell the story of Theseus
and Ariadne, have the face to say that this royal and honorable maiden
did really flee away, under cover of the night, with the young
stranger whose life she had preserved. They say, too, that Prince
Theseus (who would have died sooner than wrong the meanest creature in
the world) ungratefully deserted Ariadne on a solitary island, where
the vessel touched on its voyage to Athens. But had the noble Theseus
heard these falsehoods, he would have served their slanderous authors
as he served the Minotaur! Here is what Ariadne answered, when the
brave Prince of Athens besought her to accompany him:
"No, Theseus," the maiden said, pressing his hand and then drawing
back a step or two, "I cannot go with you. My father is old, and has
nobody but myself to love him. Hard as you think his heart is, it
would break to lose me. At first King Minos will be angry; but he will
soon forgive his only child; and, by and by, he will rejoice, I know,
that no more youths and maidens must come from Athens to be devoured
by the Minotaur. I have saved you, Theseus, as much for my father's
sake as for your own. Farewell! Heaven bless you!"
All this was so true, and so maiden-like, and was spoken with so sweet
a dignity, that Theseus would have blushed to urge her any longer.
Nothing remained for him, therefore, but to bid Ariadne an
affectionate farewell, and go on board the vessel and set sail.
In a few moments the white foam was boiling up before their prow, as
Prince Theseus and his companions sailed out of the harbor, with a
whistling breeze behind them.
On the homeward voyage the fourteen youths and damsels were in
excellent spirits, as you will easily suppose. They spent most of
their time in dancing, unless when the sidelong breeze made the deck
slope too much. In due season they came within sight of the coast of
Attica, which was their native country. But here, I am grieved to tell
you, happened a sad misfortune.
You will remember (what Theseus unfortunately forgot) that his father,
King Ægeus, had enjoined it upon him to hoist sunshiny sails, instead
of black ones, in case he should overcome the Minotaur, and return
victorious. In the joy of their success, however, and amidst the
sports, dancing, and other merriment with which these young folks wore
away the time, they never once thought whether their sails were black,
white, or rainbow colored, and, indeed, left it entirely to the
mariners whether they had any sails at all. Thus the vessel returned,
like a raven, with the same sable wings that had wafted her away. But
poor King Ægeus, day after day, infirm as he was, had clambered to the
summit of a cliff that overhung the sea, and there sat watching for
Prince Theseus, homeward bound; and no sooner did he behold the fatal
blackness of the sails, than he concluded that his dear son, whom he
loved so much, and felt so proud of, had been eaten by the Minotaur.
He could not bear the thought of living any longer; so, first flinging
his crown and scepter into the sea (useless baubles that they were to
him now!) King Ægeus, merely stooped forward, and fell headlong over
the cliff, and was drowned, poor soul, in the waves that foamed at its
base!
This was melancholy news for Prince Theseus, who, when he stepped
ashore, found himself king of all the country, whether he would or no;
and such a turn of fortune was enough to make any young man feel very
much out of spirits. However, he sent for his dear mother to Athens,
and, by taking her advice in matters of state, became a very excellent
monarch, and was greatly beloved by his people.
PARIS AND OENONE
BY V. C. TURNBULL
"Mournful Oenone, wandering forlorn
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills."
TENNYSON: _Oenone_.
Queen Hecuba, wife of Priam, King of Troy, dreamed an evil dream. For
in her sleep she thought one came to her and said: "Behold, thou shalt
bring forth a torch which shall set thy palace afire."
Not many days afterwards, therefore, when the Queen bore a son, Priam,
to whom she had told her dream, ordered his slaves to destroy the
child. But before his cruel order could be carried out, Hecuba
contrived to steal away the babe and place it with certain
shepherds--kindly folk, who cared for it as their own child--on Mount
Ida, over against the city of Troy. And they called the child Paris.
Now Paris, though reared among rude shepherd folk, soon showed that
royal blood ran in his veins, and he won great praise from the
shepherds for his skill in tending the sheep upon the mountain, and
for the daring with which he pursued and slew the wild beasts who
sought to devour them.
So Paris grew to man's estate, and in all the land was none fairer
than he, or more gracious withal. No marvel, then, that the mountain
maid Oenone, whose home was in the vale of Ida, should be smitten by
his beauty; and he loving her with equal warmth, they were wedded and
lived together in that pleasant land with the happiness of simple
folk.
Together they shared the pleasures of the chase, and Oenone was not
less skilled than Paris in cheering on the hounds and in spreading the
nets. In quieter moods they would wander together by the river or in
the woods, and Paris would carve their names upon the gray boles of
the beeches. And on one poplar that grew on the banks of the river
Xanthus, he carved these words:
"Back to its source thy stream shall start,
Ere Paris from Oenone part."
But even then the gods were preparing a bitter sorrow for Paris, for
Oenone, and for countless generations of mortals otherwhere.
Across the sea, in Thessaly, a great feast was being held to celebrate
the wedding of Peleus and Thetis. And because the bride was no maiden
born of woman, but an immortal Nereid, all the gods and goddesses were
bidden to the banquet. All were bidden save one, Eris by name, the
Goddess of Strife, most hateful of the immortals. So she, full of rage
at the slight, cast on the board where all the guests were feasting a
golden apple bearing the legend _To the Fairest_.
Then ensued, as Eris had intended, great strife among the goddesses,
and, in especial, Juno, Minerva, and Venus claimed each the golden
fruit. So the gods, not willing themselves to settle the dispute, bade
the three goddesses betake themselves to Mount Ida, there to seek the
judgment of Paris and to abide by his decision.
So on a day before the lowly bower of Paris and Oenone stood the three
great goddesses. Naked they came, clad in celestial radiance, as with
a garment, and at their feet violets and crocuses pushed upward
through the grass, and hovering round them were the peacock of Juno,
the owl of Minerva, and the doves of Venus.
Then when Paris faltered, not knowing which to choose when all were so
fair, Juno, Queen of Heaven, said: "Choose me, and I will give thee
the kingdoms of the world."
Then Minerva, the wise Virgin goddess, said: "Choose me, and I will
give thee wisdom."
Last of all, Venus, the sea-born Goddess of Love, whispered: "Choose
me, and I will give thee to wife the fairest woman in Greece."
Smiling, she stretched forth her hand and the golden apple was hers,
and the three goddesses vanished in a cloud, and with them vanished
all happiness from the heart of Oenone.