While the men of the Age of Bronze still dwelt upon the earth reports of
their wickedness were carried to Jupiter. The god decided to verify the
reports by coming to earth himself in the form of a man, and everywhere
he went he found that the reports were much milder than the truth.
One evening in the late twilight he entered the inhospitable shelter of
the Arcadian King Lycaon, who was famed for his wild conduct. By several
signs he let it be known that he was a god, and the crowd dropped to
their knees; but Lycaon made light of the pious prayers.
"Let us see," he said, "whether he is a mortal or a god."
Thereupon he decided to destroy the guest that night while he lay in
slumber, not expecting death. But before doing so he killed a poor
hostage whom the Molossians had sent to him, cooked the half-living
limbs in boiling water or broiled them over a fire, and placed them on
the table before the guest for his evening meal.
But Jupiter, who knew all this, left the table and sent a raging fire
over the castle of the godless man. Frightened, the king fled into the
open field. The first cry he uttered was a howl; his garments changed to
fur; his arms to legs; he was transformed into a blood-thirsty wolf.
Jupiter returned to Olympus, held counsel with the gods and decided to
destroy the reckless race of men. At first he wanted to turn his
lightnings over all the earth, but the fear that the ether would take
fire and destroy the axle of the universe restrained him. He laid aside
the thunderbolt which the Cyclops had fashioned for him, and decided to
send rain from heaven over all the earth and so destroy the race of
mortals.
Immediately the North Wind and all the other cloud-scattering winds were
locked in the cave of Aeolus, and only the South Wind sent out. The
latter descended upon the earth; his frightful face was covered with
darkness; his beard was heavy with clouds; from his white hair ran the
flood; mists lay upon his brow; from his bosom dropped the water. The
South Wind grasped the heavens, seized in his hands the surrounding
clouds and began to squeeze them. The thunder rolled; floods of rain
burst from the heavens. The standing corn was bent to the earth;
destroyed was the hope of the farmer; destroyed the weary work of a
whole year.
Even Neptune, god of the sea, came to the assistance of his brother
Jupiter in the work of destruction. He called all the rivers together
and said, "Give full rein to your torrents; enter houses; break through
all dams!"
They followed his command, and Neptune himself struck the earth with his
trident and let the flood enter. Then the waters streamed over the open
meadows, covered the fields, dislodged trees, temples and houses.
Wherever a palace stood, its gables were soon covered with water and the
highest turrets were hidden in the torrent. Sea and earth were no longer
divided; all was flood--an unbroken stretch of water.
Men tried to save themselves as best they could; some climbed the high
mountains; others entered boats and rowed, now over the roofs of the
fallen houses, now over the hills of their ruined vineyards. Fish swam
among the branches of the highest trees; the wild boar was caught in the
flood; people were swept away by the water and those whom the flood
spared died of hunger on the barren mountains.
One high mountain in the country of Phocis still raised two peaks above
the surrounding waters. It was the great Mount Parnassus. Toward this
floated a boat containing Deucalion, the son of Prometheus, and his
wife Pyrrha. No man, no woman, had ever been found who surpassed these
in righteousness and piety. When, therefore, Jupiter, looking down from
heaven upon the earth, saw that only a single pair of mortals remained
of the many thousand times a thousand, both blameless, both devoted
servants of the gods, he sent forth the North Wind, recalled the clouds,
and once again separated the earth from the heavens and the heavens from
the earth.
Even Neptune, lord of the sea, laid down his trident and calmed the
flood. The ocean resumed its banks; the rivers returned to their beds;
forests stretched their slime-covered tree-tops out of the deep; hills
followed; finally stretches of level land appeared and the earth was as
before.
Deucalion looked around him. The country was laid waste; it was wrapped
in the silence of the grave. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he said to
his wife, Pyrrha, "Beloved, solitary companion of my life, as far as I
can see through all the surrounding country, I can discover no living
creature. We two must people the earth; all the rest have been drowned
by the flood. But even we are not yet certain of our lives. Every cloud
that I see strikes terror to my soul. And even if danger is past, what
shall we do alone on the forsaken earth? Oh, that my father Prometheus
had taught me the art of creating men and breathing life into them!"
Then the two began to weep. They threw themselves on their knees before
the half-destroyed altar of the goddess Themis, and began to pray,
saying, "Tell us? O goddess, by what means we can replace the race that
has disappeared? Oh, help the earth to new life."
"Leave my altar," sounded the voice of the goddess. "Uncover your heads,
ungird your garments and cast the bones of your mother behind you."
For a long time Deucalion and Pyrrha wondered over the puzzling words
of the goddess. Pyrrha was the first to break the silence. "Pardon me, O
noble goddess," she said, "if I do not obey you and cannot consent to
scatter the bones of my mother."
Then Deucalion had a happy thought. He comforted his wife. "Either my
reason deceives me," he said, "or the command of the goddess is good and
involves no impiety. The great mother of all of us is the Earth; her
bones are the stones, and these, Pyrrha, we will cast behind us!"
Both mistrusted this interpretation of the words, but what harm would it
do to try? Thereupon they uncovered their heads, ungirded their garments
and began casting stones behind them.
Then a wonderful thing happened. The stone began to lose its hardness,
became malleable, grew and took form--not definite at once, but rude
figures such as an artist first hews out of the rough marble. Whatever
was moist or earthy in the stones was changed into flesh; the harder
parts became bones; the veins in the rock remained as veins in the
bodies. Thus, in a little while, with the aid of the gods, the stones
which Deucalion threw assumed the form of men; those which Pyrrha threw,
the form of women.
This homely origin the race of men does not deny; they are a hardy
people, accustomed to work. Every moment of the day they remember from
what sturdy stock they have sprung.