[Illustration]
Tanglewood Tales
_by_
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
_Illustrated by_
_Virginia Frances Sterrett_
The Penn Publishing Company
Philadelphia
Copyright 1921 by
The Penn Publishing Company
CONTENTS
PAGE
The Minotaur .................... 1
The Pygmies...................... 43
The Dragon's Teeth............... 73
Circe's Palace................... 117
The Pomegranate Seeds............ 161
The Golden Fleece................ 209
ILLUSTRATIONS
Cadmus beheld a female figure, wonderfully beautiful
He tugged and toiled amain
She whipped up the snakes and ascended high over the city
"Thou hast slain the monster", cried Ariadne, clasping her hands
He concluded that his dear son had been eaten by the Minotaur
This giant and these pygmies were all brethren
The giant gave them his brotherly kindness
They were constantly at war with the cranes
"Alas! my dear children", answered poor Queen Telephassa
"Sacred Oracle of Delphi, wither shall I go"?
This pitiless reptile had killed his poor companions
At a distance he beheld stately towers
The voyagers examined the web of cloth
"Wretch"! cried Circe
They brought along with them a great many beautiful shells
So she peeped into the entrance of the cave
They arrived at the sunniest spot in the world
"I shall not touch it I assure you", said she
"What shall I do"? said he
"I am the king's daughter"
At the appointed hour he met the beautiful Medea
"What is it"? asked Jason
[Illustration]
THE MINOTAUR
In the old city of Trœzene, at the foot of a lofty mountain, there
lived, a very long time ago, a little boy named Theseus. His
grandfather, King Pittheus, was the sovereign of that country, and was
reckoned a very wise man; so that Theseus, being brought up in the
royal palace, and being naturally a bright lad, could hardly fail of
profiting by the old king's instructions. His mother's name was Æthra.
As for his father, the boy had never seen him. But, from his earliest
remembrance, Æthra used to go with little Theseus into a wood, and sit
down upon a moss-grown rock, which was deeply sunken into the earth.
Here she often talked with her son about his father, and said that he
was called Ægeus, and that he was a great king, and ruled over Attica,
and dwelt at Athens, which was as famous a city as any in the world.
Theseus was very fond of hearing about King Ægeus, and often asked his
good mother Æthra why he did not come and live with them at Trœzene.
"Ah, my dear son," answered Æthra, with a sigh, "a monarch has his
people to take care of. The men and women over whom he rules are in the
place of children to him; and he can seldom spare time to love his own
children as other parents do. Your father will never be able to leave
his kingdom for the sake of seeing his little boy."
"Well, but, dear mother," asked the boy, "why cannot I go to this
famous city of Athens, and tell King Ægeus that I am his son?"
"That may happen by and by," said Æthra. "Be patient, and we shall see.
You are not yet big and strong enough to set out on such an errand."
"And how soon shall I be strong enough?" Theseus persisted in inquiring.
"You are but a tiny boy as yet," replied his mother. "See if you can
lift this rock on which we are sitting?"
The little fellow had a great opinion of his own strength. So, grasping
the rough protuberances of the rock, he tugged and toiled amain, and
got himself quite out of breath, without being able to stir the heavy
stone. It seemed rooted into the ground. No wonder he could not move
it; for it would have taken all the force of a very strong man to lift
it out of its earthy bed.
[Illustration: He tugged and toiled amain.]
His mother stood looking on, with a sad kind of a smile on her lips and
in her eyes, to see the zealous and yet puny efforts of her little boy.
She could not help being sorrowful at finding him already so impatient
to begin his adventures in the world.
"You see how it is, my dear Theseus," said she. "You must possess far
more strength than now before I can trust you to go to Athens, and
tell King Ægeus that you are his son. But when you can lift this rock,
and show me what is hidden beneath it, I promise you my permission to
depart."
Often and often, after this, did Theseus ask his mother whether it
was yet time for him to go to Athens; and still his mother pointed
to the rock, and told him that for years to come, he could not be
strong enough to move it. And again and again the rosy-cheeked and
curly-headed boy would tug and strain at the huge mass of stone,
striving, child as he was, to do what a giant could hardly have done
without taking both of his great hands to the task. Meanwhile the rock
seemed to be sinking farther and farther into the ground. The moss grew
over it thicker and thicker, until at last it looked almost like a soft
green seat, with only a few gray knobs of granite peeping out. The
overhanging trees, also, shed their brown leaves upon it, as often as
the autumn came; and at its base grew ferns and wild flowers, some of
which crept quite over its surface. To all appearance, the rock was as
firmly fastened as any other portion of the earth's substance.
But, difficult as the matter looked, Theseus was now growing up to be
such a vigorous youth, that, in his own opinion, the time would quickly
come when he might hope to get the upper hand of this ponderous lump of
stone.
"Mother, I do believe it has started!" cried he, after one of his
attempts. "The earth around it is certainly a little cracked!"
"No, no, child!" his mother hastily answered. "It is not possible
you can have moved it, such a boy as you still are!" Nor would she
be convinced, although Theseus showed her the place where he fancied
that the stem of a flower had been partly uprooted by the movement of
the rock. But Æthra sighed, and looked disquieted; for, no doubt, she
began to be conscious that her son was no longer a child, and that,
in a little while hence, she must send him forth among the perils and
troubles of the world.
It was not more than a year afterwards when they were again sitting on
the moss-covered stone. Æthra had once more told him the oft-repeated
story of his father, and how gladly he would receive Theseus at his
stately palace, and how he would present him to his courtiers and the
people, and tell them that here was the heir of his dominions. The eyes
of Theseus glowed with enthusiasm, and he would hardly sit still to
hear his mother speak.
"Dear mother Æthra," he exclaimed, "I never felt half so strong as now!
I am no longer a child, nor a boy, nor a mere youth. I feel myself a
man! It is now time to make one earnest trial to remove the stone."
"Ah, my dearest Theseus," replied his mother, "not yet! not yet!"
"Yes, mother," said he, resolutely, "the time has come."
Then Theseus bent himself in good earnest to the task, and strained
every sinew, with manly strength and resolution. He put his whole brave
heart into the effort. He wrestled with the big and sluggish stone,
as if it had been a living enemy. He heaved, he lifted, he resolved
now to succeed, or else perish there, and let the rock be his monument
forever! Æthra stood gazing at him, and clasped her hands, partly with
a mother's pride, and partly with a mother's sorrow. The great rock
stirred! Yes, it was raised slowly from the bedded moss and earth,
uprooting the shrubs and flowers along with it, and was turned upon its
side. Theseus had conquered!
While taking breath, he looked joyfully at his mother, and she smiled
upon him through her tears.
"Yes, Theseus," she said, "the time has come and you must stay no
longer at my side! See what King Ægeus, your royal father, left for
you, beneath the stone, when he lifted it in his mighty arms, and laid
it on the spot whence you have now removed it."
Theseus looked, and saw that the rock had been placed over another slab
of stone, containing a cavity within it; so that it somewhat resembled
a roughly-made chest or coffer, of which the upper mass had served as
the lid. Within the cavity lay a sword, with a golden hilt, and a pair
of sandals.
"That was your father's sword," said Æthra, "and those were his
sandals. When he went to be king of Athens, he bade me treat you as
a child until you should prove yourself a man by lifting this heavy
stone. That task being accomplished, you are to put on his sandals, in
order to follow in your father's footsteps, and to gird on his sword,
so that you may fight giants and dragons, as King Ægeus did in his
youth."
"I will set out for Athens this very day!" cried Theseus.
But his mother persuaded him to stay a day or two longer, while she got
ready some necessary articles for the journey. When his grandfather,
the wise King Pittheus, heard that Theseus intended to present himself
at his father's palace, he earnestly advised him to get on board of
a vessel, and go by sea; because he might thus arrive within fifteen
miles of Athens, without either fatigue or danger.
"The roads are very bad by land," quoth the venerable king; "and they
are terribly infested with robbers and monsters. A mere lad, like
Theseus, is not fit to be trusted on such a perilous journey, all by
himself. No, no; let him go by sea!"
But when Theseus heard of robbers and monsters, he pricked up his
ears, and was so much the more eager to take the road along which they
were to be met with. On the third day, therefore, he bade a respectful
farewell to his grandfather, thanking him for all his kindness; and,
after affectionately embracing his mother, he set forth, with a good
many of her tears glistening on his cheeks, and some, if the truth must
be told, that had gushed out of his own eyes. But he let the sun and
wind dry them, and walked stoutly on, playing with the golden hilt of
his sword, and taking very manly strides in his father's sandals.
I can tell you only a few of the adventures that befell Theseus on the
road to Athens. It is enough to say, that he quite cleared that part
of the country of the robbers, about whom King Pittheus had been so
much alarmed. One of these bad people was named Procrustes; and he was
indeed a terrible fellow, and had an ugly way of making fun of the poor
travellers who happened to fall into his clutches. In his cavern he had
a bed, on which, with great pretence of hospitality, he invited his
guests to lie down; but if they happened to be shorter than the bed,
this wicked villain stretched them out by main force; or, if they were
too tall, he lopped off their heads or feet, and laughed at what he
had done, as an excellent joke. Thus, however weary a man might be he
never liked to lie in the bed of Procrustes. Another of these robbers,
named Scinis, must likewise have been a very great scoundrel. He was in
the habit of flinging his victims off a high cliff into the sea; and,
in order to give him exactly his deserts, Theseus tossed him off the
very same place. But if you will believe me, the sea would not pollute
itself by receiving such a bad person into its bosom, neither would the
earth, having once got rid of him, consent to take him back; so that,
between the cliff and the sea, Scinis stuck fast in the air, which was
forced to bear the burden of his naughtiness.
After these memorable deeds, Theseus heard of an enormous sow, which
ran wild, and was the terror of all the farmers round about; and, as he
did not consider himself above doing any good thing that came in his
way, he killed this monstrous creature, and gave the carcass to the
poor people for bacon. The great sow had been an awful beast, while
ramping about the woods and fields, but was a pleasant object enough
when cut up into joints, and smoking on I know not how many dinner
tables.
Thus, by the time he reached his journey's end, Theseus had done many
valiant feats with his father's golden-hilted sword, and had gained
the renown of being one of the bravest young men of the day. His
fame travelled faster than he did, and reached Athens before him. As
he entered the city, he heard the inhabitants talking at the street
corners, and saying that Hercules was brave, and Jason too, and Castor
and Pollux likewise, but that Theseus, the son of their own king, would
turn out as great a hero as the best of them. Theseus took longer
strides on hearing this, and fancied himself sure of a magnificent
reception at his father's court, since he came thither with Fame to
blow her trumpet before him, and cry to King Ægeus, "Behold your son!"
He little suspected, innocent youth that he was, that here, in this
very Athens, where his father reigned, a greater danger awaited him
than any which he had encountered on the road. Yet this was the truth.
You must understand that the father of Theseus, though not very old
in years, was almost worn out with the cares of government, and had
thus grown aged before his time. His nephews, not expecting him to
live a very great while, intended to get all the power of the kingdom
into their own hands. But when they heard that Theseus had arrived in
Athens, and learned what a gallant young man he was, they saw that
he would not be at all the kind of person to let them steal away his
father's crown and sceptre, which ought to be his own by right of
inheritance. Thus these bad-hearted nephews of King Ægeus, who were
the own cousins of Theseus, at once became his enemies. A still more
dangerous enemy was Medea, the wicked enchantress; for she was now the
king's wife, and wanted to give the kingdom to her son Medus, instead
of letting it be given to the son of Æthra, whom she hated.
It so happened that the king's nephews met Theseus, and found out who
he was, just as he reached the entrance of the royal palace. With all
their evil designs against him, they pretended to be their cousin's
best friends, and expressed great joy at making his acquaintance.
They proposed to him that he should come into the king's presence as
a stranger, in order to try whether Ægeus would discover in the young
man's features any likeness either to himself or his mother Æthra, and
thus recognize him for a son. Theseus consented; for he fancied that
his father would know him in a moment, by the love that was in his
heart. But, while he waited at the door, the nephews ran and told King
Ægeus that a young man had arrived in Athens who, to their certain
knowledge, intended to put him to death, and get possession of his
royal crown.
"And he is now waiting for admission to your majesty's presence," added
they.
"Aha!" cried the old king, on hearing this. "Why, he must be a very
wicked young fellow indeed! Pray, what would you advise me to do with
him?"
In reply to this question, the wicked Medea put in her word. As I
have already told you, she was a famous enchantress. According to
some stories, she was in the habit of boiling old people in a large
caldron, under pretence of making them young again; but King Ægeus,
I suppose, did not fancy such an uncomfortable way of growing young,
or perhaps was contented to be old, and therefore would never let
himself be popped into the caldron. If there were time to spare from
more important matters, I should be glad to tell you of Medea's fiery
chariot, drawn by winged dragons, in which the enchantress used often
to take an airing among the clouds. This chariot, in fact, was the
vehicle that first brought her to Athens, where she had done nothing
but mischief ever since her arrival. But these and many other wonders
must be left untold; and it is enough to say, that Medea, amongst a
thousand other bad things, knew how to prepare a poison, that was
instantly fatal to whomsoever might so much as touch it with his lips.
So, when the king asked what he should do with Theseus, this naughty
woman had an answer ready at her tongue's end.
"Leave that to me, please your majesty," she replied. "Only admit
this evil-minded young man to your presence, treat him civilly, and
invite him to drink a goblet of wine. Your majesty is well aware that
I sometimes amuse myself with distilling very powerful medicines. Here
is one of them in this small phial. As to what it is made of, that is
one of my secrets of state. Do but let me put a single drop into the
goblet, and let the young man taste it; and I will answer for it, he
shall quite lay aside the bad designs with which he comes hither."
As she said this, Medea smiled; but, for all her smiling face, she
meant nothing less than to poison the poor innocent Theseus, before
his father's eyes. And King Ægeus, like most other kings, thought any
punishment mild enough for a person who was accused of plotting against
his life. He therefore made little or no objection to Medea's scheme,
and as soon as the poisonous wine was ready, gave orders that the young
stranger should be admitted into his presence. The goblet was set on a
table beside the king's throne; and a fly, meaning just to sip a little
from the brim, immediately tumbled into it, dead. Observing this, Medea
looked round at the nephews, and smiled again.
When Theseus was ushered into the royal apartment, the only object
that he seemed to behold was the white-bearded old king. There he sat
on his magnificent throne, a dazzling crown on his head, and a scepter
in his hand. His aspect was stately and majestic, although his years
and infirmities weighed heavily upon him, as if each year were a lump
of lead, and each infirmity a ponderous stone, and all were bundled
up together, and laid upon his weary shoulders. The tears of both joy
and sorrow sprang into the young man's eyes; for he thought how sad
it was to see his dear father so infirm, and how sweet it would be to
support him with his own youthful strength, and to cheer him up with
the alacrity of his loving spirit. When a son takes his father into his
warm heart, it renews the old man's youth in a better way than by the
heat of Medea's magic caldron. And this was what Theseus resolved to
do. He could scarcely wait to see whether King Ægeus would recognize
him, so eager was he to throw himself into his arms.
Advancing to the foot of the throne, he attempted to make a little
speech, which he had been thinking about, as he came up the stairs.
But he was almost choked by a great many tender feelings that gushed
out of his heart and swelled into his throat, all struggling to find
utterance together. And therefore, unless he could have laid his
full, overbrimming heart into the king's hand, poor Theseus knew not
what to do or say. The cunning Medea observed what was passing in the
young man's mind. She was more wicked at that moment than ever she had
been before; for (and it makes me tremble to tell you of it) she did
her worst to turn all this unspeakable love with which Theseus was
agitated, to his own ruin and destruction.
"Does your majesty see his confusion?" she whispered in the king's ear.
"He is so conscious of guilt, that he trembles and cannot speak. The
wretch lives too long! Quick! offer him the wine!"
Now King Ægeus had been gazing earnestly at the young stranger, as he
drew near the throne. There was something, he knew not what, either
the white brow, or in the fine expression of his mouth, or in his
beautiful and tender eyes, that made him indistinctly feel as if he had
seen this youth before; as if, indeed, he had trotted him on his knee
when a baby, and had beheld him growing to be a stalwart man, while he
himself grew old. But Medea guessed how the king felt, and would not
suffer him to yield to these natural sensibilities; although they were
the voice of his deepest heart, telling him, as plainly as it could
speak, that here was our dear son, and Æthra's son, coming to claim
him for a father. The enchantress again whispered in the king's ear,
and compelled him, by her witchcraft, to see everything under a false
aspect.
He made up his mind, therefore, to let Theseus drink off the poisoned
wine.
"Young man," said he, "you are welcome! I am proud to show hospitality
to so heroic a youth. Do me the favor to drink the contents of this
goblet. It is brimming over, as you see, with delicious wine, such as I
bestow only on those who are worthy of it! None is more worthy to quaff
it than yourself!"
So saying, King Ægeus took the golden goblet from the table, and was
about to offer it to Theseus. But, partly through his infirmities, and
partly because it seemed so sad a thing to take away this young man's
life, however wicked he might be, and partly, no doubt, because his
heart was wiser than his head, and quaked within him at the thought
of what he was going to do--for all these reasons, the king's hand
trembled so much that a great deal of the wine slopped over. In order
to strengthen his purpose, and fearing lest the whole of the precious
poison should be wasted, one of his nephews now whispered to him,--
"Has your majesty any doubt of this stranger's guilt? There is the
very sword with which he meant to slay you. How sharp, and bright, and
terrible it is! Quick!--let him taste the wine; or perhaps he may do
the deed even yet."
At these words, Ægeus drove every thought and feeling out of his
breast, except the one idea of how justly the young man deserved to be
put to death. He sat erect on his throne, and held out the goblet with
a steady hand, and bent on Theseus a frown of kingly severity; for,
after all, he had too noble a spirit to murder even a treacherous enemy
with a deceitful smile upon his face.
"Drink!" said he, in the stem tone with which he was wont to condemn
a criminal to be beheaded. "You have well deserved of me such wine as
this!"
Theseus held out his hand to take the wine. But, before he touched it,
King Ægeus trembled again. His eyes had fallen on the gold-hilted sword
that hung at the young man's side. He drew back the goblet.
"That sword!" he exclaimed; "how came you by it?"
"It was my father's sword," replied Theseus, with a tremulous voice.
"These were his sandals. My dear mother (her name is Æthra) told me
his story while I was yet a little child. But it is only a month since
I grew strong enough to lift the heavy stone, and take the sword and
sandals from beneath it, and come to Athens to seek my father."
"My son! my son!" cried King Ægeus, flinging away the fatal goblet, and
tottering down from the throne to fall into the arms of Theseus. "Yes,
these are Æthra's eyes. It is my son."
[Illustration: SHE WHIPPED UP THE SNAKES AND ASCENDED HIGH OVER THE
CITY]
I have quite forgotten what became of the king's nephews. But when
the wicked Medea saw this new turn of affairs, she hurried out of
the room, and going to her private chamber, lost no time in setting
her enchantments at work. In a few moments, she heard a great noise
of hissing snakes outside of the chamber window; and, behold! there
was her fiery chariot, and four huge winged serpents, wriggling and
twisting in the air, flourishing their tails higher than the top of the
palace, and all ready to set off on an aerial journey. Medea staid only
long enough to take her son with her, and to steal the crown jewels,
together with the king's best robes, and whatever other valuable things
she could lay hands on; and getting into the chariot, she whipped up
the snakes, and ascended high over the city.
The king, hearing the hiss of the serpents, scrambled as fast as he
could to the window, and bawled out to the abominable enchantress
never to come back. The whole people of Athens, too, who had run out
of doors to see this wonderful spectacle, set up a shout of joy at
the prospect of getting rid of her. Medea, almost bursting with rage,
uttered precisely such a hiss as one of her own snakes, only ten times
more venomous and spiteful; and glaring fiercely out of the blaze of
the chariot, she shook her hands over the multitude below, as if she
were scattering a million curses among them. In so doing, however,
she unintentionally let fall about five hundred diamonds of the
first water, together with a thousand great pearls, and two thousand
emeralds, rubies, sapphires, opals, and topazes, to which she had
helped herself out of the king's strong box. All these came pelting
down, like a shower of many-colored hailstones, upon the heads of grown
people and children, who forthwith gathered them up, and carried them
back to the palace. But King Ægeus told them that they were welcome
to the whole, and to twice as many more, if he had them, for the sake
of his delight at finding his son, and losing the wicked Medea. And,
indeed, if you had seen how hateful was her last look, as the flaming
chariot flew upward, you would not have wondered that both king and
people should think her departure a good riddance.
And now Prince Theseus was taken into great favor by his royal father.
The old king was never weary of having him sit beside him on his
throne, (which was quite wide enough for two,) and of hearing him tell
about his dear mother, and his childhood, and his many boyish efforts
to lift the ponderous stone. Theseus, however, was much too brave and
active a young man to be willing to spend all his time in relating
things which had already happened. His ambition was to perform other
and more heroic deeds, which should be better worth telling in prose
and verse. Nor had he been long in Athens before he caught and chained
a terrible mad bull, and made a public show of him, greatly to the
wonder and admiration of good King Ægeus and his subjects. But pretty
soon, he undertook an affair that made all his foregone adventures seem
like mere boy's play. The occasion of it was as follows:--
One morning, when Prince Theseus awoke, he fancied that he must have
had a very sorrowful dream, and that it was still running in his mind,
even now that his eyes were open. For it appeared as if the air was
full of a melancholy wail; and when he listened more attentively,
he could hear sobs, and groans, and screams of woe, mingled with
deep, quiet sighs, which came from the king's palace, and from the
streets, and from the temples, and from every habitation in the city.
And all these mournful noises, issuing out of thousands of separate
hearts, united themselves into one great sound of affliction, which
had startled Theseus from slumber. He put on his clothes as quickly
as he could, (not forgetting his sandals and gold-hilted sword,) and
hastening to the king, inquired what it all meant.
"Alas! my son," quoth King Ægeus, heaving a long sigh, "here is a
very lamentable matter in hand! This is the woefulest anniversary in
the whole year. It is the day when we annually draw lots to see which
of the youths and maidens of Athens shall go to be devoured by the
horrible Minotaur!"
"The Minotaur!" exclaimed Prince Theseus and like a brave young prince
as he was, he put his hand to the hilt of his sword. "What kind of a
monster may that be? Is it not possible, at the risk of one's life, to
slay him?"
But King Ægeus shook his venerable head, and to convince Theseus that
it was quite a hopeless case, he gave him an explanation of the whole
affair. It seems that in the Island of Crete there lived a certain
dreadful monster, called a Minotaur, which was shaped partly like a
man and partly like a bull, and was altogether such a hideous sort of
a creature that it is really disagreeable to think of him. If he were
suffered to exist at all, it should have been on some desert island,
or in the duskiness of some deep cavern, where nobody would ever be
tormented by his abominable aspect. But King Minos, who reigned over
Crete, laid out a vast deal of money in building a habitation for
the Minotaur, and took great care of his health and comfort, merely
for mischief's sake. A few years before this time, there had been a
war between the city of Athens and the island of Crete, in which the
Athenians were beaten and compelled to beg for peace. No peace could
they obtain, however, except on condition that they should send seven
young men and seven maidens, every year, to be devoured by the pet
monster of the cruel King Minos. For three years past, this grievous
calamity had been borne. And the sobs, and groans, and shrieks, with
which the city was now filled, were caused by the people's woe, because
the fatal day had come again, when the fourteen victims were to be
chosen by lot; and the old people feared lest their sons or daughters
might be taken, and the youths and damsels dreaded lest they themselves
might be destined to glut the ravenous maw of that detestable man-brute.
But when Theseus heard the story, he straightened himself up, so
that he seemed taller than ever before; and as for his face, it was
indignant, despiteful, bold, tender, and compassionate, all in one look.
"Let the people of Athens, this year, draw lots for only six young men,
instead of seven," said he. "I will myself be the seventh; and let the
Minotaur devour me, if he can!" "O my dear son," cried King Ægeus,
"why should you expose yourself to this horrible fate? You are a royal
prince, and have a right to hold yourself above the destinies of common
men."
"It is because I am a prince, your son, and the rightful heir of your
kingdom, that I freely take upon me the calamity of your subjects,"
answered Theseus. "And you my father, being king over this people, and
answerable to Heaven for their welfare, are bound to sacrifice what is
dearest to you, rather than that the son or daughter of the poorest
citizen should come to any harm."
The old king shed tears, and besought Theseus not to leave him desolate
in his old age, more especially as he had just begun to know the
happiness of possessing a good and valiant son. Theseus, however,
felt that he was in the right, and therefore would not give up his
resolution. But he assured his father that he did not intend to be
eaten up, unresistingly, like a sheep, and that, if the Minotaur
devoured him, it should not be without a battle for his dinner. And
finally, since he could not help it, King Ægeus consented to let
him go. So a vessel was got ready, and rigged with black sails; and
Theseus, with six other young men, and seven tender and beautiful
damsels, came down to the harbor to embark. A sorrowful multitude
accompanied them to the shore. There was the poor old king, too,
leaning on his son's arm, and looking as if his single heart held all
the grief of Athens.
Just as Prince Theseus was going on board, his father bethought himself
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 had got fairly out to sea, there came a stiff
breeze from the northwest, 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.
Theseus stood among the sailors, gazing eagerly towards the land;
although, as yet, it seemed hardly more substantial than the clouds,
amidst which the mountains were looming up. Once or twice, he fancied
that he saw a glare of some bright object, a long way off, flinging a
gleam across the waves.
"Did you see that flash of light?" he inquired of the master of the
vessel.
"No, prince; but I have seen it before," answered the master. "It came
from Talus, I suppose."
As the breeze came fresher just then, the master was busy with trimming
his sails, and had no more time to answer questions. But while the
vessel flew faster and faster towards Crete, Theseus was astonished to
behold a human figure, gigantic in size, which appeared to be striding,
with a measured movement, along the margin of the island. It stepped
from cliff to cliff, and sometimes from one headland to another, while
the sea foamed and thundered on the shore beneath, and dashed its
jets of spray over the giant's feet. What was still more remarkable,
whenever the sun shone on this huge figure, it flickered and glimmered;
its vast countenance, too, had a metallic lustre, and threw great
flashes of splendor through the air. The folds of its garments,
moreover, instead of waving in the wind, fell heavily over its limbs,
as if woven of some kind of metal.
The nigher the vessel came, the more Theseus wondered what this immense
giant could be and whether it actually had life or no. For though it
walked, and made other lifelike motions, there yet was a kind of jerk
in its gait, which, together with its brazen aspect, caused the young
prince to suspect that it was no true giant, but only a wonderful
piece of machinery. The figure looked all the more terrible because it
carried an enormous brass club on its shoulder.
"What is this wonder?" Theseus asked of the master of the vessel, who
was now at leisure to answer him.
"It is Talus, the man of Brass," said the master.
"And is he a live giant, or a brazen image?" asked Theseus.
"That, truly," replied the master, "is the point which has always
perplexed me. Some say, indeed, that this Talus was hammered out for
King Minos by Vulcan himself, the skilfulest of all workers in metal.
But who ever saw a brazen image that had sense enough to walk round
an island three times a day, as this giant walks round the Island of
Crete, challenging every vessel that comes nigh the shore? And, on
the other hand, what living thing, unless his sinews were made of
brass, would not be weary of marching eighteen hundred miles in the
twenty-four hours, as Talus does, without ever sitting down to rest? He
is a puzzler, take him how you will."
Still the vessel went bounding onward; and now Theseus could hear the
brazen clangor of the giant's footsteps, as he trod heavily upon the
sea-beaten rocks, some of which were seen to crack and crumble into the
foamy waves beneath his weight. As they approached the entrance of the
port, the giant straddled clear across it, with a foot firmly planted
on each headland, and uplifting his club to such a height that its
butt-end was hidden in a cloud, he stood in that formidable posture,
with the sun gleaming all over his metallic surface. There seemed
nothing else to be expected but that, the next moment, he would fetch
his great club down, slam bang, and smash the vessel into a thousand
pieces, without heeding how many innocent people he might destroy; for
there is seldom any mercy in a giant, you know, and quite as little in
a piece of brass clockwork. But just when Theseus and his companions
thought the blow was coming, the brazen lips unclosed themselves, and
the figure spoke.
"Whence come you, strangers?"
And when the ringing voice ceased, there was just such a reverberation
as you may have heard within a great church bell, for a moment or two
after the stroke of the hammer.
"From Athens!" shouted the master in reply.
"On what errand?" thundered the Man of Brass.
And he whirled his club aloft more threateningly than ever, as if he
were about to smite them with a thunderstroke right amidships, because
Athens, so little while ago, had been at war with Crete.
"We bring the seven youths and the seven maidens," answered the master,
"to be devoured by the Minotaur!"
"Pass!" cried the brazen giant.
That one loud word rolled all about the sky, while again there was a
booming reverberation within the figure's breast. The vessel glided
between the headlands of the port, and the giant resumed his march. In
a few moments, this wondrous sentinel was far away, flashing in the
distant sunshine, and revolving with immense strides around the Island
of Crete, as it was his never-ceasing task to do.
No sooner had they entered the harbor than a party of the guards of
King Minos came down to the water side, 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. If the
figure that guarded Crete was made of brass, then the monarch, who
ruled over it, might be thought to have a still harder metal in his
breast, and might have been called a man of iron. 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 brave.
"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!"
Near the king's throne (though I had no time to tell you so before)
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 ironbreasted 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 hear not 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 of the 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. There can be nothing
else so intricate, unless it were the brain of a man like Dædalus, who
planned it, or the heart of any ordinary man; which last, to be sure,
is ten times as great a mystery as the labyrinth of Crete. Theseus
had not taken five steps before he lost sight of Ariadne; and in five
more his head was growing dizzy. But still he 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. O, indeed, I can assure you, there was a vast deal
of human sympathy running along that slender thread of silk. 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, at 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 a while, 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.
Ah, the bull-headed villain! And O, my good little people, you will
perhaps see, one of these days, as I do now, that every human being who
suffers anything evil to get into his nature, or to remain there, is a
kind of Minotaur, an enemy of his fellow-creatures, and separated from
all good companionship, as this poor monster was.