a great train of gallant knights and trusty squires and ladies of the
court. As he sat proudly in his high place, dressed in rich and beautiful
robes, he thought not so much of the service as of his own importance and
state. Not only was he a king himself, but he was brother to the Pope and
to Valmond, Emperor of Germany.
Presently his attention was attracted by the chant that the priests were
singing. It was the Magnificat. Over and over again they repeated the
words,
“_Deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit humiles._”
King Robert had heard the chant many times before, but now he found
himself wondering what this particular phrase meant. A learned man was at
his side, and the king spoke to him.
“What do those words mean?” he asked.
“He has put down the mighty from their seat,
And has exalted them of low degree,”
replied the scholar.
“It is well that such words are sung in Latin and only by the priests,”
muttered King Robert, scornfully. “Be it known to both priests and
people that there is no power that can push me from my throne.”
He leaned back in his seat yawning and soon fell asleep, lulled by the
monotonous chant.
Now, it was St. John’s eve and on that day strange and unlooked for
things happen. When King Robert awoke from his nap it was night and he
was alone in the church. The service was over and the priests and every
one else except himself had gone. The great building was dark but for the
little lamps which were kept burning constantly before the images of the
saints.
King Robert started from his seat and looked around in amazement. All
was still. He groped his way down the long aisle to the door; he took
hold of the handle and tried to turn it; the door was locked. He called
and listened for an answer but none came. He knocked and he shouted, but
to no purpose. Growing angrier every minute, he cried out threats and
complaints and the sound of his own voice came back to him echoing from
the roofs and the walls. It was as though he were being mocked by unseen
hearers.
After what seemed a long time, the knocking and the shouting brought
the sexton to the church door. He came with his lantern suspecting that
thieves were in the church.
“Who is there?” he called.
“Open the door at once,” commanded the king, who was almost beside
himself with rage. “It is I, the king.”
The sexton trembled and waited to hear more before putting the great key
in the lock. He thought that there must be a madman within.
“Art thou afraid?” cried the king.
“It is a drunken vagabond,” muttered the old man and, turning the key, he
flung the door wide open.
A figure leaped past him in the darkness. It was King Robert, but the
sexton did not dream of that for the figure was half-naked and forlorn.
The king’s gorgeous robes had disappeared, his hat and his cloak were
gone and he did not look like himself at all. Without a word or a look at
the sexton he sped down the street.
Bare-headed and breathless and splashed with mud, Robert of Sicily,
brother of Pope Urbane and of Valmond, Emperor of Germany, reached his
palace gate—the gate that he had entered in triumph so many times.
He thundered for admittance, boiling with rage and half-mad with an
overpowering sense of his wrongs. Through the gate he rushed and across
the courtyard, thrusting aside every one who stood in his way, upsetting
pages, and overwhelming guards. Past them all and up the broad stairway
he hurried and then sped through the long halls. He paid no attention to
the calls and the cries which pursued him, and did not pause until he
reached the banquet room.
There on a dais sat another king wearing Robert’s robes, his crown and
his signet-ring. His features were like Robert’s and so was his form, but
he possessed a majesty and an exalted look which the real king lacked.
The room, always well lighted, shone with an unusual brilliancy and the
atmosphere was full of fragrance.
An Angel had taken the place of the king, and although no one was
conscious of the change every one present vaguely felt the improvement.
Robert stood speechless before the miracle. Then his surprise gave way to
anger at seeing another in his place. The Angel spoke first.
“Who art thou, and why comest thou here?” he asked benignly, meeting
Robert’s threatening look with one of almost divine compassion.
“I am the king,” answered Robert indignantly, “and I have come to claim
my throne from the impostor who is on it.”
As he stood before the Angel, Robert did not look at all royal, and his
clothing made such a difference in his appearance that the courtiers did
not notice even a resemblance to their king, and took him for a stranger.
At his bold words they sprang angrily from their seats and drew their
swords to put him to death for his insolence.
The Angel was unmoved. He signed to the courtiers to sheath the weapons
that they had drawn in his defense.
“No, thou art not the king,” he said to Robert. “Thou art the king’s
jester and henceforth thou shalt wear bells and cap and a scalloped cape
and lead a monkey about by a string. Thou shalt obey my servants and wait
on my men.”
In those days every king kept a jester or a fool whose duty it was to
amuse his master and the court. Often the jester was not quite right
in his mind and for that reason said odd things which would not have
occurred to entirely sane people, and he was allowed to make speeches
which would have been rebuked if they had come from others. Thus the
Angel treated Robert’s claim as a jest.
The attendants were delighted with the new joke. Paying no attention
except laughter to Robert’s cries and explanations, they thrust him from
the banquet hall and down the stairs. A crowd of pages ran before him
throwing the doors wide open with mock ceremony, while the boisterous
men-at-arms shouted “Long live the King” with noisy glee.
How he got through the evening King Robert hardly knew. He was so tired
when he was shown at last to his comfortless straw bed that he slept
better than he had done many a night on his royal couch.
The next morning he awoke with the day.
“What a curious dream I have had,” he exclaimed sleepily.
But it was no dream. Straw rustled as he turned his head and by his side
were the cap and bells which he was to put on. His room was bare, its
walls were discolored, and presently he heard horses stamping in their
near-by stalls. He was in a stable. The monkey was there, too; King
Robert saw the horrid thing grinning and chattering in a corner. His past
life seemed far away. He had to begin to live again, this time the butt
and the jest of the palace.
Days came and went, and the Angel still sat on the throne. The island of
Sicily prospered under his reign. The crops were good, the vintage was
abundant and the people were happy.
King Robert yielded to fate, but he did not yield willingly. He became
sullen and silent and was a sorry jester in spite of his gay dress and
his jingling bells and the chattering monkey. The courtiers mocked him in
innumerable ways and the nimble pages played pranks on him; he had to be
content with scraps from the tables of his masters, and the monkey was
his only friend.
Sometimes the Angel asked him, as though in jest, “Art thou the king?”
and Robert, still defiant, replied haughtily, “I am, I am the king!”
Almost three years passed. Then messengers came from Valmond, Emperor of
Germany, to tell King Robert that their brother, Pope Urbane, summoned
him to come on Holy Thursday to his city, Rome. The Angel welcomed the
ambassadors with fitting ceremony, and gave them magnificent presents,
embroidered vests, velvet mantles, rare jewels and costly rings. Not only
were his guests messengers from the great Valmond but they were mighty
nobles.
As soon as he could get ready the Angel went with the ambassadors and
a mighty train of followers over the sea to Italy. As the procession
travelled along crowds gathered to watch its progress. Never had there
been seen a more gorgeous assembly. The Angel and his courtiers and the
ambassadors were dressed in splendid garments with gold and gems and
laces and embroideries and velvets and satins and nodding plumes, each
one according to his state, and their horses were resplendent with
gold and silver and jeweled bridles. After them rode the servants, less
fine but equally gay, and among the lowliest of these was poor Robert
riding in mock state on an awkward piebald pony. As the ridiculous steed
shambled along, his rider’s cloak of fox-tails flapped in the wind and
his bells jingled. The king was very unhappy and his face showed it, but
it was only a joke for a jester to look disconsolate and people were no
more sorry for him than for the solemn monkey who perched demurely by his
side and aped his ways. In all the country towns through which they went
the gaping crowds stared at them and laughed.
The Pope received the Angel and the emperor with pomp. Trumpets sounded
a welcome and banners waved joyously, as they met on St. Peter’s square.
The Pope embraced and blessed his brothers, as he thought, for even
he did not know that he was entertaining an Angel. While prayers and
rejoicing were at their height Robert the jester burst through the crowd
and rushed into the presence of the Pope and his guests.
“I am the king,” he cried, addressing the Pope, “look and behold in me
Robert, your brother, King of Sicily. That man who looks like me and
wears my robes and my crown is an impostor. Do you not know me? Does
nothing tell you that we are akin?”
Robert was desperate. This seemed his last chance of regaining his
rights. He was appealing to the highest authority in the world.
The Pope looked troubled. He turned silently from Robert to the Angel
with searching glances. The Angel met his scrutiny with perfect serenity.
Valmond only laughed.
“It is strange sport to have a madman for thy jester,” he said to the
Angel, whom he believed to be his brother.
The baffled jester was hustled back into the crowd. He was in disgrace
and suffered punishment for his untimely joke.
Holy Week went by in solemn state, and Easter Sunday came. On that
blessed morning the city was radiant with light even before the sun rose.
The Angel’s presence made Rome bright, and filled men’s hearts with love
and goodness. They felt as though Christ had indeed risen from the dead
and were ready to devote themselves to him with fresh zeal. Even the
jester, as he opened his eyes to the marvelous light felt within his
heart a power that he had never felt before. What mattered it that his
bed was straw? He fell on his knees beside it and prayed to the risen
Christ.
When the visit was ended Valmond returned to Germany and the Angel and
his train once more flashed along the towns of Italy and then set sail
for Sicily. When they reached home the Angel occupied the throne as
before. Robert could not understand it but he was humbled and no longer
felt angry and bitter.
One evening when the convent bells were ringing for prayer the Angel
beckoned to Robert to draw near and signed to the attendants to leave the
room. When they were alone the Angel turned to Robert and asked with
less sternness than ever before, “Art thou the king?”
King Robert bowed his head meekly and crossed his hands upon his breast.
“Thou knowest best,” he said. “I have sinned. Let me go away from here
and spend the rest of my days in a convent cell. There, kneeling on
stones, I will beg heaven to forgive my pride.”
The Angel smiled and the place was filled with a heavenly light. At the
same moment through the open windows came the chant of the monks:
“He has put down the mighty from their seat
And has exalted them of low degree.”
King Robert understood it at last. Then above the measured tones of the
singers rose another voice, one of heavenly sweetness. It said:
“I am an Angel, thou art the king.”
The king lifted his eyes. He was alone. No longer was he dressed in the
motley attire of a jester, but he was in royal robes such as he used to
wear, in velvet and ermine and cloth of gold.
When the courtiers came back to the room they found their king on his
knees, absorbed in silent prayer.
THE RIDDLE OF THE SPHINX
By Elsie Finnimore Buckley
Long ago, in the city of Thebes, there ruled a king named Laius and
his queen Iocasta. They were children of the gods, and Thebes itself,
men said, had been built by hands more than mortal; for Apollo had led
Cadmus the Phœnician, the son of Zeus, to the sacred spot where he was
to raise the citadel of Thebes, and Pallas Athene had help him to slay
the monstrous dragon that guarded the sacred spring of Ares. The teeth of
the dragon Cadmus took and planted in the plain of Thebes, and from this
seed there sprang up a great host of armed men, who would have slain him;
but he took a stone and cast it in their midst, whereupon the serpent men
turned their arms one against another, fighting up and down the plain
till only five were left. With the help of these five, Cadmus built the
citadel of Thebes, and round it made a wall so wide that a dozen men and
more might walk upon it, and so huge were the stones and so strong was
the masonry that parts of it are standing to this day.
As for the city itself, the tale goes that Amphion, the mightiest of all
musicians, came with his lyre, and so sweetly did he play that the hearts
of the very stones were stirred within them, so that of their own free
will they fell into their places, and the town of Thebes rose up beneath
the shadow of the citadel.
For many a long day did Laius and Iocasta rule over the people of Thebes,
and all that time they had no children; for a dreadful curse lay on the
head of Laius that, if ever he had a son, by that son’s hand he should
die. At last a boy was born to them, and Laius, remembering the curse,
swore that the child should never grow to manhood, and he bade Iocasta
slay him forthwith. But she, being his mother, was filled with a great
love and pity for the helpless child. When it nestled in her arms and
clung to her breast she could not find it in her heart to slay it, and
she wept over it many a bitter salt tear, and pressed it closer to her
bosom.
So she called a trusty house slave, who knew the king’s decree, and
placing the child in his arms, she said: “Go, take it away, and hide it
in the hills. Perchance the gods will have pity on it, and put it in the
heart of some shepherd, who feeds his flocks on distant pastures, to take
the child home to his cot and rear it. Farewell, my pretty babe. The
green grass must be thy cradle, and the mountain breezes must lull thee
to sleep. May the gods in their mercy bless thy childhood’s hours, and
make thy name famous among men; for thou art a king’s son, and a child of
the Immortals, and the Immortals forget not those that are born of their
blood.”
So the man took the child from Iocasta; but, because he feared the king’s
decree, he pierced its ankles and bound them together, for he thought:
“Surely, even if some shepherd wandering on the mountainside should
light upon the child, he will never rear one so maimed; and if the king
should ask, I will say that he is dead.”
But because the child wept for the pain in its ankles, he took it home
first to his wife to be fed and comforted, and when she gave it back into
his arms, it smiled up into his face. Then all the hardness died out of
his heart, for the gods had shed about it a grace to kindle love in the
coldest breast.
Now Cithæron lies midway between Thebes and Corinth, and in winter-time
the snow lies deep upon the summit, and the wild winds shriek through
the rocks and clefts, and the pine trees pitch and bend beneath the fury
of the blast, so that men called it the home of the Furies, the awful
goddesses, who track out sin and murder. And there, too, in the streams
and caverns, dwell the naiads and the nymphs, wild spirits of the rocks
and waters, and if any mortal trespass on their haunts, they drive him to
madness in their echoing grottoes and gloomy caves. Yet, for all that,
though men called it dark Cithæron, the grass about its feet grew fine
and green, so that the shepherds came from all the neighboring towns to
pasture their flocks on its well-watered slopes. Here it was that Laius’s
herdsman fell in with a herdsman of Polybus, King of Corinth, and, seeing
that he was a kindly man, and likely to have compassion on the child, he
gave it to him to rear.
Now, it had not pleased the gods to grant any children to Polybus, King
of Corinth, and Merope, his wife, though they wreathed their altars with
garlands and burnt sweet savor of incense; and at last all hope died out
of their hearts, and they said: “The gods are angry, and will destroy our
race, and the kingdom shall pass into the hands of a stranger.”
But one day it chanced that the queen saw in the arms of one of her women
a child she had not seen before, and she questioned her, and asked if it
were hers. And the woman confessed that her husband, the king’s herdsman,
had found it on dim Cithæron, and had taken pity on it, and brought it
home.
Then the queen looked at the child, and seeing that it was passing fair,
she said: “Surely this is no common babe, but a child of the Immortals.
His hair is golden as the summer corn, and his eyes like the stars in
heaven. What if the gods have sent him to comfort our old age, and rule
the kingdom when we are dead? I will rear him in the palace as my own
son, and he shall be a prince in the land of Corinth.”
So the child lived in the palace, and became a son of Polybus and Merope,
and heir to the kingdom. For want of a name they called him Œdipus,
because his ankles, when they found him, were all swollen by the pin that
the herdsman had put through them. As he grew up, he found favor in all
men’s eyes, for he was tall and comely and cunning withal.
“The gods are gracious,” men said, “to grant the king such a son, and the
people of Corinth so mighty a prince, to rule over them in days to come.”
For as yet they knew not that he was a foundling, and no true heir to the
throne.
Now, while the child was still young, he played about the courts of the
palace, and in running and leaping and in feats of strength and hardihood
of heart there was none to beat him among his playmates, or even to stand
up against him, save one. But so well matched were these two that the
other children would gather round them in a ring to watch them box and
wrestle, and the victor they would carry on their shoulders round the
echoing galleries with shouting and clapping of hands; and sometimes
it was Œdipus, and sometimes the other lad. But at length there came a
time when again and again Œdipus was proved the stronger, and again and
again the other slunk home beaten, like a dog that has been whipped: and
he brooded over his defeat, and nourished hatred in his heart against
Œdipus, and vowed that one day he would have his revenge by fair means or
by foul.
But when Merope the queen saw Œdipus growing tall and fair, and
surpassing all his comrades in strength, she took him up one day on
to the citadel, and showed him all the lovely land of Hellas lying at
his feet. Below them spread the shining city, with its colonnades and
fountains and stately temples of the gods, like some jewel of the golden
sands, and far away to the westward stretched the blue Corinthian Gulf.
And she showed him the hills of Arcadia, the land of song and shepherds,
where Pan plays his pipe beneath the oak trees, and nymphs and satyrs
dance all the day long. Away to the bleak northwest stood out the snowy
peaks of Mount Parnassus and Helicon, the home of the Muses, who fill
men’s minds with wisdom and their hearts with the love of all things
beautiful. Then Merope turned him to the eastward and the land of the
Dawning Day, and showed him the purple peaks of Ægina and the gleaming
Attic shore. And she said to him: “Œdipus, my son, seest thou how Corinth
lies midway ’twixt north and south and east and west, a link to join the
lands together and a barrier to separate the seas?”
And Œdipus answered: “Of a truth, mother, he who rules in Corinth hath
need of a lion’s heart, for he must stand ever sword in hand and guard
the passage from north to south.”
“Courage is a mighty thing, my son, but wisdom is mightier. The sword
layeth low, but wisdom buildeth up. Seest thou the harbors on either
side, facing east and west, and the masts of the ships, like a forest in
winter, and the traffic of sailors and merchants on the shore? From all
lands they come and bring their wares and merchandise, and men of every
nation meet together. Think not, my son, that a lion’s heart and a fool’s
head therewith can ever be a match for the wisdom of Egypt or the cunning
of Phœnicia.”
Then Œdipus understood and said: “Till now I have wrestled and boxed and
run races with my fellows on the sands the livelong day, and none can
beat me. Henceforth I will sit in the market-place and discourse with
foreigners and learned men, so that, when I come to rule in my father’s
place, I may be the wisest in all the land.”
And Merope was pleased at his answer, but in her heart she was sad that
his simple childish days were past; and she prayed that if the gods
granted him wisdom they would keep his heart pure and free from all
uncleanness.
So Œdipus sat in the market-place and talked with merchants and
travellers, and he went down to the ships in the harbor and learned many
strange things of strange lands—the wisdom of the Egyptians, who were
the wisest of all men in the south, and the cunning of the Phœnicians,
who were the greatest merchants and sailors in all the world. But in the
evening, when the sun was low in the west, and the hills all turned to
amethyst and sapphire, and the snow mountains blushed ruby red beneath
his parting kiss, then along the smooth, gold sands of the Isthmus, by
the side of the sounding sea, he would box and wrestle and run, till all
the ways were darkened and the stars stood out in the sky. For he was a
true son of Hellas, and knew that nine times out of every ten a slack
body and a slack mind go together.
So he grew up in his beauty, a very god for wisdom and might, and there
was no question he could not answer nor riddle he could not solve, so
that all the land looked up to him, and the king and queen loved him as
their own son.
Now one day there was a great banquet in the palace, to which all the
noblest of the land were bidden, and the minstrels played and the
tumblers danced and the wine flowed freely round the board, so that
men’s hearts were opened, and they talked of great deeds and heroes, and
boasted what they themselves could do. And Œdipus boasted as loud as any,
and challenged one and all to meet him in fair fight. But the youth who
had grown up with him in rivalry, and nourished jealousy and hatred in
his heart, taunted him to his face, and said: “Base born that thou art,
and son of slave, thinkest thou that free men will fight with thee? Lions
fight not with curs, and though thou clothe thyself with purple and gold,
all men know that thou art no true son to him thou callest thy sire.”
And this he said being flushed with wine, and because myriad-mouthed
Rumor had spread abroad the tale that Œdipus was a foundling, though he
himself knew naught thereof.
Then Œdipus flushed red with rage, and swift as a gale that sweeps down
from the mountains he fell upon the other, and seizing him by the throat,
he shook him till he had not a breath to beg for mercy. “What sayest thou
now, thou whelp? Begone with thy lying taunt, now that thou hast licked
the dust for thy falsehood.”
And he flung him out from the hall. But Merope leant pale and sad against
a pillar, and veiled her face in her mantle to hide her tears. And when
they were alone, Œdipus took her hand and stroked it, and said: “Grieve
not for my fiery spirit, mother, but call me thine own son, and say that
I was right to silence the liar who would cast dishonor upon my father’s
name and upon thee.”
But she looked at him sadly and longingly through her tears, and spoke in
riddling words: “The gods, my child, sent thee to thy father and to me
in answer to our prayers. A gift of God thou art, and a gift of God thou
shalt be, living and dead, to them that love thee. The flesh groweth old
and withereth away as a leaf, but the spirit liveth on forever, and those
are the truest of kin who are kin in the spirit of goodness and of love.”
But Œdipus was troubled, for she would say no more, but only held his
hand, and when he drew it away it was wet with her tears. Then he thought
in his heart: “Verily my mother would not weep for naught. What if, after
all, there be something in the tale? I will go to the central shrine of
Hellas and ask the god of Truth, golden-haired Apollo. If he say it is
a lie, verily I will thrust it back down that coward’s throat, and the
whole land shall ring with his infamy. And if it be true—the gods will
guide me how to act.”