travelled with so light a heart before. For three days and three
nights he was not seen within the palace, and for three days and three
nights Alcestis lay tossing to and fro upon her bed, with wild words
upon her lips, and before her eyes fearful shapes that she alone could
see. On the fourth day Admetus came slowly up the hill. The dust of
the highway clung white about his clothes, and the sweat of weariness
stood out upon his brow. Yet straightway he came and stood beside
Alcestis, and took her hand in his. Then she opened her eyes and
looked at him, and for the first time since her marriage night she
looked on a face with eyes that could see. The fearful shapes and
visions fled away, and she smiled at him with tears of joy. Then
Admetus knew that his prayers had not been vain, and that Hecate had
heard his cry, and given him back his wife.
VI
Quickly the days and nights sped by, and the palace was full of joy
and happiness. At last the season came round that had brought the
strange herdsman to Admetus the year before. On the selfsame day of
the month he came and stood once more before him.
"Twelve moons have waxed and waned, O king," he said, "since the day
when first thou gavest me shelter in thy halls. The time of my
cleansing is accomplished, and I am come to bid thee farewell."
"Farewell?" cried Admetus. "That is a bitter word in mine ears. Fain
would I have thee with me always. Yet have I no heart to beg thee to
remain, for thou art mightier than I, and even to call thee guest and
friend would sound presumptuous in mine ears. Farewell, then. May the
gods reward thee tenfold for the blessings thou hast showered upon my
house!"
"When first I stood within thy halls thou didst say to me, 'Stranger,
who art thou, and whose blood is on thy hands?' Dost thou not ask me
that question now once more ere we part?"
"Master, I asked it then in ignorance of thee and of thy ways. To-day
it lieth with thee to tell me or not as thou wiliest. If thou wouldst
hide thy name from me still, I am content."
"Nay, I will tell thee, for 'tis meet thou shouldst know. The fame of
the deed I wrought has spread far and wide throughout the world
wherever men speak with awe the name of Delphi. Thou knowest how in
the beginning Earth held the sacred shrine, and gave forth, from the
mouth of her priestess, dark and dreadful oracles, and Chaos and Night
had their seats there, and the wingless foul Furies, the trackers of
blood. Round about the awful spot the mountains re-echoed the voice of
lamentation and the cries of human victims led forth to sacrifice; and
lest at any time one strong of arm and stout of heart should come to
wrest away the shrine from the powers of darkness, there lay before
the gates a guardian fierce and terrible--Python, the sleepless
dragon. In and out and round about the portals he wound his monstrous
length, and his scales threw back the light like points of flashing
steel, and his eyes were like the red-tongued flame. No man in those
days could pass that dreadful portal, but, like a dim, uncertain echo,
the voice of the priestess floated down to the trembling folk below.
At last one day there came a shining one whose sword was the sunlight,
and his arrows were darts of living fire. With the strength of his
right arm he slew the Python, and stretched out his monstrous coils
beneath the hot sun's rays, till the flesh melted and rotted away, and
only his bones lay gleaming white upon the rocks, to show how once he
had guarded the shrine against all comers; and the victor took the
shrine and made it his own, and placed his priestess there to utter
forth true oracles to men when the divine spirit filled her breast.
The waters of the Castalian spring he purified, so that those who came
might wash away their guilt, and stand with pure hearts before the
shrine. And over the green lawns beneath Parnassus he led the choir of
the Muses, the bright-haired sisters of poetry, and music, and
dancing. Because their feet have touched the earth where Castalia has
its fount, men say that those who drink of those waters are filled
with their spirit, so that the words that they speak and the songs
that they sing are immortal, and will live for ever upon the lips and
in the hearts of men. He who did this thing and turned the darkness
into light stands here before thee now."
"Apollo!" cried Admetus, "lord and master!" And he fell upon the
ground before him, and clasped him by the knees. "Ah, forgive the
blindness and presumption of my heart!" he begged.
"Nay, there is nought to forgive. They that shed blood must pay the
price--yea, though it be the blood of a monster rightfully poured out
upon the ground. Light was the cost of my purification, for thou art a
kind master and an honourable man. But now my hands are clean, I go
back to my seat on fair Olympus, where high above the clouds the
deathless gods dwell evermore in the clear, bright light of heaven.
Yet do I love thee, and will not forget thee. When the shadow of
despair falls dark across thy path, call on me, and I will help thee."
So saying, he bent forward and took Admetus by the hand, and raised
him up. Once more that piercing glance burned through to his very
soul; then the stranger turned and strode away across the palace
court. Like one changed to marble Admetus stood and watched him go.
Then with a start he rushed to the gateway, and looked eagerly down
the road. But though he shaded and strained his eyes, he could see
that familiar form no more. Only far away on the dim horizon the veil
of clouds which hung about Olympus melted away beneath the sun's
bright rays, and the snow-clad peak flashed clear and sparkling as a
crystal against the summer sky.
"Lo, even dread Olympus smiles a welcome to the god of Light and
Truth!" said Admetus.
Then with a sigh he turned back into the palace.
VII
For ten long years Admetus and Alcestis ruled in Pheræ, and the gods
gave them joy and happiness and two children to bless their wedded
love. And when Admetus looked back to the days of the past, he was
well pleased with the story of his life. Had he not held an oar in the
good ship _Argo_, whose fame had reached to the uttermost parts of the
earth? By the strength of his arm he had won to wife the fairest maid
in Thessaly, and brought her home behind a pair such as no man before
or since had dared to yoke together. Moreover, through the length and
breadth of Hellas his house was famous as the home of hospitality and
good cheer. Not men alone, but great Apollo, the bright-haired god of
Light, had been his guest--nay, his very servant. Was he not king,
too, of a rich and fruitful land, in which year by year the earth
brought forth plenteous harvests, because the greatness of his name
held back the tide of war, and peace with unfettered feet walked
joyously through field and city? When he remembered all these things,
his heart waxed big with vanity and pride, and he began to forget the
gods and to look down upon his fellow-men, and think that he alone of
all mankind had done great deeds, and that without him the world would
be but a sorry place. This pride it was that made him do a mean thing
that marred all the glory of his life.
One day Death came and stood beside him, and put his seal upon his
brow, and Admetus knew that he must die. When he felt that now he
stood upon the threshold of Hades, the dim dark world of the dead,
where high and low, rich and poor, strong and weak, wander for ever as
voiceless shades through the sunless groves, where kingship and
slavery are one, his heart was turned to water, and his spirit called
aloud in his anguish,
"Apollo, O Apollo! Hear me in my sore distress, and deliver me from
death."
Far away on the sunlit peak of Olympus Apollo heard his cry, and swift
as the lightning crosses the sky he came and stood beside him.
"What wouldst thou with me, Admetus?" he asked. "I have come in answer
to thy prayer."
Then Admetus raised his head, and pointed to his brow, and Apollo
gazed sadly at him. "I see the seal upon thy brow, my friend--the seal
that none may break."
"Ah, say not that, my lord! Am I not even now in the prime of my
manhood, when others look forward to many a long year of joyous life?
Why should I die before my time? My mother and my aged father still
live, and rejoice in the sunlight, yet no kingdom standeth by the
might of their right arm. The meanest slave within my palace is more
fortunate than I. Why, out of them all, hath Death laid his hand on
me?"
"He is but the servant of the Fates, Admetus, whose ways neither gods
nor men can understand."
"The Fates? Are they lower than the beasts, then, and will not listen
to the voice of reason?"
"The voice of man's reason is to them as the baying of jackals in the
wilderness, Admetus."
"O god of Light, is there nothing that will touch their hearts? Canst
thou by thy music turn the souls of man and beast, and soothe the fury
of the whirlwind and the crying of the rain, and yet over them alone
hast thou no power? Ah! by the love thou once didst bear me, go,
strike thy lyre before them, and sing thy song of magic. Surely they
will not withstand thee, but will put my life into thy hands in return
for the beauty of thy song."
"Because I love thee I will go, Admetus. Yet, if I go, it is because
they call me; and if I prevail, or if I fail, it is because they have
willed it long ago. Farewell."
So Apollo sped away on the wings of the wind, far, far away beyond
earth's widest bounds, beyond the region of unmelting snow and the
land of the midnight sun, beyond the ever-rolling stream of ocean and
the deserts of the air, till he came to the unchanging land where the
three Great Sisters dwell together, without beginning and without end.
In that land there is neither north nor south, east nor west. There is
neither sun nor moon, night nor day, time nor change. On three great
thrones of mist the mighty Sisters sit, and their forms are neither
foul nor fair. On their brows are crowns of sovereignty, and in their
hands the destinies of man, which they sit spinning, for ever
spinning, into the mighty web of Life. The first is Lachesis the
Chooser. From the tangled mass beside her she picks out threads of
varied hue and hands them to Clotho the Spinner, who weaves them into
the web upon her knees. On the other side sits Atropos the Unswerving
One. In her hands she holds a pair of shears, and as the ends of the
threads hang loose on the wrong side of the web, she cuts them off and
casts them at her feet.
So Apollo came and stood before them with his lyre in his hand. Softly
he touched the golden strings, then raised his voice and sang. At the
sound of that magic song Lachesis forgot to hand the threads to her
sister, the web dropped low on Clotho's knee, and the hand of Atropos
fell lifeless by her side, and till the ending of the song Time itself
stood still. While the magic of his singing held them spellbound
Apollo urged his plea.
"Almighty Sisters, from the ends of the world have I come, from the
haunts of mortal man, to ask a boon for one I love."
"Say on, Apollo. Thou hast turned our hearts to water by the magic of
thy song. What wilt thou?"
"In the fertile land of Pheræ, Admetus lies a-dying. He is young, and
the love of life runs hot within his veins. He is a great king, too,
and rules his subjects well and wisely, and loud will be the wail of
the people if he must die before his time. If my song has pleased you,
mighty ones, O grant that he may live to a green old age."
"All mortals would live to a green old age, Apollo, and thou lovest
many among the sons of men. There would be no end to our bounty if for
every song we must grant thee a life. Nay, ask some other boon, for
thy song has reached our hearts!"
But Apollo turned sadly away. "There is nothing else I would ask of
you, great Sisters. For this, and for this alone, have I come."
"On one condition only can we grant thee thy boon, Apollo. Thou sayest
that Admetus is a great king, and well loved by all his folk. If among
them all he can find one soul that will go to Hades in his place, we
will let him live on to a green old age. Surely we ask not much. Some
slave who loveth not his life, or some old man whose grey hairs are a
burden, will gladly die that one so wise and great may live on for his
people's joy."
"So be it, mighty ones. Yet methinks 'tis an empty boon thou hast
given me, for men cling to life and the sunny days on earth, and
Admetus may seek far ere he find one who will cast it aside for the
darkness and gloom of the sad underworld. And, in any case, he is not
one to live on at the price of another's life."
"We can grant no more," they said.
So Apollo went back by the way he had gone; and he came and stood
beside Admetus, and told him the word of the Fates. When Admetus heard
it he was glad.
"O God of Light, thou wast ever my friend, and now I shall owe my very
life to thee. How can I thank thee?"
But Apollo looked through to his inmost soul. "Dost thou accept the
condition, then?" he asked.
"What else can I do, master?" he replied.
"Thou canst die."
"I know it," cried Admetus; "but why must I die before my time? With
the Argonauts I sailed the unknown seas; in the lists I have fought
and prevailed against the flower of Hellas; and for twelve months a
god deigned to dwell beneath my palace roof. Surely my life is worth
more than most men's, and I do well to keep it while I may."
"So be it," said Apollo, but his face was stern and terrible, and
Admetus trembled at his frown. "Go now, and find one who will die for
thee." And he turned and left him.
VIII
When Admetus was left alone his heart was in a tumult. He felt the
wrath of Apollo like the lash of a whip, and he knew that his anger
was just. When he looked back on his life, he was ashamed at the
change which long years of prosperity and peace had wrought in him;
that much manliness at least was left him. When he thought of the
great deeds he had done in his youth, and how, when he had but sipped
of its joys, he had been ready a hundred times to cast life lightly
aside, he felt like a thief slinking guiltily home by night, laden
with the spoils that will make himself rich and leave his friend poor
and starving. If he took another's life as the price of his own, he
felt he would never be able again to look a man straight in the face.
And yet he could live his life but once; and life, with prosperity and
ease, sunshine and riches, had become more dear to him than honour,
more dear than the love and esteem of his fellow-men. His very deeds
of valour had become a snare to entice him to the path of meanness and
dishonour, to make him hold another's life as a cheap price to pay for
one so great as he. So he quenched the last spark of manliness that
still struggled for life in his heart, and sent a proclamation through
the land, bidding all those who would die that their king might live,
to come and stand before him in the palace, that he might choose
between them; for he thought that many would be glad to die for him.
For many a long day he waited, and no man came. Then he sent forth
trusty messengers to stir the people's hearts; but they returned with
words instead of men.
"We will ride in the chase, we will sail the stormy seas, we will
fight against our country's foes, and in all these things will we risk
our lives to save the king. But we will not leave our wives and little
ones and the pleasant life on earth, for no cause save that another
may live beyond his fated time."
Such were the words of the people.
Then Admetus sent for all his household--the slaves that had been born
and bred within the palace. And they said that they would toil for
him all their days, but die for him they would not; for even the life
of a slave was better than the endless years of gloom in the kingdom
of the dead.
Then the heart of Admetus grew bitter within him, and he hated the
thought of death more than ever before, when he found that even the
meanest life was dear to the hearts of men. In his despair he turned
to his aged parents, for he thought within himself,
"Surely one of them will be ready to die for their own son. At best
they have not many years of life, and if I die before them they will
have no son to bury them and perform the funeral rites and prayers, as
only a son can do for his parents."
So he went to Pheres his father, and begged that he would die in his
place. But his father answered,
"Dost thou think that because thou lovest the sunlight thy father
loves it not?"
"Nay, but in any case Death must lay his hand upon thee soon, whilst I
am in the prime of life."
"Because the years that are left me are few, they are none the less
sweet. Nevermore in the land of Hades shall I warm my old bones in the
sun as I look forth upon the fruitful earth. So the years that are
left are doubly dear."
"Then, when thou comest to die, men will point the finger of scorn at
thy grave. 'Behold the coward, who, though his hair was grey and his
limbs were feeble, yet refused to die for his own son!' Thy name will
be a byword throughout all Hellas."
"When I am dead it matters little what men shall say of me," said
Pheres.
"May the gods forgive thee for what thou hast said!" cried Admetus,
and turned away in wrath. For it was a dreadful thing for a Greek to
say he cared not what men would think of him when he was dead.
Then Admetus went to his mother. But she, no less than his father,
clung to life, and refused to die in his stead.
Last of all he turned to his wife, Alcestis. From the beginning she
had been ready to die for him, for she loved him, and placed his life
above her own. But he had said there was no need that she should die
and take away half the joy of his life, when another would do as well.
"It needs a great love to sacrifice life for the sake of another," she
had answered, "and there is no one in all the world who loves thee as
I do."
Now he found that her words were true, and that he must either die
himself or take her life as the price of his own; and his self-love
had the mastery, though he tried to persuade his heart that he was
living beyond his appointed time for his country's sake and his
people's good. Yet at bottom he was not satisfied, and his heart grew
bitter against all those who had refused to die for him, and he
accused them of being the murderers of his wife. But he knew full well
that it was his own hand that was sending her to the grave in the
flower of her life.
At last the day of doom arrived on which Alcestis was to die. Till
then she had put aside all thought of death, and had lived her life as
though no shadow hung over her; for she thought within herself,
"At least I will be happy my last days on earth. I shall have long
enough to mourn for my life in the kingdom of the dead."
But now the last day had come she could put away the thought of death
no longer. Before a gleam of light shone forth on the far horizon she
was up to greet the first rays of the sun, for she was a true daughter
of Hellas, and she loved the glad sunshine and all that was bright and
fair, while death and darkness and the gloom of the sad underworld
filled her soul with horror. For the last time she looked upon the
faint gleam in the east and watched it spread over the sky, and saw
the red disc of the sun as he rose from the way of the sea and made
the pale dawn blush. The clouds were tinged with glory, and the
heavens were filled with light, and the earth awoke with a smile of
flowers dancing in the glad morning breeze. Then she washed in the
fresh fountain water, put on her gayest robes, and went and stood
before the altar on the hearth, to pray her last prayer on earth.
"O lady Goddess! I am going far away across the dark river of Death,
and for the last time do I make my prayer to thee. Ah, when I am gone,
have mercy on my children. Hard are the ways of the world, and they
are young to be left without a mother's love. Put forth the right hand
of thy pity, lady, and bring them to a glad old age. Let them not
perish, as I must, in the bloom of their life, but give to my son a
loving wife, and a noble husband to my daughter; and may they be happy
all their days!"
Then she went through the palace and bade farewell to all the
servants. To each one she gave her hand, even to the meanest slave of
them all, and spoke kindly to them. And they bathed her hand with
their tears, for they loved their mistress, and knew that when she
died they would lose a good friend. As she went the children clung
weeping about her skirts, for they, too, knew that she must die.
Last of all she went alone to her chamber, for she could endure no
more; and she threw herself upon her couch, and wept as though her
heart would break. She kissed the pillows and smoothed them tenderly
with her hands.
"Alas, alas! for the happy days on earth," she cried, "and happiest of
all the years that I have lived here as the wife of Admetus! Farewell,
my couch--farewell for ever!"
She tried to tear herself away, but again and again when she had
reached the door she turned back and fell once more weeping upon her
couch. At last she felt the weakness of death creeping over her, and
she knew if she did not leave her chamber then, she would leave it
nevermore alive. All her tears were spent, and she had no strength
left to weep any more. Outside in the great hall Admetus sat with his
head upon his hands, weeping for his wife, and cursing the bitterness
of his fate. And she went and stood beside him.
"Take me out into the sunlight, Admetus," she said; "the darkness
within oppresses me. I can breathe more freely in the air."
When he looked at her he was afraid, for she was as pale as death.
Gently he raised her in his arms, and placed her on a couch in the
portico before the palace. And when she saw the blue sky and the
sunshine she smiled.
"O sun and light of day," she said, "and ye dancing, eddying clouds,
farewell!"
"O ye gods, have mercy!" cried Admetus. "My dearest, look up, and
leave me not all desolate."
But with a cry of fear she started up, and pointed in front.
"Look, look! The boat of the dead, and the ferryman of souls with his
hand upon the pole--Charon! He calls, 'Alcestis, why dost thou tarry?
Hasten and come with me.'"
"Ah, Fate, Fate--cruel Fate!" cried Admetus.
"He is snatching me away--oh, save me!--down, down to the dark halls
of death. Away, let me go! He frowns with his dark gleaming brows. Ah,
the dread journey before me!"
"Leave me not, leave me not!" cried Admetus.
"Lay me down again," said Alcestis, and her voice was scarce more than
a whisper. "The strength is gone out of my limbs, and darkness creeps
over my eyes. My children, where are you? Come here, my little ones,
and nestle close beside me."
And the children crept silently to her.
Then she held out her hand to Admetus.
"My lord," she said, "farewell. Already my feet are planted in the
paths of death, and thou canst not hold me back. I have been a loving
wife to thee, Admetus; my beauty, my youth, my joy of life--all these
I give to thee. Ah, when I am dead, forget me not, for the children's
sake, for these poor little ones--promise me. Promise me thou wilt not
wed again, for a stepmother's heart would be hard against my children,
and they would suffer. Promise me that thou wilt be a father and
mother to them in one."
[Illustration: And the children crept silently to her.]
"I promise," said Admetus.
"Then into thy hands I give them. Poor little ones, what will you do
without me? My son, for thee thy father will ever be a strong tower of
defence, and will bring thee up to be a true man. But for thee, little
maiden, my heart bleeds. Thou wilt have no mother to dress thee on thy
wedding-day, or to comfort thee in thy sorrows, when there is no love
like a mother's. Be doubly tender with her, Admetus."
"I will, I will. All that thou sayest I will do, and more also. Not
for one year only, but all my life long, will I mourn for thee. Forget
me not, I pray thee. Prepare a place for me below, that I may be with
thee when I come to die."
"Nay, I will not forget thee. Lay me back now. I can say no more."
Gently he laid her back, and knelt down by her side, and all they that
stood around bowed their heads in silence, for they knew that Death
was standing in their midst.
At last Admetus looked up.
"My friends," he said, "she is gone. Help me now to carry her in, that
the maidens may clothe her in the robes of death."
Gently and reverently, with heads bowed in grief, they carried her in.
The maidens clad her in long white robes, and laid her on the bier,
and the mourners stood round and sang a dirge for the dead. On the
threshold before the palace Admetus placed the locks he had shorn from
his head in token that within one lay dead, and he put on long black
robes of mourning, and took off the golden circlet from his brow.
Throughout the city he sent a proclamation to say the queen was dead.