me in sorrow for my wife who is dead. Shave the bright locks from your
heads, and don your sable robes. Harness your four-horsed chariots;
put the bit in the mouths of your steeds. Cut off the long manes from
their necks, and follow with me to her grave. Let not the voice of the
flute be heard in your streets, nor the sound of the lyre, till full
twelve moons have waxed and waned; for she was the noblest of women,
and dearest of all on earth to me. Her life she sacrificed for mine.
Pay her high honours, then, for she is most worthy."
IX
Whilst the preparations for the funeral were being made, anyone who
chanced to look along the highroad would have seen a stranger making
his way towards the palace. He was a strong man and tall--three cubits
and more in height. The muscles of his arms and chest stood out like
thongs of cord. In his hand he carried a huge knotted club, and over
his shoulders hung a lion's skin. If the wind or the sun were too
strong, he would draw the jaws of the beast over his head like a hood,
and the great teeth shone out white and terrible over his brows and
under his chin. He walked along with great swinging strides, balancing
the club upon his shoulder as though it were some light twig, and not
heavy as a sapling oak. As he went through the villages the people
stood aside from his path in wonder, and even the strongest champion
of them all would whisper, "May the gods deliver me from ever having
to stand up against him in single combat. In his little finger is the
strength of my right arm."
But he walked on, little heeding what folk thought of him, singing now
and again snatches of some drinking-song, and passing the time of day,
or cracking some joke with those he met upon the way; for, in truth,
he had a merry heart, and wished well to all mankind. Those who were
frightened when first they saw his club and lion's skin forgot their
fears as soon as they could see his face, for his eyes were blue and
laughing as the summer sky, and his smile was bright as the sun in
spring. And yet there were lines and scars about his features which
proved that he was no idler, but one who had looked labour and danger
in the face.
So he came to Pheræ and went up the steep path to the palace. It
chanced that Admetus was standing in the portico on his way in. When
the stranger saw him he shouted out,
"Hail to thee, Admetus! Turn back and greet an old friend."
When Admetus heard him, he turned and came towards him.
"Welcome, Heracles," he said, and held out his hand to greet him.
But when Heracles saw his black robes and shorn locks he was troubled.
"I have come at an evil hour, Admetus," he said; "thou art mourning
for one who is dear to thee."
"Ay," he answered; "it is true."
"One of thy children, can it be, or thy father?"
"Nay, there is nought amiss with them. It is a woman I am carrying out
to burial this day."
"Is she a stranger, or one of the family?"
"She is not one of the family. Yet she is very dear to us, for on her
father's death she came and lived with us. She was a fair and noble
woman, and all the house is plunged in grief at her death."
"Then I will leave thee and go elsewhere. A house of mourning is no
place for guests."
"Nay," cried Admetus; "I beg of thee, do not go. Never yet have my
halls turned away a traveller from the gates. The dead are dead. What
more could we do for them? 'Twould do them small good to lack in
friendship for the living. Come in, come in, I pray thee."
In spite of all his entreaties, he forced him to come in, and bade his
steward take him to a guest-room apart, where he might eat and drink,
and hear nothing of the sounds of mourning when the body was carried
out to the tomb; and he did all in his power to hide from his guest
that it was Alcestis who was dead; for he was ashamed for Heracles to
know that he had allowed his wife to die for him.
Meanwhile all had been prepared for the funeral, and a train of
citizens stood waiting in the court to follow behind the bier. Their
long black robes fell trailing in the dust; their heads were shorn in
grief, and with slow steps they followed behind the bier, whilst the
mourners sang a dirge for the dead.
"O daughter of Pelias, farewell, farewell for evermore! Mayest thou
have peace in the world below and such joy as may be in those sunless
places! O thou black-haired god of Death, never has one more noble
come down to dwell in thy halls; never, O Charon, thou grim ferryman
of souls--never hast thou carried a burden more precious across the
dark and dreadful stream! Oft shall thy praises be sung, lady, by
minstrels of music in every land. On the seven-stringed mountain-lute
shall they sing thee, and in hymns, without lyre or lute, in Sparta,
when the circling seasons bring round the summer feast-time, and all
night long the moon rides high in heaven. In bright and shining Athens
shall they praise thee, too; for thou alone, O brightest and best,
hast dared to die for thy lord, and give up thy young life for him. O
dark Necessity, who shroudest all men about with death, how heavy is
thy hand upon this house! From thee none can flee, and Zeus himself
bows down before thee. Thou alone, O goddess, hast no temple, no
images to which men turn in prayer, neither hearest thou the voice of
victims slain. Alcestis is gone--gone for ever. Our eyes shall see her
no more. Light may the earth lie above thee, lady. Dear wast thou when
thou wast among us; dear shalt thou be, too, in death. No mere mound
of the dead shall thy tomb be, but honoured of every passer-by, as
some shrine of the Immortals. The stranger toiling up the winding way
shall bow his head before it and say, 'Here lieth one who died for her
lord; now she is a blessed spirit. O lady, have mercy upon me!' So
great shall be thy glory among men for ever. Fare thee well, fare thee
well, most beautiful."
So they laid her in the polished tomb, and placed rich gifts about
her, and sacrifices of blood to the grim god of Death. When all the
rites were accomplished, they went away sorrowful.
X
Meanwhile Heracles had been led to a guest-chamber apart, and the
servants ministered to all his wants, and brought him water to wash
with, and change of raiment. As they waited on him, he talked gaily to
them of his adventures on the way, and made them laugh in spite of
their grief for their mistress. Only the old serving-man stood aloof,
and looked darkly at the stranger who dared to make merry in a house
of mourning.
When he had washed and dressed, he sat down to meat. They placed an
ample meal before him, and brought him wine to drink. But in his eyes
their bounty was dearth, and he kept calling for more till they could
scarce contain their astonishment at his appetite. At length, when he
had eaten his fill, he crowned his head with vine-leaves, and fell to
drinking long and deep. The wine warmed his heart, and sent a cheerful
glow through all his veins. So happy was he that he could not sit in
silence, but raised his voice and sang, and his singing was like the
roaring of a bull.
"Great Zeus, preserve us!" sighed the old waiting-man; "never have I
heard anything more discordant and unseemly."
But the guest grew merrier and merrier, and the face of the
serving-man, as he watched, grew longer and longer. At length Heracles
himself noticed his disapproving countenance.
"Ho, there!" cried he; "why so dark and gloomy, my friend? I had as
soon be welcomed by an iceberg as by thee, old sour-face."
The serving-man answered him never a word, but only scowled the more.
"What!" cried Heracles, "is this the sort of welcome thou art wont to
give thy master's guests? Come hither, and I will teach thee better
ways."
And he took hold of the old man and set him down beside him at the
table.
"Alack! What a countenance! And all for a strange girl who has chanced
to die. How wilt thou look when one of thy masters is laid in the
grave? I like not this mask of hypocrisy, my friend. Thou carest not
for her who is dead, but pullest a long face, and strikest a chill to
the hearts of all beholders, because, forsooth, it is seemly to mourn
for the dead. Why, we must all pay our tribute to death, every man of
us, and no one knoweth whether he shall ever see the next day's light;
then count the present as thine own, and eat and drink with me and
make merry. A frowning face profits not the dead--nay, it serves but
to blacken the sunshine of this life that we can live but once. Up,
man, drink and wash away thy frowns! Believe me, life is no life at
all--only labour and misfortune to those who walk through it with
pompous steps and sour faces."
And he poured out a brimming goblet.
"All this I know full well, master," answered the old man, "but the
shadow that has fallen on this house is too heavy for me to join in
thy revelry."
"Thou makest too much of death. Thou canst not grieve for a stranger
as thou wouldst for one of the household. Thy master and mistress
live. Let that suffice thee."
"What! My master and mistress live? Alas! my master is too kind a
host."
"Must I starve, then, because a strange girl is dead?"
"It is no stranger, I tell thee, but one most near and dear."
"Have I been deceived? Has he hidden some misfortune from me?"
"Ask no more, but go in peace. My master's sorrows are for me to bear,
not for thee. And he bade me not speak of it."
"Speak, speak, man! I see he has hidden some great sorrow from me. Who
is the woman who is dead?"
"Ask me not. My master told me not to say."
"And I forbid thee not to say. Tell me forthwith!"
So fierce and terrible did he look that the old man trembled before
him.
"May my lord forgive me!" said he. "It is Alcestis, his wife."
"Alcestis!" cried Heracles. "And he would not share his sorrow with
me, his friend, but let me come in and feast and sing while he went
out to bury her. Woe is me! I thought he loved me."
"It was to spare thee pain that he did not tell thee, master."
"How came she to die?" asked Heracles, and took off the vine-leaves
from his head, and poured out the wine upon the floor.
Then the old man told him the whole tale.
"Where have they buried her?" he asked, when it was ended.
"Out yonder, where the white highway leads to Larissa, in the plain.
There, on the outskirts of the city, thou wilt find the tomb of the
kings of Pheræ, where they are laying her."
"Is there no shorter way I can go and reach her quickly?"
"There is a footpath by the fields that I will show thee."
"Come, then, straightway. I must go and lie in wait for the black Lord
of Death. He will come up to drink of the blood that is poured out for
him beside the tomb. Then I will fall upon him from my ambush and
wrestle with him and prevail, and he shall give me back Alcestis. Even
if I must go down to Hades and fetch her, she shall come back. She is
too fair and too noble to pass her young life in the dark underworld."
The old man marvelled at his words; but he went out with him, and
showed him the footpath across the fields, and stood watching him till
he passed out of sight.
"Verily, we talk and weep," he muttered to himself, "and he laughs and
acts. He is worth ten of us."
XI
Meanwhile the funeral procession was coming back along the highway. As
they came into the city each man departed to his own house; only
Admetus with his near friends and kinsmen returned to the palace to
celebrate the funeral feast. Whilst they were waiting for the feast
to be prepared, Admetus stayed outside alone in the court. He sat down
on one of the stone seats beneath the colonnade, and buried his face
in his hands. He could not bring himself to go into the house, where
everything would remind him of the wife he had lost--the chair in
which she used to sit, empty now; the fire on the altar burning low,
and the ashes scattered about, because she was there no more to feed
the dying flames. The full force of the sacrifice came home to him
now, and he shuddered as he thought of the deed he had done.
"I have slain her--I have slain her whom I loved, to save myself from
death, because I loved my life, and hated to go to the dark world
below. Woe is me!" he cried. "The sun is turned to darkness and the
earth to Hades since she went away. I grasped at the substance, and
all the while I followed after a shade. Fool that I was to upbraid
them who refused to die for me and cast her death in their teeth! She
is dead, dead--slain by my hand alone. Nevermore can I look my people
in the face, nor glory in the deeds I have done. The shame of my
cowardice will blot them all out, and I shall slink like a cur among
my fellows. Would that I had died with her!"
Thus he sat making fruitless moan. His friends came out and tried to
comfort him and bring him into the house, but he sent them away, and
would not go in. All the evening he sat there alone till darkness
began to fall. At length he felt a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder,
and, looking up, he saw Heracles standing beside him.
"Why couldst thou not trust me, Admetus?" he asked. "All thy
household, all the city, knew that thy wife Alcestis was dead. Me
only, thy familiar friend, didst thou keep in ignorance. I had thought
to stand beside thee in thy sorrow, and thou didst not even tell me of
it."
"I was ashamed," answered Admetus.
"Well, well, what is done cannot be undone. There is but one way now
that thou canst prove thou art still my friend. After I had eaten, I
walked out across the fields, and came upon a place where the people
were holding games and giving rich prizes to the winners--horses and
oxen, and a fair woman to the best man of all. When I saw the woman I
determined to win her. So I entered for the contest and beat all my
rivals. The woman I have brought back with me now, and beg of thee to
keep her till I come back from the wild Thracian folk, for I cannot
take her with me there. If by any chance I should never come back, but
meet my fate away, I give her to thee to keep for thyself. I have
brought her with me now to give into thy care."
As he spoke, he led forward by the hand a woman who had been standing
near him. She was closely veiled, so that Admetus, when he glanced up
at her, could not see her face, but only the outline of her form.
"Oh, take her away, take her away!" he cried. "In height and figure
she is like my wife, and I cannot bear to look upon her. I would do
much for thee, my friend, but ask not this of me. No woman shall ever
live in my house again. Take her to some other of thy friends."
In spite of all Heracles could say, he refused to take her.
"I see that thou wouldst no more be my friend, Admetus," he said at
last. "First thou wilt not tell me of thy sorrow, and now thou wilt
not do this little thing for me. I will go and trouble thee no more
with my friendship."
At this Admetus was cut to the quick.
"Ah, say not that. Thou knowest that I love thee, but this is a hard
thing thou askest. Whenever I look at her I shall be reminded of my
wife. And the tongue of slander will not be silent. Men will say that
I take comfort, and have forgotten the woman who gave her life for
mine. Nevertheless, if thou wilt have it so, I yield. Take the woman
in, or let one of the servants show her the way."
"Nay," said Heracles; "to thee alone will I trust her. She is fair and
noble, and I would not have her treated as a common woman."
And he forced Admetus to take her by the hand.
"Now I know that thou wilt treat her honourably, thou mayst look upon
her face," he said, and lifted up the veil which shrouded her.
When Admetus saw her face, he fell back terrified, for, pale and
beautiful, scarce looking as though she breathed, Alcestis stood
before him.
"Ye gods!" he gasped; "the spirit of my wife!"
"Nay," said Heracles, "but her very self."
"Thou mockest; it cannot be."
"It is no mockery, as who should know better than I who won her?" said
Heracles. "By Zeus, I have wrestled many a tough match, but never a
one so tough as this, the gods be praised! I have met Death face to
face, and I hope I may never have to stand up against him more."
[Illustration: She answered him never a word, but held out both her
hands and raised him from his knees.]
"Ah, my friend, how can I thank thee? I have not deserved so much
joy," cried Admetus, and fell on his knees before them.
"I thought not of thy deserts, but of hers," said Heracles. "Come,
take her in."
"I dare not touch her. Ah, lady, canst thou love one who sent thee to
thy death?" he asked, with head bowed down before her.
She answered him never a word, but held out both her hands and raised
him from his knees; and he looked deep into her eyes, and found them
full of love. Tenderly and humbly he put his arm about her and led her
away, and felt that, if anything on earth could ever raise him from
the depths of selfishness and meanness to which he had fallen, it
would be the boundless, measureless love of the woman before him.
"Now to change the funeral feast to a banquet of rejoicing," cried
Heracles. "Truly, I could eat an ox after this last bout of mine."
[Illustration]
The Hunting of the Calydonian Boar
In the city of Calydon long ago there were great rejoicings because
the queen Althæa had given birth to a son, her first-born, who, if he
grew to years of manhood, would in time sit upon the throne of his
father OEneus, and rule the land. Some seven days after the child
was born it chanced that the queen was lying alone in her chamber,
with the babe upon her breast. It was winter-time, and the shades of
evening had fallen early about the room, but a bright fire blazed upon
the hearth, and the flickering flames threw dancing shadows on the
walls. The queen was very happy as she pressed her baby to her breast,
and held its soft little hand in hers, and whispered in its ear words
which only a mother knows how to use to her child.
As she lay she watched the shadows playing up and down upon the walls,
and to her eyes they took strange forms of men and beasts. Now it was
a great fight she saw, with horses and chariots rushing over a plain,
and mighty warriors meeting face to face in battle; now it was a
hunt, with winding of horns and dogs straining at the leash, and a
white-tusked boar breaking through a thicket. But whether it was a
hunt or whether it was a battle, everywhere there was one figure of a
man she watched--a man tall and fair and brave, who stood out
conspicuous among his fellows--such a hero as her son might grow to be
if he lived till years of manhood. And she prayed that her vision
might come true, and her son grow up to be a hero--a man mighty in
sport and mighty in battle. In time the flames died down, and the fire
burned clear and still upon the hearth. The queen's eyes grew heavy,
and she was about to turn on her side to sleep when a strange thing
happened, which took from her all desire for rest. The wall of the
room in front of her, which had glowed bright and cheery in the
firelight, grew grey and misty and seemed to vanish before her eyes,
and through the opening there came towards her the forms of three
strange women, taller and more terrible than any women of earth. The
first one carried in her hand a skein of thread, the second a spindle,
and the third a pair of great sharp shears. The queen lay still and
motionless with terror as they came forward slowly arm in arm and
stood beside the couch, looking down upon the child at her breast. At
length the first one spoke.
"I give to thy child, Althæa, a thread of life exceeding bright and
fair."
"And I," said the second, "will weave that thread into dark places,
where it will shine the brighter for the darkness round about, and
bring him honour and great renown."
The third one said never a word, but walked slowly round the couch
till she stood before the fire on the hearth. A great brand had fallen
from the grate, and lay smouldering on the stones. Bending down, she
took it in her hand, and thrust it deep into the red-hot heart of the
fire, and stood watching it till it was well alight, and the tongues
of flame shot crackling upwards. Then she turned towards the queen.
"As soon as that brand upon the fire is consumed," she said, "I will
cut the shining thread with my shears, and his life shall be as ashes
cast forth upon the wind."
As she spoke, she held out the shears, and they gleamed sharp and
cruel in the firelight.
With a cry of terror the queen sprang up from her couch, forgetful of
her weakness, and thinking only of the life of her child; and she
rushed across the room, and, drawing forth the blazing brand from the
fire, she smothered it in her gown, and crushed it beneath her bare
feet, till not a live spark remained about it. Then she hid it in a
secret place where she alone could find it, and cast herself upon her
couch and knew no more. When the attendants came in, they found the
room empty, save for the queen and her child; and she lay senseless on
the couch, with her feet and her gown all scarred and burnt.
For many a long day she lay between life and death, but at last the
gods had mercy, and her strength came slowly back to her. But when
anyone asked her the cause of her burning, she would shudder and
mutter some strange tale of a brand which fell from the fire, and
would have burnt out the life of her child. What she meant no one ever
knew, but they thought that the gods had stricken her with a sudden
fever, and that, not knowing what she did, she had burnt herself in
the fire. But of the half-burnt brand and of the word of the Fates
they knew nothing, for Althæa had said in her heart,
"The Fates have spoken, and their word shall surely come to pass. A
fine and fair thread of life has Lachesis given to my son, and Clotho
will weave it into dark places, where it shall shine exceeding bright.
The gifts they have given are good. The hand of Atropos alone is
against him, and she has measured his life by the life of a frail
piece of wood. But so long as the gods shall give me strength no
careless hand shall place that brand upon the flames, and no man shall
know the secret of his life, for grief or madness may turn even the
heart of a friend. On me, and on me alone, shall my son's life rest;
for well do I know that neither prayer nor sacrifice can avail to turn
the heart of Atropos, the Unswerving One."
So she kept the brand securely hidden where she alone could find it.
Many other fair children did she bear to OEneus the king--Phereus
and Agelaus and Periphas, and Gorge and Melanippe, and the hapless
Dejaneira, who married Heracles, and unwittingly caused his death. But
best of them all she loved Meleager, her first-born; for the word that
the Fates had spoken came true. He grew to be a great warrior and a
mighty man, and was feared by his foes and loved by his friends
through the length and breadth of the land; for there were great wars
in those days between the Curetes of Pleuron and the Ætolians of
Calydon, and on either side fought men whose names were not despised
among their fellows, but among them all there was none so famed as
Meleager. In all the country-side there was no man who could hurl the
javelin with such force and skill as he, and whenever he went forth to
battle the victory lay with the men of Calydon, and he was called the
saviour and protector of his city.
When he was in the flower of his manhood, the call of Jason came from
far Iolchos for all the heroes of Hellas to join him in his search for
the Golden Fleece. Amongst them sailed Meleager in the good ship
_Argo_, and came to the land of the dusky Colchians on the shores of
the Euxine Sea. One tale goes that he slew Æetes their king, the child
of the Sun, and saved his comrades from deadly peril. But whether this
be true or no, certain it is that he played his part like a man, and
came back to Calydon with a fair name for courage and endurance. Then
was he hoisted on the shoulders of his countrymen and carried through
the streets of the city, and feasted right royally in his father's
house.
Soon after his return it chanced that the harvest was more plentiful
than it had ever been within the memory of man. The golden corn stood
high upon the plains, and on the sunny mountain-sides the olive-trees
were thick with berries, and the vine-branches drooped low with their
weight of purple fruit. Wherefore OEneus the king ordered a great
thanksgiving to be held throughout the land in honour of Dionysus and
Demeter and grey-eyed Pallas Athene, who had given such good gifts to
men. At every shrine and temple the altars smoked with sacrifice, and
glad bands of youths and maidens with garlands on their heads danced
hand in hand around, singing the song of the harvest.