named Schoenus. A tamer of horses was he, and a man mighty in the
hunt and in battle. Above every other thing he loved danger and sport
and all kinds of manly exercise. Indeed, these things were the passion
of his life, and he despised all womenkind because they could take no
part nor lot in them. And he wedded Clymene, a fair princess of a
royal house, because he wished to raise up noble sons in his halls,
who should ride and hunt with him, and carry on his name when he was
dead. On his wedding-day he swore a great oath, and called upon all
the gods to witness it.
"Never," he swore in his pride, "shall a maid child live in my halls.
If a maid is born to me, she shall die ere her eyes see the light, and
the honour of my house shall rest upon my sons alone."
When a man swears an oath in his pride, he repents full oft in
humility, and so it fell out now. For many a long year no child was
born to him, and when at last he had hopes of an heir, the babe that
was born was a maid. When he saw the child his heart was cut in two,
and the pride of a father and the pride of his oath did battle within
him for victory. The pride of his oath conquered, for he was afraid to
break his word in the face of all his people. He hardened his heart,
though he had held the babe in his arms, and its little hand with a
birthmark above the wrist had closed about his finger trustfully, and
gave orders that the child should be cast out upon the mountains to
die of hunger and cold. So the babe was given to a servant, who bore
it forth and left it on the slope of bleak Parthenius. But Fate made a
mock of Schoenus, of his pride and of his oath, for no other child,
either man or maid, was born to him in his halls. All too late he
repented of his folly, when he saw his hearth desolate and no children
round his board, and knew that not only his name, but his race, was
like to die with him, because of the rash oath which he had sworn.
Yet there was one who had pity on the babe, and whose heart was kinder
than the heart of its own sire. When Artemis, the maiden goddess, saw
the child cast forth to die, she was filled with anger against
Schoenus, and swore that it should live. For it was a fair child,
and a maid after her own heart, and no young life ever called to her
in vain for mercy. Wherefore she sent a she-bear to the place where
the child lay, and softened the heart of the beast, so that she lifted
it gently in her mouth and bore it to the cave where her own cubs lay
hid. There she suckled it with her own young ones, and tended it
night and day, till it grew strong and could walk, and the cave rang
with its laughter as it played and gambolled with the young bears.
When Artemis knew that the child was old enough to live without its
foster-mother, she sent her nymphs to fetch it away, and when they
bore it to her she was well pleased to find it fair and strong.
"Her name shall be Atalanta," she said to them. "She shall dwell on
the mountains and in the woods of Arcadia, and be one of my band with
you. A mighty huntress shall she be, and the swiftest of all mortals
upon earth; and in time she shall return to her own folk and bring joy
and sorrow to their hearts."
Thus it came to pass that Atalanta lived with the nymphs in the
woodlands of Arcadia. They taught her to run and to hunt, and to shoot
with bow and arrows, till soon the day came when she could do these
things as well as any of their band. For the blood of her father ran
hot in her veins; and not more easily does a young bird learn to fly
than Atalanta learnt to love all manner of sport. So she came to
womanhood in the heart of the hills, and as her form grew in height
and strength, it grew too in beauty and grace. The light of the
sunbeam lay hid in her hair, and the blue of the sky in her eyes, and
all the rivers of Arcadia bathed her limbs and made them fresh and
white. But she thought little of her beauty, or the power it might
have over the hearts of men, for all her delight was in the hunt, and
to follow Artemis, her mistress, over hill and over dale. Artemis
loved her, and delighted to do her honour; and when the land of
Calydon cried to her for mercy, because of the boar she had sent to
ravage it in her wrath, she decreed that none but Atalanta should have
the glory of that hunt. The tale of how she came to Calydon, and of
how the boar was slain at last through her, I have told you before;
and of how death came to Meleager, because he loved her, and would not
let any man insult her while he stood idly by. By the fame of that
hunt her name was carried far and wide through Hellas, so that when
she came to the funeral games of Pelias there was no need to ask who
she was. She ran in the foot race against the swiftest in the land,
and won the prize so easily that when she reached the goal the first
man had scarce passed the turning-point, though he was no sluggard to
make a mock of. When the games were over, she went back to Arcadia
without a tear or a sigh, but her face and her memory lived in the
heart of many a man whose very name she had not known; and when
presently the news went abroad that she would wed the man who could
win her, they flocked from far and wide, because they loved her better
than life; for they knew that the unsuccessful went forth to certain
death.
The tale of how Atalanta went back to her own folk, and of how she was
wooed and won, is as follows:
One day, when King Schoenus held a great hunt in the forest on the
edge of his domain, it chanced that Atalanta had come to those parts;
and when she heard the blare of the bugles and the barking of the
hounds, her heart leapt with joy. As a dog, when he hears the voice of
his master, pricks up his ears and runs swiftly to meet him, so did
Atalanta run swiftly through the woods when she heard the sound of the
bugles. Full often had she joined in a hunt on the uplands of
Arcadia, and run with the hounds; and when the hunt was over she had
fled back into the forest, away from those who had been fain for her
to stay. For she loved the hunt, but not the hunters; but, because she
was a mortal and born of a mortal race, she did not flee from their
eyes, as the wood-nymphs fled, but hunted with them for joy of the
hunt, and left them when it pleased her. So now she joined in the
chase as the stag broke loose from cover, and her white feet flashed
in the sunlight as she followed the hounds across the open moorland.
King Schoenus, when he saw her, was glad.
"It is Atalanta, the maiden huntress," he cried. "See that she be
treated with due courtesy, for she is the only woman on earth who is
fit to look a man in the face."
And he rode eagerly after her. But the best horse in all that company
was no match for Atalanta. Far ahead of them all she shot, like an
arrow from the bow, and when at last the stag turned at bay in a pool,
she was the first to reach him. When the rest had come up, and the
huntsman had slain the stag, the king turned to her.
"Atalanta," he said, "the trophy of this chase is thine, and my
huntsman shall bear the head of the stag whithersoever thou shalt bid
him. In token of our esteem, I beg thee to accept this ring. When thou
lookest upon it, think kindly of an old man whose heart is lonely, and
who would fain have a daughter like thee."
As he spoke he drew off a gold ring from his finger and held it
towards her; the tears stood in his eyes and his hand shook as he
looked on her fair young form, and remembered the babe he had cast out
on the mountains to die. If she had lived she would have been of an
age with Atalanta, and perchance as fair and as strong as she; and his
heart was bitter against himself for the folly of his oath.
When Atalanta heard his words, she had a mind at first to refuse his
gift. Many a man before had offered her gifts, and she had refused
them every one; for she had no wish to be beholden to any man. But
when she saw the eyes of the old king dim with tears, and how his hand
shook as he held out the ring, her heart was softened, and yearned
with a strange yearning towards him. Coming forward, she knelt at his
feet and took the ring, and held his hand and kissed it.
"May the gods grant the prayer of thy heart, sire," she said, "and
give thee a daughter like unto me, but fairer and more wise than I!"
As he looked down on the hand that held his own the old king trembled
more violently than before, for above the wrist was a birthmark like
the birthmark above the wrist of the babe he had cast forth to die.
And he knew that he made no mistake, for that mark had lived in his
mind as though it had been branded with red-hot steel.
"Atalanta," he said, "the gods have heard thy prayer. This is not the
first time thy fingers have closed about mine."
"What meanest thou, sire?" she asked.
"As many years ago as the span of thy young life," he said, "I held in
my arms a new-born babe, the child that the gods had given me, and its
little hand with a birthmark above the wrist closed about my finger
trustfully. But because of my foolish pride I hardened my heart. I
cast away the gift of the gods and sent the child to die upon the
mountains. But the birthmark on its wrist was branded on my brain so
that I could not forget it. Never till this day have I seen that mark
again, and now I see it on thy wrist, my child."
He bowed his head as he spoke, and the tears from his eyes fell upon
her hand, which lay in his as she knelt before him.
"Oh, my father!" she cried, and bent forward and kissed his hand.
When he found that she did not turn from him, though she knew what he
had done, he was more deeply moved than before.
"Atalanta," he said, "when I cast thee forth to die, I gave back to
the gods the life they had given me, and now I have no right to claim
it again. Yet would thy presence be as sunshine in my halls if thou
wert to come back to me, my child."
Thus did the call come to Atalanta to return to her own folk, and the
choice lay before her. On the one side was her free life in the
forest, with Artemis and her nymphs, the hunt, the fresh air, and all
the things that she loved; on the other was life within the walls of a
city, and the need to bow her head to the customs and the ways of men.
Her heart misgave her when she thought of it.
"My lord," she said, "will a young lion step into the cage of his own
free will, think you?"
The old king bowed his head at her words.
"Alas! what other answer could I look for?" he said. "I thank the gods
that they have shown me thy fair face this day. Perchance, when we
hunt again in these parts, thou wilt join us for love of the chase.
Till then, my child, farewell."
[Illustration: "Oh, my father!" she cried]
With trembling hands he raised her from her knees, and kissed her on
the forehead. Then he signed to his men to lead forward his horse, and
mounted and rode sadly home through the forest with his company. And
Atalanta shaded her eyes and stood watching them till they disappeared
from sight. When they had gone, she sighed, and turned and went upon
her way. But her eyes were blind and her ears were deaf to the sights
and sounds she loved so well, and that night she tossed restlessly
upon her couch of moss. For before her eyes was the figure of an old
man bowed with sorrow, and in her ear his voice pleaded, trembling
with longing and love.
"Thy presence would be as sunshine in my halls if thou wert to come
back to me, my child."
In the early dawn she rose up from her couch, and bathed in a stream
close by, and gathered up her shining hair in a coil about her head.
Then she put on her sandals and a fresh white tunic, slung her quiver
about her shoulders, and bow in hand went forth through the forest.
Looking neither to the right nor to the left, she went on her way till
she came to the white road that led to the city. Then she turned and
looked back at the forest.
"Dear trees and woods," she said, "farewell, and ye nymphs that dwell
in the streams and dance on the green sward of the mountains. When I
have trodden the white road and gone up to the city, I can live with
you no more. As for thee, great Artemis, who saved me in the
beginning, I will be thy servant for ever, and dwell a maiden all my
days, and a lover of the hunt."
She leant her head against a tree close by, and the tears stood in her
eyes. It seemed that the breeze bore her words on its wings, for she
heard a sigh from the forest, and the waters cried out to her,
"Atalanta, come back, come back!"
But she closed her ears, and stepped out bravely on the white highway,
and went up into the city. The people as they saw her pass marvelled
greatly at her beauty, and whispered one to the other, "Surely it is
Atalanta, the king's daughter. What doth she here?"
For the tale of how King Schoenus had found his child, and of how
she had refused to come home with him, had spread like wildfire
through the city; so that when they saw her, they knew full well who
she must be. She took no heed of them at all, but went straight
forward on her way till she came to the gate of the palace. The gate
stood open, and without knocking or calling she passed in, and went
across the echoing court and beneath the portico into the great hall,
as one who comes by right. When she had entered the hall, she stopped
and looked about her. At first all seemed silent and deserted, for the
folk had gone their several ways for the work of the day; but at
length she spied an old man sitting on a carved chair in one of the
alcoves between the pillars. It was the king, her father. He sat with
his head upon his hand and his eyes downcast upon the floor, and his
face was sad and full of longing, as of one who dreams sweet dreams
which he knows will not come true. Gently she drew near to him, and
thanked the gods who had timed her coming so that she should find him
alone. And she went and knelt at his feet. The old man gazed for a
moment in her face, as though he did not see her; then he started from
his chair and laid his hand upon her shoulder.
"Atalanta!" he cried.
"My father," she said, "I have come back to thee."
Then he gathered her up in his arms.
"Oh, my child, my child!" he said. "The gods are kind beyond my
desert."
"Thy voice cried out to me in the night-time," she said, "and I could
not shut my heart to thy pleading. The call of the free earth was
strong, but the call of my blood was stronger."
Thus did Atalanta come back to her own folk, and bring joy to the
heart of her father and the mother who had never held her in her arms.
A great feast was held in the palace in her honour, and through all
the city the people rejoiced because of her. For she was a fair
princess of whom any land might be proud, and her fame had spread
through the length and breadth of Hellas. Indeed, as soon as it was
known who she was, and how she had left the mountains to come and live
with her own kin, suitors flocked from far and wide to seek her hand
in marriage. But she treated them one and all with scorn, and vowed
that she would never wed. At first her father smiled upon her, and
looked on her refusal to wed as the sign of a noble nature, that was
not to be won for the asking of the first chance-comers. So he
gathered about him the noblest princes in the land in the hope that
among them all there would be one who could win her heart. But the
months passed by, and still she vowed that she would never wed. All
her delight was in running and hunting, and to ride by her father's
side. As for the young princes, she liked them full well for
companions in sport, but as soon as they spoke of love and marriage
she would turn her back upon them. At length the king grew anxious.
"Surely, my child," he said, "among all these princes there is one
whom thou couldst love?"
"I shall never love any man but thee, my father," she replied.
"Yet all the hope of our race lies upon thee, Atalanta," he said. "If
thou wilt not wed, our race will die."
"Our race died on the day on which thou didst cast me forth on the
mountains," she answered. "If I have lived, it is no thanks to thee or
to any of my people, but my life is hers who saved me on that day."
"What meanest thou?" said the king.
"When I left the forest and came back to thee I vowed a vow to
Artemis, who saved me in the beginning. I said, 'I will be thy servant
for ever, and dwell a maiden all my days and a lover of the hunt.' My
life belongs to her, and not to my race, not to any son of man."
"We vow rash vows in ignorance, Atalanta," said the king, as he
remembered the oath he had sworn on his wedding-day, "and Fate makes a
mock of us, and turns our nay to yea."
But Atalanta laughed at his words.
"When Fate mocks at me," she said, "it will be time enough for me to
wed and turn my nay to yea."
Nothing that he could say would persuade her to go back from her
resolve. But still he reasoned with her night and day, till at length
she grew so wearied of the matter that she bethought of a plan that
would rid her of all her suitors.
"My father," she said, "I will wed any man who shall ask for my hand,
if he will fulfil one condition."
"My child," cried her father, "I knew that in the end thou wouldst
listen to reason. Tell me thy condition, that I may spread it abroad
among those who are suing for thy hand."
"Tell them," she said, "that I will wed the first man among them who
will run a race with me. If he win, I will be his bride, but if he
lose, he must die."
The king's face fell when he heard her words.
"Surely thou speakest in mockery, Atalanta," he said. "No man in all
the world can run as swiftly as thou canst, and they know it. Thou
wilt drive thy suitors from thee; or if any be foolhardy enough to run
with thee, they will run to a certain death."
"No man will run to a certain death, my father," she answered. "When
they know that to sigh for me is to sigh for death, they will go back
to their own folk, and I shall be troubled with suitors no more."
Herein she spoke in ignorance, and knew not the fatal power of her
beauty upon the hearts of men. And her father sighed at her words. Yet
he thought within himself,
"Perchance there is more in her words than meets the ear. The deep
sea is easier to fathom than the mind of a woman. Either there is one
among her suitors whom she favours above the rest, and she will see to
it that he is the first to run with her, and will bridle her speed and
let him win; or else, Heaven knows, some god has put this whim in her
heart, and will send a champion we know not, who can run faster than
the fastest, and he will outspeed her and make her his bride. She will
never let men die because of her."
But herein he too thought in ignorance, and knew not how his own pride
and stubbornness lived again in Atalanta, so that she would abide by
her word, though it brought grief to herself and death to others. So
he published abroad among the suitors the condition she had made. When
they heard it there was great consternation among them, and they
consulted together as to what they should do, and some sent a
deputation to her to find out the meaning of her words.
"Lady," they asked, "when thou speakest of death thou speakest
perchance in parables. Those who run in the race with thee and are
outstripped must give up all hope of thee, and look upon thy face no
more. And this would be death indeed to them that love thee."
But she laughed in their faces.
"If you would hear parables," she said, "go to the oracle at Delphi. I
am no raving priestess to utter words that walk two ways at once. He
who courts death may race with me at daybreak, and at sunset he shall
drink the poison-cup without fail, and look neither on my face again
nor the face of any living thing. Have I spoken plainly now?"
The next day there was great confusion in the halls of King
Schoenus. There was shouting and bustling, and attendants ran this
way and that. Chariots clattered through the gateway and drew up in
the court, and baggage was piled high behind the horses. And Atalanta
laughed aloud at the success of her scheme; for suitor after suitor
came and kissed her hand and bade her farewell. They loved her much,
but they loved life better, and were content to go home and find mates
who, though less fair, were less ferocious, and were like to look upon
their lords with eyes more lowly and obedient than Atalanta.
That night the gathering about the board was scantier than it had been
for many a long day. Yet a few of the suitors remained, and seemed in
no haste to be gone. Day after day passed by, and each night Atalanta
said within herself,
"To-morrow they will surely go. They dwell in distant towns, and they
are waiting for a favourable day for their journey."
But favourable days came and went, and still they stayed in the halls
of King Schoenus. At last Atalanta could hide the dread in her heart
no longer.
"How long will it be, my father," she asked, "ere we are troubled no
more with strangers in our halls?"
"If thou wilt wed one of them, we shall be troubled with the rest no
more," he replied.
"They know full well I can wed no man of them, because of the
condition I have made," she said.
"They are waiting for thee to fulfil thy condition," said the king.
Then Atalanta herself went and pleaded with them,
"My friends," she said, "I pray you to be guided by me. The gods have
not fashioned me after the manner of womenkind, and I cannot give
myself nor my love to any man. Look upon me as one of yourselves, I
pray you, and think not to win me in marriage."
But they replied, "Lady, thou hast given the condition of thy
marrying, and we are waiting to fulfil it."
"But my condition means certain death," she cried.
"Nothing in this life is certain," they said, "save death in the end.
If it come soon or late, what matter? For thy sake we are willing to
face it now."
Thus was she forced to keep her word, and the lists were made ready
for the race, and the lots were cast among the suitors as to which of
them should be the first to run against her. In the early morning,
before the sun was strong, the race was run, and all the city crowded
to the course to watch it. The man ran well and bravely, but his speed
was as child's play to Atalanta. She put forth her strength like a
greyhound that is content to run for a while before the horses, but
when he scents a hare, can leave them far behind. Even so did Atalanta
run, and came in cool and fresh at the goal, whilst her rival ran in
hot and panting behind her.
Thus did it come to pass that the first man drank the poison-cup
because of his love for Atalanta. With a smiling face did he drink it,
as a man drinks at a feast.
"Farewell, lady," he said; "grieve not for me. With open eyes I chose
my fate. I ran for the sake of love and beauty, and I have won death.
Such is ever the lot of the nameless many. They fight for the glory
of the man whose name shall live. Good luck to my rival!"
And now a time of darkness and mourning fell upon the land, and many a
day in the year the city was hung with black for the sake of some
noble suitor who had chosen death rather than life without Atalanta.
And Atalanta's heart was sore within her, because of the rash
condition she had made in her ignorance. When she would fain have
recalled her words it was too late, for the suitors bound her to her
promise.
"Either give thyself of thine own free will to one of us, or else let
us take our chance of winning thee or death," they said.
And so she was forced to run with them. For in her heart she knew that
even death was happier for a man than to win her without her love.
Thus were the words of Artemis fulfilled when she said, "In time she
shall return to her own folk, and bring joy and sorrow to their
hearts."
One day it chanced that a stranger came to the city on a morning that
a race was to be run. The night before he had slept in a village near
by, and the people had told him the tale of Atalanta, and how on the
morrow another suitor was to run to his death. But he scoffed at their
words.
"No man would run to certain death," he said, "were the maid as fair
as Aphrodite."
"Go and see for thyself," they replied. "Soon we shall hear that thou
too wilt run in the race."
"Never," he said; "no woman can cheat my life from me."
But they shook their heads unconvinced.
"Many before thee have spoken likewise," said they, "and yet they have
run."
"If I run, I will run to win," he answered.
"Can a snail outstrip a deer?" they asked.
"It might so chance," said he.
"Thou art mad," they cried.
"Better to be mad on earth than sane in Hades," he replied.
But they shook their heads the more, and tapped wisely with their
fingers on their foreheads, to show that he was mad and spoke at
random.
"Well, well," he said, with a laugh, "we shall see what we shall see."
The next morning he set forth early for the city, and, mingling with
the crowd, he made his way to the racecourse, and found for himself a
place where he could watch the whole sight with ease. The race was
run, and ended as it always ended; and once again the city was hung
with black. But in the mind of the stranger an image remained which
had not been there before--the image of a maid whose white feet
flashed in the sunlight and her tunic swung to and fro as a flag
swings in the breeze.