In the old city of Troezene, 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 Aethra. As for his
father, the boy had never seen him. But, from his earliest remembrance,
Aethra 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
Aegeus, 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 Aegeus, and often asked his good mother
Aethra why he did not come and live with them at Troezene.
"Ah, my dear son," answered Aethra, 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 Aegeus that I am his son?"
"That may happen by and by," said Aethra. "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 to be 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.
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 Aegeus 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-checked 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 Aethra 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. Aethra 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 Aethra," 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 to perish there, and let the rock be his monument
forever! Aethra 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 Aegeus, 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 Aethra, "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 Aegeus 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 his 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 cannot stop to tell you hardly any 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 travelers who happened to fall into his clutches. In his
cavern he had a bed, on which, with great pretense 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
traveled 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 Aegeus, "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 a person to let them steal away his father's crown
and scepter, which ought to be his own by right of inheritance. Thus
these bad-hearted nephews of King Aegeus, 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 Aethra, 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 Aegeus would discover in the young
man's features any likeness either to himself or his mother Aethra, 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 Aegeus
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 pretense of making them young again; but King Aegeus, 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 by 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 Aegeus, 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 both of 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 a 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 Aegeus 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,
over-brimming 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 Aegeus had been gazing earnestly at the young stranger, as he
drew near the throne. There was something, he knew not what, either
in his 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 Aethra'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 Aegeus 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? This 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, Aegeus 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 of
wine 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 stern 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 Aegeus 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 Aethra) 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 Aegeus, flinging away the fatal goblet, and
tottering down from the throne to fall into the arms of Theseus. "Yes,
these are Aethra's eyes. It is my son."
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 to setting her
enchantments to 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 of 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 Aegeus 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 Aegeus 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 opened. 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 Aegeus, heaving a long sigh, "here is a very
lamentable matter in hand! This is the wofulest anniversary in the
whole year. It is the day when we annually draw lots to see which of
the youths and maids 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 Aegeus 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 Aegeus, "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 these 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 but 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 Aegeus 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 north-west,
and drove them along as merrily over the white-capped waves as if they
had been going on the most delightful errand imaginable. And though
it was a sad business enough, I rather question whether fourteen young
people, without any old persons to keep them in order, could continue
to spend the whole time of the voyage in being miserable. There had been
some few dances upon the undulating deck, I suspect, and some hearty
bursts of laughter, and other such unseasonable merriment among
the victims, before the high blue mountains of Crete began to show
themselves among the far-off clouds. That sight, to be sure, made them
all very grave again.
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 skilfullest 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
foaming 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 the 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 round 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 sceptre (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 iron-breasted King Minos. She really wept
indeed, at the idea of how much human happiness would be needlessly
thrown away, by giving so many young people, in the first bloom and
rose blossom of their lives, to be eaten up by a creature who, no doubt,
would have preferred a fat ox, or even a large pig, to the plumpest of
them. And when she beheld the brave, spirited figure of Prince Theseus
bearing himself so calmly in his terrible peril, she grew a hundred
times more pitiful than before. As the guards were taking him away,
she flung herself at the king's feet, and besought him to set all the
captives free, and especially this one young man.
"Peace, foolish girl!" answered King Minos.
"What hast thou to do with an affair like this? It is a matter of state
policy, and therefore quite beyond thy weak comprehension. Go water thy
flowers, and think no more of these Athenian caitiffs, whom the Minotaur
shall as certainly eat up for breakfast as I will eat a partridge for my
supper."
So saying, the king looked cruel enough to devour Theseus and all the
rest of the captives himself, had there been no Minotaur to save him the
trouble. As he would 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, as 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 Daedalus
built before he made himself a pair of wings, and flew away from our
island like a bird. That Daedalus 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 Daedalus, 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 round 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 left 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 zizgag 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 any thing 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.
Was Theseus afraid? By no means, my dear auditors. What! a hero like
Theseus afraid! Not had the Minotaur had twenty bull-heads instead of
one. Bold as he was, however, I rather fancy that it strengthened his
valiant heart, just at this crisis, to feel a tremulous twitch at the
silken cord, which he was still holding in his left hand. It was as
if Ariadne were giving him all her might and courage; and much as he
already had, and little as she had to give, it made his own seem twice
as much. And to confess the honest truth, he needed the whole; for
now the Minotaur, turning suddenly about, caught sight of Theseus, and
instantly lowered his horribly sharp horns, exactly as a mad bull does
when he means to rush against an enemy. At the same time, he belched
forth a tremendous roar, in which there was something like the words
of human language, but all disjointed and shaken to pieces by passing
through the gullet of a miserably enraged brute.
Theseus could only guess what the creature intended to say, and that
rather by his gestures than his words; for the Minotaur's horns were
sharper than his wits, and of a great deal more service to him than his
tongue. But probably this was the sense of what he uttered:
"Ah, wretch of a human being! I'll stick my horns through you, and toss
you fifty feet high, and eat you up the moment you come down."
"Come on, then, and try it!" was all that Theseus deigned to reply; for
he was far too magnanimous to assault his enemy with insolent language.
Without more words on either side, there ensued the most awful fight
between Theseus and the Minotaur that ever happened beneath the sun or
moon. I really know not how it might have turned out, if the monster, in
his first headlong rush against Theseus, had not missed him, by a hair's
breadth, and broken one of his horns short off against the stone wall.
On this mishap, he bellowed so intolerably that a part of the labyrinth
tumbled down, and all the inhabitants of Crete mistook the noise for
an uncommonly heavy thunder storm. Smarting with the pain, he galloped
around the open space in so ridiculous a way that Theseus laughed at it,
long afterwards, though not precisely at the moment. After this, the
two antagonists stood valiantly up to one another, and fought, sword
to horn, for a long while. At last, the Minotaur made a run at Theseus,
grazed his left side with his horn, and flung him down; and thinking
that he had stabbed him to the heart, he cut a great caper in the air,
opened his bull mouth from ear to ear, and prepared to snap his head
off. But Theseus by this time had leaped up, and caught the monster off
his guard. Fetching a sword stroke at him with all his force, he hit him
fair upon the neck, and made his bull head skip six yards from his human
body, which fell down flat upon the ground.
So now the battle was ended. Immediately the moon shone out as brightly
as if all the troubles of the world, and all the wickedness and the
ugliness that infest human life, were past and gone forever. And
Theseus, as he leaned on his sword, taking breath, felt another twitch
of the silken cord; for all through the terrible encounter, he had held
it fast in his left hand. Eager to let Ariadne know of his success,
he followed the guidance of the thread, and soon found himself at the
entrance of the labyrinth.
"Thou hast slain the monster," cried Ariadne, clasping her hands.
"Thanks to thee, dear Ariadne," answered Theseus, "I return victorious."
"Then," said Ariadne, "we must quickly summon thy friends, and get them
and thyself on board the vessel before dawn. If morning finds thee here,
my father will avenge the Minotaur."
To make my story short, the poor captives were awakened, and, hardly
knowing whether it was not a joyful dream, were told of what Theseus had
done, and that they must set sail for Athens before daybreak. Hastening
down to the vessel, they all clambered on board, except Prince Theseus,
who lingered behind them on the strand, holding Ariadne's hand clasped
in his own.
"Dear maiden," said he, "thou wilt surely go with us. Thou art too
gentle and sweet a child for such an iron-hearted father as King Minos.
He cares no more for thee than a granite rock cares for the little
flower that grows in one of its crevices. But my father, King Aegeus,
and my dear mother, Aethra, and all the fathers and mothers in Athens,
and all the sons and daughters too, will love and honor thee as their
benefactress. Come with us, then; for King Minos will be very angry when
he knows what thou hast done."
Now, some low-minded people, who pretend to tell the story of Theseus
and Ariadne, have the face to say that this royal and honorable maiden
did really flee away, under cover of the night, with the young stranger
whose life she had preserved. They say, too, that Prince Theseus (who
would have died sooner than wrong the meanest creature in the world)
ungratefully deserted Ariadne, on a solitary island, where the vessel
touched on its voyage to Athens. But, had the noble Theseus heard these
falsehoods, he would have served their slanderous authors as he served
the Minotaur! Here is what Ariadne answered, when the brave prince of
Athens besought her to accompany him:
"No, Theseus," the maiden said, pressing his hand, and then drawing back
a step or two, "I cannot go with you. My father is old, and has nobody
but myself to love him. Hard as you think his heart is, it would break
to lose me. At first, King Minos will be angry; but he will soon forgive
his only child; and, by and by, he will rejoice, I know, that no more
youths and maidens must come from Athens to be devoured by the Minotaur.
I have saved you, Theseus, as much for my father's sake as for your own.
Farewell! Heaven bless you!"
All this was so true, and so maiden-like, and was spoken with so sweet a
dignity, that Theseus would have blushed to urge her any longer.
Nothing remained for him, therefore, but to bid Ariadne an affectionate
farewell, and to go on board the vessel, and set sail.
In a few moments the white foam was boiling up before their prow, as
Prince Theseus and his companions sailed out of the harbor, with
a whistling breeze behind them. Talus, the brazen giant, on his
never-ceasing sentinel's march, happened to be approaching that part of
the coast; and they saw him, by the glimmering of the moonbeams on his
polished surface, while he was yet a great way off. As the figure moved
like clockwork, however, and could neither hasten his enormous strides
nor retard them, he arrived at the port when they were just beyond the
reach of his club. Nevertheless, straddling from headland to headland,
as his custom was, Talus attempted to strike a blow at the vessel,
and, overreaching himself, tumbled at full length into the sea, which
splashed high over his gigantic shape, as when an iceberg turns a
somerset. There he lies yet; and whoever desires to enrich himself by
means of brass had better go thither with a diving bell, and fish up
Talus.
On the homeward voyage, the fourteen youths and damsels were in
excellent spirits, as you will easily suppose. They spent most of their
time in dancing, unless when the sidelong breeze made the deck slope
too much. In due season, they came within sight of the coast of Attica,
which was their native country. But here, I am grieved to tell you,
happened a sad misfortune.
You will remember (what Theseus unfortunately forgot) that his father,
King Aegeus, had enjoined it upon him to hoist sunshiny sails, instead
of black ones, in case he should overcome the Minotaur, and return
victorious. In the joy of their success, however, and amidst the sports,
dancing, and other merriment, with which these young folks wore away the
time, they never once thought whether their sails were black, white, or
rainbow colored, and, indeed, left it entirely to the mariners whether
they had any sails at all. Thus the vessel returned, like a raven, with
the same sable wings that had wafted her away. But poor King Aegeus, day
after day, infirm as he was, had clambered to the summit of a cliff that
overhung the sea, and there sat watching for Prince Theseus, homeward
bound; and no sooner did he behold the fatal blackness of the sails,
than he concluded that his dear son, whom he loved so much, and felt so
proud of, had been eaten by the Minotaur. He could not bear the thought
of living any longer; so, first flinging his crown and sceptre into
the sea (useless baubles that they were to him now), King Aegeus merely
stooped forward, and fell headlong over the cliff, and was drowned, poor
soul, in the waves that foamed at its base!
This was melancholy news for Prince Theseus, who, when he stepped
ashore, found himself king of all the country, whether he would or no;
and such a turn of fortune was enough to make any young man feel very
much out of spirits. However, he sent for his dear mother to Athens,
and, by taking her advice in matters of state, became a very excellent
monarch, and was greatly beloved by his people.