among his sons and other princes, promising to the winner the finest
bull on the pastures of Mount Ida. And Paris, grieving to see the bull
driven off by the messengers of Priam, determined that he too would
strive with the sons of Priam, whom as yet he knew not for his
brothers.
So on the day fixed for the contests, Paris strove with Priam's sons
Polites, Helenus, and Deiphobus, and with other princes, and worsted
them all. Yea, and he strove also with the strongest of the king's
sons, great Hector himself, and for him too was he a match. But
Hector, enraged, turned and pursued Paris as he would kill him, so
that Paris fled to the temple of Jupiter for refuge. In this temple he
was met by Cassandra, the daughter of Priam, to whom Apollo had
granted knowledge of things to come. And marking in Paris the very
mold and features of her own brothers, she drew from him all he knew
of his story. So, adding thereto of her own knowledge, Cassandra knew
that this was indeed her brother who was put away while a baby, and
taking him by the hand she led him back to the household of Priam and
Hecuba, bidding all embrace their brother and son. Then Priam and
Hecuba and all their sons very gladly took Paris to their hearts, for
they forgot the dismal prophecy of his birth, noting only his modest
courtesy, his beauty, and his strength.
Paris, therefore, remained a while in the royal household, and all
made him great cheer. Yet was he not wholly happy in the palace of
Priam. Not, alas! that his thoughts turned often to Oenone whom he had
left on Mount Ida, but evermore there sounded in his ears the low
voice of Venus, saying: "The fairest woman in Greece shall be thy
wife."
And Paris would muse, saying to himself: "Helen, wife of Menelaus,
King of Sparta, is the fairest of all the daughters of men. All the
princes of Greece sought her hand in marriage, and when those who have
seen her try to tell of her beauty, speech fails them, for she is more
fair than man can tell or poet can sing."
Then, pursuing his thought, he would ponder: "Am not I, Paris, no more
a shepherd on Mount Ida, but now a prince in a royal palace and son of
the King of Troy? Surely the word that Venus spake will yet be
fulfilled!"
Now Priam's sister, Hesione, had been carried off and wedded against
her will, and this thing was a bitterness to Priam. So Paris,
perceiving this, set himself and his fellows to build and man a fleet,
declaring that he would bring back Hesione, but thinking in his heart
not of Hesione, but of Helen. To obtain wood for his ships he
returned to Mount Ida to cut down the tallest pines that crowned the
craggy ledges where the winds of the sea sighed through the branches,
as it were, indeed, the soughing of another sea through the melancholy
tree-tops.
Oenone received her lord with gladness on his return; but when she
knew that his thought was but to fashion ships for a voyage, the
spirit of prophecy came upon her, and she cried to him, as one
inspired: "A bitter thing is this that thou doest, O Paris, my
husband! For behold, thou farest to Greece to fetch hither the ruin of
thy country and thy kindred. Yea, and to me shalt thou come at the
last, stricken unto death, beseeching the aid of my leechcraft...." At
this place the gift failed her as suddenly as it had come, and she
fell to weeping.
But Paris, kissing her, bade her put away her fears and look out over
the sea for his return. And when he had fashioned his ships and rigged
them with tall masts and calked them with pitch, he set sail across
the seas, leaving Oenone to watch for his homeward sails.
Many days did she sit upon a cliff that overlooked the blue waters,
watching for the ship's return. One night, as in a vision, she saw, or
seemed to see, a white sail on the marge, and it sped before the wind
and passed close beneath the cliff where she stood at gaze. And as she
looked down, her heart turned sick within her; for on the deck stood a
lady. A daughter of the gods she seemed, divinely fair, and her arms
were round the neck of Paris, while her head lay upon his breast. And
Oenone saw Paris spring to shore bearing this lady in his arms; she
saw him lead her to the city of Troy; she saw the gates flung open
and all the people come forth to meet the pair; and she knew that this
was Helen, the fairest of women, who had fled with Paris from
Menelaus, her husband. She knew, too, that she, Oenone, would be left
lonely till she died.
* * * * *
Now followed that great siege of Troy of which poets will sing till
the end of time. For Menelaus, the husband of Helen, and his brother
Agamemnon, the great general, stirred up all the princes of Greece who
had been the suitors of Helen and, on her marriage with Menelaus, had
bound themselves in a solemn league to protect her from all manner of
violence. So all the princes and captains of Greece came with a great
host and many ships, and laid siege to Troy; and many battles were
fought upon the plains outside the city walls. And to Oenone,
wandering widowed upon Mount Ida, the sound of the strife rolled up,
and from afar she perceived the confused struggle of chariots and
horses and men; but she heard and saw these things as one who marked
them not, for it was as if her heart had died, and her life had ended.
* * * * *
Now when the war had lasted for a space of years, Paris, although
constantly protected by the goddess Venus, received a wound from the
poisoned arrow of one Philoctetes. Then in his anguish he remembered
his deserted Oenone, and her great skill at leechcraft, and he said to
his attendants: "Carry me out of the city to Mount Ida, that I may
look once more on the face of my wife Oenone, and beseech her pardon
for the great wrong she has endured at my hands. And haply, when she
seeth my grievous state, her pitiful heart will be moved with
compassion, and she will heal me with her leechcraft, for naught else
may avail."
So they carried Paris in a litter up the slopes of Mount Ida. And
Oenone, seeing them approach, went down swiftly to meet them. And
Paris, when he saw her coming, stretched out his arms a little and let
them fall, for they were very weak; and Oenone, uttering a lamentable
cry, like a bird who sees her nestling slain, flew to meet his
embrace. But in that moment Paris had breathed his last. The eyes,
once so bright, were fixed in a stony stare, and the dews of death
were on that marble brow. Then Oenone, forgetting all the wrongs she
had suffered, remembering only the morning light of happy marriage and
that he had come back to her at the last, fell down upon his breast
embracing him and bathing him with her tears. Then, crying aloud with
a great and exceeding bitter cry, she plucked a dagger from her girdle
and plunged it into her heart, falling dead upon the breast which had
pillowed her head in other years. So died Oenone, faithful to the
faithless, the most innocent of all who perished for the sin of Paris,
the son of Priam.
IPHIGENIA
BY MRS. GUY E. LLOYD
Menelaus, brother of the King of Mycenæ, had for his wife the most
beautiful woman in the world, whose name was Helen; but she was stolen
from him by a treacherous guest, Paris, the son of Priam, King of
Troy, who carried her away with him to his home far over the sea.
Then Menelaus, in his anger and sorrow, asked all his friends to help
him to bring back his wife, and to punish his treacherous guest, and
all the chieftains of Greece came to his aid, for Troy was a wondrous
strong city, and its walls had been built by Neptune, the god of the
sea.
Foremost of all the chieftains was Agamemnon, King of Mycenæ, the
elder brother of Menelaus; he was chosen to be the head of the whole
array, and under him served Ulysses, the wise king of Ithaca, and
Achilles, chief of the Myrmidons, whom no weapon could wound save in
the heel; and many more of fame throughout the whole world.
The fleet came together at Aulis in the land of Boeotia; all were
ready and eager to fare forth over the sea and fight against Troy; and
a goodly sight it was to see the brass-beaked vessels and the brave
warriors who crowded thick upon them.
But day after day passed by and the fleet lay still in harbor, for no
breeze came to fill the sails. And all the chieftains were
dumfounded, for their valor was of no avail, and their hearts were
heavy within them; for they knew not wherefore their ships lay thus
becalmed, and they feared lest the immortal gods did not will that
Troy should fall.
At last they sent for Calchas, the wise seer, and asked if he could
tell them the will of the gods.
And Calchas made answer: "The winds are withheld from you, O
chieftains, by the will of Diana, the huntress of the woods. For King
Agamemnon, once on a day, slew a stag within her sacred grove, and
ever since she has hated him sore, and therefore she will not let you
sail till her anger is appeased by rich offerings."
Then said King Agamemnon; "Since mine is the blame, let the expiation
be mine also. Speak, Calchas: what offering will content the goddess,
that the winds may come forth from their prison-house and our ships
spread their sails and fare over the sea to Troy?"
All hearkened eagerly, for the face of Calchas was dark and terrible,
so that every man feared to hear his answer.
"The goddess asks of thee the best and most beautiful of all that is
thine," said the stern seer; "she asks the life of thy daughter
Iphigenia."
A shudder ran through all who heard the fearful words. Menelaus, with
a cry of sorrow and terror, came close to his brother and laid his
hand on his arm, and Agamemnon the king stood in a tumult of agony,
speaking no word for some little space.
At length the chieftain looked round upon his comrades, saying: "A
hard fate is upon me, ye leaders of the Greeks. For either I must shed
blood that is dearer to me than my own, or else our great array must
lie here idle till the ships are rotten or the captains desert and
leave us stranded."
Then said Menelaus to Calchas: "Is there no other way? Cannot the
great goddess be appeased without this innocent victim?"
And Calchas made answer: "There is no other way."
Agamemnon, with bowed head, climbed slowly to his tent upon the
hillside, and the rumor ran quickly through the camp that the wrath of
Diana could only be turned away by the death of the fair and innocent
maiden Iphigenia, the daughter of the king.
Then Agamemnon despatched a guileful message to his wife Clytemnestra,
praying her to send their daughter Iphigenia quickly to Aulis, since
Achilles, the noble chief of the Myrmidons, had asked leave to wed the
maiden, and it must be done in haste, for the fleet was on the point
of sailing.
When Clytemnestra heard her husband's message she was glad at heart,
for the fame of Achilles was great, and he was brave and strong and
beautiful as the immortal gods.
In haste was the maiden decked for her wedding and sent with the
messengers of Agamemnon to the camp at Aulis.
And as Iphigenia was led into the camp she marveled greatly, for all
who looked upon her were filled with pity, and cold fear touched the
heart of the maiden as she passed through the silent and sorrowful
host. The warriors were moved at the sight of her youth and innocence;
but no man strove to save her from her fate, for without her death all
their gathering together would be for naught. Within the tent of
Agamemnon the stern seer Calchas awaited the destined victim. All was
prepared for the sacrifice, and Agamemnon and Menelaus already stood
by the altar. In haste was the maiden decked out--not for her bridal,
but for her death.
Then they led her forth into the sunshine again, and she looked round
upon the hillside and the blue sea where lay the idle ships; and when
she saw her father standing by the altar she would have cried out to
him and begged for mercy, but those who led her laid their hands upon
her mouth. The poor child tried to win from her father one pitying
glance, but Agamemnon hid his face in his mantle; he could not look
upon the face of the child who was to be slain to expiate his sin. So
there was no help for the beautiful and innocent maiden, and she was
led to her death. But so great was the ruth of the Greeks that no man
save the stern Calchas dared witness the terrible deed; and because
they could not bear to believe afterwards that the maiden had indeed
been slain there upon the altar, the tale went forth that at the last
moment Diana had laid a hart upon the altar and had borne the maiden
safely away to Tauris.
But in truth the cruel sacrifice was completed, and even as the flame
leapt up on the altar the tree-tops swung and swayed, and ripples
coursed over the glassy surface of the sea; the breeze for which the
host had waited so long had been set free, and the warriors joyfully
hoisted their sails and stood out of the harbor of Aulis on their way
to the siege of Troy.
But now was Diana well avenged for Agamemnon's profanation of her
grove. For, from the innocent blood of Iphigenia, uprose an avenger,
destined to follow King Agamemnon and all his family till the dark
deed had been expiated.
Long and grievous was the warfare before the walls of Troy; and it
was not till the tenth year after his setting forth that tidings came
that King Agamemnon was on his way home. All through those years his
wife had nourished the hope of vengeance in her heart, both for the
death of Iphigenia and for the falsehood that had made her send the
maiden to the camp. So the king came home only to his grave. His wife
received him with gracious words and with every sign of rejoicing; but
ere night fell Agamemnon lay slain in his bath, where the dagger of
Clytemnestra had smitten him down.
Next the Avenger of Blood put into the heart of Orestes, son of
Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, a great hatred for the mother who had
slain his father. He was far from home when the cruel deed was done,
and it was long ere he returned; but when at last he came he smote his
own mother and slew her.
After this deed of awe and terror the Avenger of Blood pursued
Orestes, and drove him, a branded outlaw, from land to land. At length
he fled to the sanctuary of the great goddess Minerva, and was at last
permitted to expiate his guilt.
He had to seek a piece of land that was not made when he killed his
mother, so he went to the mouth of a river where fresh soil was being
formed by the sand that was brought down by the rushing flood. And
here he was allowed to purify himself, and the Avenger of Blood left
him, at last, at peace.
PROTESILAUS
BY MRS. GUY E. LLOYD
Protesilaus, King of Thessaly, was a happy and a fortunate man. A
beautiful and fertile kingdom was his, left to him by his father, the
fleet-footed Iphicles, and his wife Laodamia, a fair and gracious
queen, was very dear to his heart.
But the call of honor came, and all Greece was arming to revenge upon
the false Paris the wrong he had done to his host Menelaus in carrying
off his wife, the beauteous Helen. Then Protesilaus donned his armor
with the rest, and forty goodly vessels sailed from the coast of
Thessaly, and joined the assembled fleet of the Greeks at Aulis in
Boeotia.
Sad was the parting with the fair Queen Laodamia, and many bitter
tears she wept when her husband's ships had sailed away and she was
left alone. Her whole life was bound up in him, and when he was gone
everything that was left to her seemed empty and worthless. Often
would she climb the rocks and look forth over the sun-lit waters for
hours dreaming and dreaming of the day when Protesilaus should come
back to her again to reign over his people in peace and safety.
For many days the Greek ships lay wind-bound at Aulis, because their
leader, King Agamemnon, had offended the great goddess Diana. At
length (as the preceding story told) he was forced to expiate his
guilt by the sacrifice of his innocent daughter Iphigenia. As soon as
the offering was completed the goddess, appeased, let loose the
imprisoned winds, and the great fleet set sail for Troy.
Most of the warriors on those bounding ships were eager and happy;
their waiting was over, the delight of battle was close before them.
But Protesilaus was silent and thoughtful; he would stand for hours on
the deck of his vessel looking down upon the lines of foam that it
left in its wake, and ever his thoughts were the same.
He was not mourning for his beloved wife, nor for the happy home he
had left. He was not sad to think of all the perils and hardships that
awaited the Greeks at Troy. He was thinking and thinking of the words
spoken by the oracle of Apollo at Delphi. The first man to leap
ashore, so the oracle had said, should be slain; and even as he had
first heard the stern sentence the heart of Protesilaus had beat high
with the determination that he himself would be that man. He would
crowd all sail on his swift ship, and waiting on the prow would spring
on shore through the breakers, and so fulfil the will of the gods.
All through the voyage this one thought filled the mind of
Protesilaus. He grieved, it is true, that he should never again see
his dearly loved wife, Laodamia, nor the beautiful palace they had
been building for themselves, wherein they had hoped to be happy
together for many years, after the war was over. And sometimes a
passionate regret would overcome the warrior when he remembered that
the war must all be fought out without his having any share in the
famous battles that were before his comrades. His brother would lead
the men of Thessaly to the strife, and would return with them in
triumph to their homes when, as Calchas had foretold, in the tenth
year the city of King Priam should fall.
So, undaunted in courage, steadfast in resolution though sad at heart,
Protesilaus sailed on to his chosen fate, and even the immortal gods
were stirred with wonder and admiration when they saw his ship shoot
forth before all the rest as soon as the land of Troy came in sight.
Tall and stately on the prow stood the figure of Protesilaus, clad in
glittering armor, and with sword and spear and shield all ready for
the combat. The helmsman steered straight for a little sandy spit that
rose from the water's edge, and Protesilaus sprang ashore long before
the rest of the Greek array had neared the Trojan strand. Then the
words of the oracle were fulfilled. Some say it was the spear of
Hector, some that of Æneas that struck the hero down. Foremost of all
the mighty army of King Agamemnon he fell, honored and mourned by all
his comrades.
Queen Laodamia waited impatiently in the peaceful land of Thessaly,
longing for tidings from her lord. She had heard of the long waiting
at Aulis, she shuddered when the words of Calchas were repeated to
her; in sight of all the host a serpent devoured first nine sucklings
and then the mother sow, and when Calchas saw it he said that this was
a sign that in the tenth year the city of Priam should fall before the
attacks of the Greeks.
Ten years seemed a long, long time to the eager queen before she
should see her dear lord home again. She would wake up suddenly in the
night, and stare into the darkness, thinking with terror of the months
and months of hopeless waiting that lay before her.
Then tidings came to Thessaly of the sailing of the fleet, and as men
told over the names of the mighty heroes who had gone forth to fight
with Agamemnon, they forgot the words of the wise seer Calchas, and
hoped that this brave array must soon return in triumph.
Not many weeks later Laodamia was seated at her loom weaving a robe
for her warrior to wear on his return in triumph when there came to
her, white and trembling, her favorite of all her maidens.
The queen looked up in alarm. "What ails thee, child?" she asked. "Why
dost thou stand there pale and silent? Is aught amiss?"
The maiden tried in vain to frame words to answer. Covering her face
with her hands she sank upon her knees and burst into tears.
And the queen, with a great terror at her heart, went forth into a
house full of tears and lamentations, for the tidings had come, over
the sea, of the death of the noble Protesilaus.
Then Laodamia went back into her inner chamber, and covering her head
she flung herself prone upon the ground, and lay there all through the
day, while her maidens wept and wailed without the door, and none
dared enter or attempt to comfort her.
But at nightfall the queen arose, and passing from her chamber to the
temple, she begged the priest to instruct her what sacrifice to offer
to the gods of the world of spirits, that they might allow her but
once more to look upon her lord.
Then the priest prepared in haste the sevenfold offering due to the
great gods of the under-world, and told her the vows and prayers that
she must offer, and then left her alone in the temple.
Then, standing erect and stretching her suppliant hands towards the
heavens, the queen flung her whole soul into the impassioned entreaty
that she might see her dear lord once again.
No door opened, no curtain was lifted, but on a sudden two forms
appeared before the startled suppliant. One she saw at once, by his
winged helmet and his rod encircled by snakes, must be the swift
messenger of the gods, Mercury; the other, she recognized with a
thrill of terror and joy, was the husband for a sight of whom she had
just been praying so earnestly.
Then Mercury touched Laodamia with his rod, and at the touch all her
fear fell from her at once.
"Great Jupiter has heard thy prayer," said Mercury. "Behold, thy
husband is with thee once more, and he shall tarry with thee for the
space of three hours."
Having thus spoken Mercury vanished from sight, and Protesilaus and
Laodamia stood alone together.
Then the queen sprang forward and tried to fling her arms round her
dear husband; but though he stood there before her in form and
features unchanged, it was but the ghost of her lost lord. Thrice she
essayed to embrace him, and thrice her arms clasped nothing but the
empty air.
Then she cried out in anguish: "Alas! have the gods mocked me after
all? Is this not Protesilaus, then, who seems to stand before me?"
Then the shade of the warrior made answer: "Nay, dear wife, the gods
do not mock thee, and it is indeed Protesilaus who stands before thee.
Yet am I no living man; for the oracle had foretold that the first of
the Greek host to leap ashore should be slain; therefore, seeing that
the immortal gods asked a life, I gave them mine, and steering to the
shore before all the other ships, I sprang on land the first of all
the host, and fell, slain by the spear of the enemy."
Then the queen made answer: "Noblest and best of warriors! even the
gods are filled with admiration for thy courage, for they have allowed
thee to come back to thy wife and to thy home. Surely they will go on
to give thee even a greater gift. As I look upon thee I see no change
in thee; thou art fair and young as when we said farewell. Doubtless
the gods will give thee back to me wholly again, and naught shall ever
more divide us."
But even as she spoke the queen shrank back in dread, for the face of
the vision changed and became like that of a dead man, while
Protesilaus made answer: "Short is my sojourn upon earth, soon must I
leave thee again. But be brave and wise, dear love; give not thy whole
life over unto mourning, but be patient; and though I must pass from
thee now, some day we shall meet once more; and though our earthly
love is ended, yet may we joy for ever in faithful companionship one
with another."
"Ah! wherefore shouldst thou leave me?" cried the queen; "the gods
have already wrought wonders, why should they not give thee back thy
life? If thou goest from me again, I will follow thee, for I cannot
stay alone."
Then Protesilaus tried to soothe and calm his wife, that she might
give up the vain hope of living again together as they once had done,
and might look forward instead to a pure and happy life beyond the
grave. The gods had already given her much, he said, and she ought to
strive to be worthy of their mercy, and by her courage and
self-control win for herself eternal peace.
While her husband was speaking his face lost its ghastly look, and he
seemed even more beautiful and gracious than when he was alive. And
Laodamia watched him, and was calmed and cheered at the sight; but she
hardly marked his words, so sure was she that the gods would relent
when the end of the three hours was come, and would allow him to stay
with her once more a living man.
But even while the hero urged his wife to be patient and courageous,
even while she looked for the gods to restore him to her, lo! the
three hours were past, and Mercury stood once more within the temple.