Apollo the Musician
I
When Apollo left King Admetus and returned to the halls of Olympus,
he had not rested there long before he found that there was further
service for him to render on the earth. Among the many noted deeds that
he performed, the most famous was his slaying of a monstrous serpent
called the Python, which was born of the slime that remained on the
surface of the earth after the Deluge.[10] Apollo killed the creature
with his golden arrows, and then went to the help of Neptune, who,
though a powerful deity in his own realm, was often obliged to ask
help of the other gods when he wished to accomplish anything on land.
Hearing that Neptune wished to build a great wall around the city of
Troy, and remembering the aid that the sea-god had given his mother
Latona in her great need, Apollo went down to the sea and offered his
services to Neptune. Of course no son of Jupiter could be expected
to do the work of a slave, but this was not necessary, even in the
building of a wall; for Apollo sat down on a grassy bank near by, and,
with his lyre in his hand, began to play such exquisite music that the
very stones were bewitched, and rising from the ground of their own
accord took their places in the wall. Still under the spell of Apollo's
music, others followed in quick succession, and the wall rose higher
and higher, until before nightfall the whole work was finished. When
the last stone had dropped into place, Apollo stopped his playing and
returned to the bright halls of Olympus; while Neptune, shaking the
salt spray from his shaggy eyebrows, stared hard at the walls that had
risen by magic before his wondering eyes.
II
The story of Arachne's sad fate should have been warning enough to all
mortals not to compare themselves with the gods; but such was the pride
of a certain youth named Marsyas that he boasted openly of his skill
in flute-playing, and dared to proclaim himself the equal of Apollo.
Now Marsyas had not always been a musician, for he was by birth a
shepherd--some even say a satyr--and had never seen a flute or heard
it played until one day, as he sat tending his flock on the bank of a
stream, he heard sounds of music coming from some spot near by. He was
very curious to see who the musician might be, but he dared not move
lest he startle the player and make the beautiful melody cease. So he
sat still and waited; and presently there came floating down the stream
a flute--something that Marsyas had never seen before. He hurriedly
snatched it out of the water, and, no longer hearing the wonderful
music, he guessed that it had come from the strange thing he held in
his hand. He put the flute to his lips, and lo, the same sweet melody
greeted his ears, for the flute was not a common thing such as any man
might use--it was a beautiful instrument that belonged to no less a
person than Minerva. The goddess had hidden herself on the bank of the
stream and had been trying her skill as a flute-player; but chancing to
look down into the water, she saw her puffed-out cheeks and distorted
features and angrily threw the flute into the stream. Thus it had
come into Marsyas's possession; and the shepherd, having found such a
treasure, never let it leave his hands. He neglected his work and left
his flocks unguarded while he spent all his days in the delight of
flute-playing.
It was not long before he believed himself to be the greatest musician
in all Greece; and then it was only a step further to declare that even
Apollo could not equal him in the sweetness of his playing. The god of
music allowed this boasting to go for some time unpunished; but at
last he grew angry at the presumption of the shepherd boy, and summoned
Marsyas to a contest in which the nine Muses were to be judges. Nothing
daunted, Marsyas accepted the challenge; and on the morning when the
contest took place, a great silence fell over all the earth, as if
every living thing had stopped to listen. The playing of Marsyas was
wonderfully sweet, and as the soft tones of his flute greeted the
listeners' ears they sat as if under a spell until the last sounds died
away. Then Apollo took up his golden lyre, and when he struck the first
chords, the air was filled with music far sweeter than any melody that
had fallen from the lips of Marsyas. The judges, however, found it
hard to give a verdict in favor of either musician; so a second time
Marsyas began to play, and his music was so strangely wild and sweet
that even Apollo listened in delight. But, charmed as he was by the
youth's playing, the god of music had no intention of being outdone by
a shepherd; so when he took up his golden lyre again, he began to sing,
and added the wonder of his voice to the sweetness of his playing. When
the singing ended there was no longer any doubt to whom the victory
belonged; and Marsyas was forced to admit his defeat. As the price
of failure was to be the terrible penalty of being flayed alive, the
wretched Marsyas had to submit to this cruel death. Apollo bound him
to a tree and slew him with his own hands.
III
When the news of Marsyas's dreadful fate spread abroad, people were
careful for many years not to anger any of the deities by presuming to
rival them; but in time the memory of that tragic event faded away, and
the horror of it was forgotten.
In the halls of King Midas was the noise of great mirth and feasting,
and the sound of music filled the spacious room where the king and
his court sat at the banquet-table. Beside the king stood Pan, his
favorite flute-player, who was no other than the famous sylvan god of
shepherds; and as the wine went round and the king grew boastful of his
possessions, he exclaimed loudly that not even Apollo himself could
produce such exquisite music as fell from the flute of Pan. The guests,
remembering the fate of Marsyas, grew pale and begged the king not to
let his boast be heard; but Midas laughed scornfully and, raising his
drinking cup above his head, called upon Apollo to appear.
To the surprise and dismay of all, the god of music suddenly stood
before them, beautiful as the dawn and glowing with divine wrath.
Though Pan was himself a deity, he had no desire to challenge Apollo,
and looked fearfully at the sun-god's angry frown; but the king, drunk
with pride, commanded him to play, and bade the god of music surpass
the playing if he could. There was, of course, no question as to which
was the better musician, and the guests loudly proclaimed Apollo the
victor. One story tells that to prove further the superiority of
Apollo's playing the company went to the old mountain-god Tmolus, and
let him make the final decision. Tmolus had to clear the trees from
his ears to listen; and having done this he bent his head, and all his
trees leaned with him. He heard with delight both musicians play; and
when the last soft notes fell from Apollo's lyre, the mountain-god
awarded him the victory. But Midas at the beginning of the contest
had demanded the right to decide on the merits of the players, and he
would not accept this verdict. In his mad perversity and fondness for
his favorite, he cried out that Pan was the better player, and would
therefore be awarded the prize. Angered at this unfair decision, Apollo
left the banquet-hall, but not before he had assured Midas that the
injustice would be punished.
These words came true in a most unexpected way, for when the king
looked into his mirror the next morning, he found a pair of large fuzzy
ass's ears growing in the place of his own natural ones. Horrified at
his absurd appearance, Midas did not dare show himself to his people;
but sent in haste for a barber, and bade him make a wig large enough
to cover the monstrous ears. For many hours the barber was closeted
with the king, and when the wig was finished, he was allowed to leave
the palace, after having sworn never to reveal the king's misfortune
under pain of death. For some time the secret was safely kept; but the
poor barber found life unbearable, since he lived in constant fear of
letting out the truth about the king's ears in spite of his frantic
efforts to be silent. Whenever Midas appeared in the city streets, the
barber had to rush home and shut himself up lest he should scream out
the story of the wig.
One day he thought of a happy solution of his difficulty and one that
broke his long seal of silence without endangering his life. He went
out into the fields, dug a deep hole, and putting his head down as far
as he could he shouted:--
"King Midas has ass's ears, King Midas has ass's ears."
Then he went home again, much happier for having told some one of his
secret, even though it was only Mother Earth. But the truth once told
did not stay hidden even in the earth; for in time the hole was filled
again and reeds grew over the spot, and as the wind swayed them back
and forth they murmured: "King Midas has ass's ears. King Midas has
ass's ears."
It was not long before all the people in the countryside had gathered
to hear the strange whispering of the reeds, and then the secret could
be kept no longer. But though every one knew the truth King Midas
continued to wear his wig, and no one ever saw the real size of his
ears.