Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Tonya Allen, and Project
Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
OLD GREEK FOLK STORIES TOLD ANEW
By Josephine Preston Peabody
1897
PUBLISHERS' NOTE.
Hawthorne, in his _Wonder-Book_ and _Tanglewood Tales_, has told, in a
manner familiar to multitudes of American children and to many more who
once were children, a dozen of the old Greek folk stories. They have
served to render the persons and scenes known as no classical
dictionary would make them known. But Hawthorne chose a few out of the
many myths which are constantly appealing to the reader not only of
ancient but of modern literature. The group contained in the collection
which follows will help to fill out the list; it is designed to serve
as a complement to the _Wonder-Book_ and _Tanglewood Tales_, so that
the references to the stories in those collections are brief and
allusive only. In order to make the entire series more useful, the
index added to this number of the _Riverside Literature Series_ is made
to include also the stories contained in the other numbers of the
series which contain Hawthorne's two books. Thus the index serves as a
tolerably full clue to the best-known characters in Greek mythology.
_Once upon a time, men made friends with the Earth. They listened to
all that woods and waters might say; their eyes were keen to see
wonders in silent country places and in the living creatures that had
not learned to be afraid. To this wise world outside the people took
their joy and sorrow; and because they loved the Earth, she answered
them._
_It was not strange that Pan himself sometimes brought home a
shepherd's stray lamb. It was not strange, if one broke the branches of
a tree, that some fair life within wept at the hurt. Even now, the
Earth is glad with us in springtime, and we grieve for her when the
leaves go. But in the old days there was a closer union, clearer speech
between men and all other creatures, Earth and the stars about her._
_Out of the life that they lived together, there have come down to us
these wonderful tales; and, whether they be told well or ill, they are
too good to be forgotten._
CONTENTS.
THE WOOD-FOLK
THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS
PROMETHEUS
THE DELUGE
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE
ICARUS AND DAEDALUS
PHAETHON
NIOBE
ADMETUS AND THE SHEPHERD
ALCESTIS
APOLLO'S SISTER
I. DIANA AND ACTAEON
II. DIANA AND ENDYMION
THE CALYDONIAN HUNT
ATALANTA'S RACE
ARACHNE
PYRAMUS AND THISBE
PYGMALION AND GALATEA
OEDIPUS
CUPID AND PSYCHE
THE TRIAL OF PSYCHE
STORIES OP THE TROJAN WAR
I. THE APPLE OF DISCORD
II. THE ROUSING OF THE HEROES
III. THE WOODEN HORSE
THE HOUSE OF AGAMEMNON
THE ADVENTURES OF ODYSSEUS
I. THE CURSE OF POLYPHEMUS
II. THE WANDERING OF ODYSSEUS
III. THE HOME-COMING
THE WOOD-FOLK.
Pan led a merrier life than all the other gods together. He was beloved
alike by shepherds and countrymen, and by the fauns and satyrs, birds
and beasts, of his own kingdom. The care of flocks and herds was his,
and for home he had all the world of woods and waters; he was lord of
everything out-of-doors! Yet he felt the burden of it no more than he
felt the shadow of a leaf when he danced, but spent the days in
laughter and music among his fellows. Like him, the fauns and satyrs
had furry, pointed ears, and little horns that sprouted above their
brows; in fact, they were all enough like wild creatures to seem no
strangers to anything untamed. They slept in the sun, piped in the
shade, and lived on wild grapes and the nuts that every squirrel was
ready to share with them.
The woods were never lonely. A man might wander away into those
solitudes and think himself friendless; but here and there a river
knew, and a tree could tell, a story of its own. Beautiful creatures
they were, that for one reason or another had left off human shape.
Some had been transformed against their will, that they might do no
more harm to their fellow-men. Some were changed through the pity of
the gods, that they might share the simple life of Pan, mindless of
mortal cares, glad in rain and sunshine, and always close to the heart
of the Earth.
There was Dryope, for instance, the lotus-tree. Once a careless, happy
woman, walking among the trees with her sister Iole and her own baby,
she had broken a lotus that held a live nymph hidden, and blood dripped
from the wounded plant. Too late, Dryope saw her heedlessness; and
there her steps had taken root, and there she had said good-by to her
child, and prayed Iole to bring him sometimes to play beneath her
shadow. Poor mother-tree! Perhaps she took comfort with the birds and
gave a kindly shelter to some nest.
There, too, was Echo, once a wood-nymph who angered the goddess Juno
with her waste of words, and was compelled now to wait till others
spoke, and then to say nothing but their last word, like any
mocking-bird. One day she saw and loved the youth Narcissus, who was
searching the woods for his hunting companions. "Come hither!" he
called, and Echo cried "Hither!" eager to speak at last. "Here am
I,--come!" he repeated, looking about for the voice. "I come," said
Echo, and she stood before him. But the youth, angry at such mimicry,
only stared at her and hastened away. From that time she faded to a
voice, and to this day she lurks hidden and silent till you call.
But Narcissus himself was destined to fall in love with a shadow. For,
leaning over the edge of a brook one day, he saw his own beautiful face
looking up at him like a water-nymph. He leaned nearer, and the face
rose towards him, but when he touched the surface it was gone in a
hundred ripples. Day after day he besought the lovely creature to have
pity and to speak; but it mocked him with his own tears and smiles, and
he forgot all else, until he changed into a flower that leans over to
see its image in the pool.
There, too, was the sunflower Clytie, once a maiden who thought nothing
so beautiful as the sun-god Phoebus Apollo. All the day long she used
to look after him as he journeyed across the heavens in his golden
chariot, until she came to be a fair rooted plant that ever turns its
head to watch the sun.
Many like were there. Daphne the laurel, Hyacinthus (once a beautiful
youth, slain by mischance), who lives and renews his bloom as a
flower,--these and a hundred others. The very weeds were friendly....
But there were wise, immortal voices in certain caves and trees. Men
called them Oracles; for here the gods spoke in answer to the prayers
of folk in sorrow or bewilderment. Sometimes they built a temple around
such a befriending voice, and kings would journey far to hear it speak.
As for Pan, only one grief had he, and in the end a glad thing came of
it.
One day, when he was loitering in Arcadia, he saw the beautiful
wood-nymph Syrinx. She was hastening to join Diana at the chase, and
she herself was as swift and lovely as any bright bird that one longs
to capture. So Pan thought, and he hurried after to tell her. But
Syrinx turned, caught one glimpse of the god's shaggy locks and bright
eyes, and the two little horns on his head (he was much like a wild
thing, at a look), and she sprang away down the path in terror.
Begging her to listen, Pan followed; and Syrinx, more and more
frightened by the patter of his hoofs, never heeded him, but went as
fast as light till she came to the brink of the river. Only then she
paused, praying her friends, the water-nymphs, for some way of escape.
The gentle, bewildered creatures, looking up through the water, could
think of but one device.
Just as the god overtook Syrinx and stretched out his arms to her, she
vanished like a mist, and he found himself grasping a cluster of tall
reeds. Poor Pan!
The breeze that sighed whenever he did--and oftener--shook the reeds
and made a sweet little sound,--a sudden music. Pan heard it, half
consoled.
"Is it your voice, Syrinx?" he said. "Shall we sing together?"
He bound a number of the reeds side by side; to this day, shepherds
know how. He blew across the hollow pipes and they made music!
THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS
Pan came at length to be such a wonderful piper with his syrinx (for so
he named his flute) that he challenged Apollo to make better music if
he could. Now the sun-god was also the greatest of divine musicians,
and he resolved to punish the vanity of the country-god, and so
consented to the test. For judge they chose the mountain Tmolus, since
no one is so old and wise as the hills. And, since Tmolus could not
leave his home, to him went Pan and Apollo, each with his followers,
oreads and dryads, fauns, satyrs, and centaurs.
Among the worshippers of Pan was a certain Midas, who had a strange
story. Once a king of great wealth, he had chanced to befriend
Dionysus, god of the vine; and when he was asked to choose some good
gift in return, he prayed that everything he touched might be turned
into gold. Dionysus smiled a little when he heard this foolish prayer,
but he granted it. Within two days, King Midas learned the secret of
that smile, and begged the god to take away the gift that was a curse.
He had touched everything that belonged to him, and little joy did he
have of his possessions! His palace was as yellow a home as a dandelion
to a bee, but not half so sweet. Row upon row of stiff golden trees
stood in his garden; they no longer knew a breeze when they heard it.
When he sat down to eat, his feast turned to treasure uneatable. He
learned that a king may starve, and he came to see that gold cannot
replace the live, warm gifts of the Earth. Kindly Dionysus took back
the charm, but from that day King Midas so hated gold that he chose to
live far from luxury, among the woods and fields. Even here he was not
to go free from misadventure.
Tmolus gave the word, and Pan uprose with his syrinx, and blew upon the
reeds a melody so wild and yet so coaxing that the squirrels came, as
if at a call, and the birds hopped down in rows. The trees swayed with
a longing to dance, and the fauns looked at one another and laughed for
joy. To their furry little ears, it was the sweetest music that could
be.
But Tmolus bowed before Apollo, and the sun-god rose with his golden
lyre in his hands. As he moved, light shook out of his radiant hair as
raindrops are showered from the leaves. His trailing robes were purple,
like the clouds that temper the glory of a sunset, so that one may look
upon it. He touched the strings of his lyre, and all things were silent
with joy. He made music, and the woods dreamed. The fauns and satyrs
were quite still; and the wild creatures crouched, blinking, under a
charm of light that they could not understand. To hear such a music
cease was like bidding farewell to father and mother.
With one accord they fell at the feet of Apollo, and Tmolus proclaimed
the victory his. Only one voice disputed that award.
Midas refused to acknowledge Apollo lord of music,--perhaps because the
looks of the god dazzled his eyes unpleasantly, and put him in mind of
his foolish wish years before. For him there was no music in a golden
lyre!
But Apollo would not leave such dull ears unpunished. At a word from
him they grew long, pointed, furry, and able to turn this way and that
(like a poplar leaf),--a plain warning to musicians. Midas had the ears
of an ass, for every one to see!
For a long time the poor man hid this oddity with such skill that we
might never have heard of it. But one of his servants learned the
secret, and suffered so much from keeping it to himself that he had to
unburden his mind at last. Out into the meadows he went, hollowed a
little place in the turf, whispered the strange news into it quite
softly, and heaped the earth over again. Alas! a bed of reeds sprang up
there before long, and whispered in turn to the grass-blades. Year
after year they grew again, ever gossipping among themselves; and to
this day, with every wind that sets them nodding together, they murmur,
laughing, "_Midas has the ears of an ass: Oh, hush, hush!_"
PROMETHEUS.
In the early days of the universe, there was a great struggle for
empire between Zeus and the Titans. The Titans, giant powers of heaven
and earth, were for seizing whatever they wanted, with no more ado than
a whirlwind. Prometheus, the wisest of all their race, long tried to
persuade them that good counsel would avail more than violence; but
they refused to listen. Then, seeing that such rulers would soon turn
heaven and earth into chaos again, Prometheus left them to their own
devices, and went over to Zeus, whom he aided so well that the Titans
were utterly overthrown. Down into Tartarus they went, to live among
the hidden fires of the earth; and there they spent a long term of
bondage, muttering like storm, and shaking the roots of mountains. One
of them was Enceladus, who lay bound under Aetna; and one, Atlas, was
made to stand and bear up the weight of the sky on his giant shoulders.
Zeus was left King of gods and men. Like any young ruler, he was eager
to work great changes with his new power. Among other plans, he
proposed to destroy the race of men then living, and to replace it with
some new order of creatures. Prometheus alone heard this scheme with
indignation. Not only did he plead for the life of man and save it, but
ever after he spent his giant efforts to civilize the race, and to
endow it with a wit near to that of gods.
In the Golden Age, men had lived free of care. They took no heed of
daily wants, since Zeus gave them all things needful, and the earth
brought forth fruitage and harvest without asking the toil of
husbandmen. If mortals were light of heart, however, their minds were
empty of great enterprise. They did not know how to build or plant or
weave; their thoughts never flew far, and they had no wish to cross the
sea.
But Prometheus loved earthly folk, and thought that they had been
children long enough. He was a mighty workman, with the whole world for
a workshop; and little by little he taught men knowledge that is
wonderful to know, so that they grew out of their childhood, and began
to take thought for themselves. Some people even say that he knew how
to make men,--as we make shapes out of clay,--and set their five wits
going. However that may be, he was certainly a cunning workman. He
taught men first to build huts out of clay, and to thatch roofs with
straw. He showed them how to make bricks and hew marble. He taught them
numbers and letters, the signs of the seasons, and the coming and going
of the stars. He showed them how to use for their healing the simple
herbs that once had no care save to grow and be fragrant. He taught
them how to till the fields; how to tame the beasts, and set them also
to work; how to build ships that ride the water, and to put wings upon
them that they may go faster, like birds.
With every new gift, men desired more and more. They set out to see
unknown lands, and their ambitions grew with their knowledge. They were
like a race of poor gods gifted with dreams of great glory and the
power to fashion marvellous things; and, though they had no endless
youth to spend, the gods were troubled.
Last of all, Prometheus went up secretly to heaven after the treasure
of the immortals. He lighted a reed at the flame of the sun, and
brought down the holy fire which is dearest to the gods. For with the
aid of fire all things are possible, all arts are perfected.
This was his greatest gift to man, but it was a theft from the immortal
gods, and Zeus would endure no more. He could not take back the secret
of fire; but he had Prometheus chained to a lofty crag in the Caucasus,
where every day a vulture came to prey upon his body, and at night the
wound would heal, so that it was ever to suffer again. It was a bitter
penalty for so noble-hearted a rebel, and as time went by, and Zeus
remembered his bygone services, he would have made peace once more. He
only waited till Prometheus should bow his stubborn spirit, but this
the son of Titans would not do. Haughty as rock beneath his daily
torment, believing that he suffered for the good of mankind, he endured
for years.
One secret hardened his spirit. He was sure that the empire of Zeus
must fall some day, since he knew of a danger that threatened it. For
there was a certain beautiful sea-nymph, Thetis, whom Zeus desired for
his wife. (This was before his marriage to Queen Juno.) Prometheus
alone knew that Thetis was destined to have a son who should be far
greater than his father. If she married some mortal, then, the prophecy
was not so wonderful; but if she were to marry the King of gods and
men, and her son should be greater than he, there could be no safety
for the kingdom. This knowledge Prometheus kept securely hidden; but he
ever defied Zeus, and vexed him with dark sayings about a danger that
threatened his sovereignty. No torment could wring the secret from him.
Year after year, lashed by the storms and scorched by the heat of the
sun, he hung in chains and the vulture tore his vitals, while the young
Oceanides wept at his feet, and men sorrowed over the doom of their
protector.
At last that earlier enmity between the gods and the Titans came to an
end. The banished rebels were set free from Tartarus, and they
themselves came and besought their brother, Prometheus, to hear the
terms of Zeus. For the King of gods and men had promised to pardon his
enemy, if he would only reveal this one troublous secret.
In all heaven and earth there was but one thing that marred the new
harmony,--this long struggle between Zeus and Prometheus; and the Titan
relented. He spoke the prophecy, warned Zeus not to marry Thetis, and
the two were reconciled. The hero Heracles (himself an earthly son of
Zeus) slew the vulture and set Prometheus free.
But it was still needful that a life should be given to expiate that
ancient sin,--the theft of fire. It happened that Chiron, noblest of
all the Centaurs (who are half horses and half men), was wandering the
world in agony from a wound that he had received by strange mischance.
For, at a certain wedding-feast among the Lapithae of Thessaly, one of
the turbulent Centaurs had attempted to steal away the bride. A fierce
struggle followed, and in the general confusion, Chiron, blameless as
he was, had been wounded by a poisoned arrow. Ever tormented with the
hurt and never to be healed, the immortal Centaur longed for death, and
begged that he might be accepted as an atonement for Prometheus. The
gods heard his prayer and took away his pain and his immortality. He
died like any wearied man, and Zeus set him as a shining archer among
the stars.
So ended a long feud. From the day of Prometheus, men spent their lives
in ceaseless enterprise, forced to take heed for food and raiment,
since they knew how, and to ply their tasks of art and handicraft, They
had taken unresting toil upon them, but they had a wondrous servant at
their beck and call,--the bright-eyed fire that is the treasure of the
gods.
THE DELUGE.
Even with the gifts of Prometheus, men could not rest content. As years
went by, they lost all the innocence of the early world; they grew more
and more covetous and evil-hearted. Not satisfied with the fruits of
the Earth, or with the fair work of their own hands, they delved in the
ground after gold and jewels; and for the sake of treasure nations made
war upon each other and hate sprang up in households. Murder and theft
broke loose and left nothing sacred.
At last Zeus spoke. Calling the gods together, he said: "Ye see what
the Earth has become through the baseness of men. Once they were
deserving of our protection; now they even neglect to ask it. I will
destroy them with my thunderbolts and make a new race."
But the gods withheld him from this impulse. "For," they said, "let not
the Earth, the mother of all, take fire and perish. But seek out some
means to destroy mankind and leave her unhurt."
So Zeus unloosed the waters of the world and there was a great flood.
The streams that had been pent in narrow channels, like wild steeds
bound to the ploughshare, broke away with exultation; the springs
poured down from the mountains, and the air was blind with rain.
Valleys and uplands were covered; strange countries were joined in one
great sea; and where the highest trees had towered, only a little
greenery pricked through the water, as weeds show in a brook.
Men and women perished with the flocks and herds. Wild beasts from the
forest floated away on the current with the poor sheep. Birds, left
homeless, circled and flew far and near seeking some place of rest,
and, finding none, they fell from weariness and died with human folk,
that had no wings.
Then for the first time the sea-creatures--nymphs and
dolphins--ventured far from their homes, up, up through the swollen
waters, among places that they had never seen before,--forests whose
like they had not dreamed, towns and deluged farmsteads. They went in
and out of drowned palaces, and wondered at the strange ways of men.
And in and out the bright fish darted, too, without a fear. Wonderful
man was no more. His hearth was empty; and fire, his servant, was dead
on earth.
One mountain alone stood high above this ruin. It was Parnassus, sacred
to the gods; and here one man and woman had found refuge. Strangely
enough, this husband and wife were of the race of the Titans,--Deucalion,
a son of Prometheus, and Pyrrha, a child of Epimetheus, his brother; and
these alone had lived pure and true of heart.
Warned by Prometheus of the fate in store for the Earth, they had put
off from their home in a little boat, and had made the crest of
Parnassus their safe harbor.
The gods looked down on these two lonely creatures, and, beholding all
their past lives clear and just, suffered them to live on. Zeus bade
the rain cease and the floods withdraw.
Once more the rivers sought their wonted channels, and the sea-gods and
the nymphs wandered home reluctantly with the sinking seas. The sun
came out; and they hastened more eagerly to find cool depths. Little by
little the forest trees rose from the shallows as if they were growing
anew. At last the surface of the world lay clear to see, but sodden and
deserted, the fair fields covered with ooze, the houses rank with moss,
the temples cold and lightless.
Deucalion and Pyrrha saw the bright waste of water sink and grow dim
and the hills emerge, and the earth show green once more. But even
their thankfulness of heart could not make them merry.
"Are we to live on this great earth all alone?" they said. "Ah! if we
had but the wisdom and cunning of our fathers, we might make a new race
of men to bear us company. But now what remains to us? We have only
each other for all our kindred."
"Take heart, dear wife," said Deucalion at length, "and let us pray to
the gods in yonder temple."
They went thither hand in hand. It touched their hearts to see the
sacred steps soiled with the water-weeds,--the altar without fire; but
they entered reverently, and besought the Oracle to help them.
"Go forth," answered the spirit of the place, "with your faces veiled
and your robes ungirt; and cast behind you, as ye go, the bones of your
mother."
Deucalion and Pyrrha heard with amazement. The strange word was
terrible to them.
"We may never dare do this," whispered Pyrrha. "It would be impious to
strew our mother's bones along the way."
In sadness and wonder they went out together and took thought, a little
comforted by the firmness of the dry earth beneath their feet. Suddenly
Deucalion pointed to the ground.
"Behold the Earth, our mother!" said he. "Surely it was this that the
Oracle meant. And what should her bones be but the rocks that are a
foundation for the clay, and the pebbles that strew the path?"
Uncertain, but with lighter hearts, they veiled their faces, ungirt
their garments, and, gathering each an armful of the stones, flung them
behind, as the Oracle had bidden.
And, as they walked, every stone that Deucalion flung became a man; and
every one that Pyrrha threw sprang up a woman. And the hearts of these
two were filled with joy and welcome.
Down from the holy mountain they went, all those new creatures, ready
to make them homes and to go about human work. For they were strong to
endure, fresh and hardy of spirit, as men and women should be who are
true children of our Mother Earth.
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.
When gods and shepherds piped and the stars sang, that was the day of
musicians! But the triumph of Phoebus Apollo himself was not so
wonderful as the triumph of a mortal man who lived on earth, though
some say that he came of divine lineage. This was Orpheus, that best of
harpers, who went with the Grecian heroes of the great ship Argo in
search of the Golden Fleece.
After his return from the quest, he won Eurydice for his wife, and they
were as happy as people can be who love each other and every one else.
The very wild beasts loved them, and the trees clustered about their
home as if they were watered with music. But even the gods themselves
were not always free from sorrow, and one day misfortune came upon that
harper Orpheus whom all men loved to honor.
Eurydice, his lovely wife, as she was wandering with the nymphs,
unwittingly trod upon a serpent in the grass. Surely, if Orpheus had
been with her, playing upon his lyre, no creature could have harmed
her. But Orpheus came too late. She died of the sting, and was lost to
him in the Underworld.
For days he wandered from his home, singing the story of his loss and
his despair to the helpless passers-by. His grief moved the very stones
in the wilderness, and roused a dumb distress in the hearts of savage
beasts. Even the gods on Mount Olympus gave ear, but they held no power
over the darkness of Hades.
Wherever Orpheus wandered with his lyre, no one had the will to forbid
him entrance; and at length he found unguarded that very cave that
leads to the Underworld where Pluto rules the spirits of the dead. He
went down without fear. The fire in his living heart found him a way
through the gloom of that place. He crossed the Styx, the black river
that the gods name as their most sacred oath. Charon, the harsh old
ferryman who takes the Shades across, forgot to ask of him the coin
that every soul must pay. For Orpheus sang. There in the Underworld the
song of Apollo would not have moved the poor ghosts so much. It would
have amazed them, like a star far off that no one understands. But here
was a human singer, and he sang of things that grow in every human
heart, youth and love and death, the sweetness of the Earth, and the
bitterness of losing aught that is dear to us.
Now the dead, when they go to the Underworld, drink of the pool of
Lethe; and forgetfulness of all that has passed comes upon them like a
sleep, and they lose their longing for the world, they lose their
memory of pain, and live content with that cool twilight. But not the
pool of Lethe itself could withstand the song of Orpheus; and in the
hearts of the Shades all the old dreams awoke wondering. They
remembered once more the life of men on Earth, the glory of the sun and
moon, the sweetness of new grass, the warmth of their homes, all the
old joy and grief that they had known. And they wept.
Even the Furies were moved to pity. Those, too, who were suffering
punishment for evil deeds ceased to be tormented for themselves, and
grieved only for the innocent Orpheus who had lost Eurydice. Sisyphus,
that fraudulent king (who is doomed to roll a monstrous boulder uphill
forever), stopped to listen. The daughters of Danaus left off their
task of drawing water in a sieve. Tantalus forgot hunger and thirst,
though before his eyes hung magical fruits that were wont to vanish out
of his grasp, and just beyond reach bubbled the water that was a
torment to his ears; he did not hear it while Orpheus sang.
So, among a crowd of eager ghosts, Orpheus came, singing with all his
heart, before the king and queen of Hades. And the queen Proserpina
wept as she listened and grew homesick, remembering the fields of Enna
and the growing of the wheat, and her own beautiful mother, Demeter.
Then Pluto gave way.
They called Eurydice and she came, like a young guest unused to the
darkness of the Underworld. She was to return with Orpheus, but on one
condition. If he turned to look at her once before they reached the
upper air, he must lose her again and go back to the world alone.
Rapt with joy, the happy Orpheus hastened on the way, thinking only of
Eurydice, who was following him. Past Lethe, across the Styx they went,
he and his lovely wife, still silent as a Shade. But the place was full
of gloom, the silence weighed upon him, he had not seen her for so
long; her footsteps made no sound; and he could hardly believe the
miracle, for Pluto seldom relents. When the first gleam of upper
daylight broke through the cleft to the dismal world, he forgot all,
save that he must know if she still followed. He turned to see her
face, and the promise was broken!
She smiled at him forgivingly, but it was too late. He stretched out
his arms to take her, but she faded from them, as the bright snow, that
none may keep, melts in our very hands. A murmur of farewell came to
his ears,--no more. She was gone.
He would have followed, but Charon, now on guard, drove him back. Seven
days he lingered there between the worlds of life and death, but after
the broken promise, Hades would not listen to his song. Back to the
Earth he wandered, though it was sweet to him no longer. He died young,
singing to the last, and round about the place where his body rested,
nightingales nested in the trees. His lyre was set among the stars; and
he himself went down to join Eurydice, unforbidden.
Those two had no need of Lethe, for their life on earth had been wholly
fair, and now that they are together they no longer own a sorrow.
ICARUS AND DAEDALUS.
Among all those mortals who grew so wise that they learned the secrets
of the gods, none was more cunning than Daedalus.
He once built, for King Minos of Crete, a wonderful Labyrinth of
winding ways so cunningly tangled up and twisted around that, once
inside, you could never find your way out again without a magic clue.
But the king's favor veered with the wind, and one day he had his
master architect imprisoned in a tower. Daedalus managed to escape from
his cell; but it seemed impossible to leave the island, since every
ship that came or went was well guarded by order of the king.
At length, watching the sea-gulls in the air,--the only creatures that
were sure of liberty,--he thought of a plan for himself and his young
son Icarus, who was captive with him.
Little by little, he gathered a store of feathers great and small. He
fastened these together with thread, moulded them in with wax, and so
fashioned two great wings like those of a bird. When they were done,
Daedalus fitted them to his own shoulders, and after one or two
efforts, he found that by waving his arms he could winnow the air and
cleave it, as a swimmer does the sea. He held himself aloft, wavered
this way and that with the wind, and at last, like a great fledgling,
he learned to fly.
Without delay, he fell to work on a pair of wings for the boy Icarus,
and taught him carefully how to use them, bidding him beware of rash
adventures among the stars. "Remember," said the father, "never to fly
very low or very high, for the fogs about the earth would weigh you
down, but the blaze of the sun will surely melt your feathers apart if
you go too near."
For Icarus, these cautions went in at one ear and out by the other. Who
could remember to be careful when he was to fly for the first time? Are
birds careful? Not they! And not an idea remained in the boy's head but
the one joy of escape.
The day came, and the fair wind that was to set them free. The father
bird put on his wings, and, while the light urged them to be gone, he
waited to see that all was well with Icarus, for the two could not fly
hand in hand. Up they rose, the boy after his father. The hateful
ground of Crete sank beneath them; and the country folk, who caught a
glimpse of them when they were high above the tree-tops, took it for a
vision of the gods,--Apollo, perhaps, with Cupid after him.
At first there was a terror in the joy. The wide vacancy of the air
dazed them,--a glance downward made their brains reel. But when a great
wind filled their wings, and Icarus felt himself sustained, like a
halcyon-bird in the hollow of a wave, like a child uplifted by his
mother, he forgot everything in the world but joy. He forgot Crete and
the other islands that he had passed over: he saw but vaguely that
winged thing in the distance before him that was his father Daedalus.
He longed for one draught of flight to quench the thirst of his
captivity: he stretched out his arms to the sky and made towards the
highest heavens.
Alas for him! Warmer and warmer grew the air. Those arms, that had
seemed to uphold him, relaxed. His wings wavered, drooped. He fluttered
his young hands vainly,--he was falling,--and in that terror he
remembered. The heat of the sun had melted the wax from his wings; the
feathers were falling, one by one, like snowflakes; and there was none
to help.
He fell like a leaf tossed down the wind, down, down, with one cry that
overtook Daedalus far away. When he returned, and sought high and low
for the poor boy, he saw nothing but the bird-like feathers afloat on
the water, and he knew that Icarus was drowned.
The nearest island he named Icaria, in memory of the child; but he, in
heavy grief, went to the temple of Apollo in Sicily, and there hung up
his wings as an offering. Never again did he attempt to fly.
PHAETHON.
Once upon a time, the reckless whim of a lad came near to destroying
the Earth and robbing the spheres of their wits.
There were two playmates, said to be of heavenly parentage. One was
Epaphus, who claimed Zeus as a father; and one was Phaethon, the
earthly child of Phoebus Apollo (or Helios, as some name the sun-god).
One day they were boasting together, each of his own father, and
Epaphus, angry at the other's fine story, dared him to go prove his
kinship with the Sun.
Full of rage and humiliation, Phaethon went to his mother, Clymene,
where she sat with his young sisters, the Heliades.
"It is true, my child," she said, "I swear it in the light of yonder
Sun. If you have any doubt, go to the land whence he rises at morning
and ask of him any gift you will; he is your father, and he cannot
refuse you."
As soon as might be, Phaethon set out for the country of sunrise. He
journeyed by day and by night far into the east, till he came to the
palace of the Sun. It towered high as the clouds, glorious with gold
and all manner of gems that looked like frozen fire, if that might be.
The mighty walls were wrought with images of earth and sea and sky.
Vulcan, the smith of the gods, had made them in his workshop (for
Mount-Aetna is one of his forges, and he has the central fires of the
earth to help him fashion gold and iron, as men do glass). On the doors
blazed the twelve signs of the Zodiac, in silver that shone like snow
in the sunlight. Phaethon was dazzled with the sight, but when he
entered the palace hall he could hardly bear the radiance.
In one glimpse through his half-shut eyes, he beheld a glorious being,
none other than Phoebus himself, seated upon a throne. He was clothed
in purple raiment, and round his head there shone a blinding light,
that enveloped even his courtiers upon the right and upon the
left,--the Seasons with their emblems, Day, Month, Year, and the
beautiful young Hours in a row. In one glance of those all-seeing eyes,
the sun-god knew his child; but in order to try him he asked the boy
his errand.
"O my father," stammered Phaethon, "if you are my father indeed," and
then he took courage; for the god came down from his throne, put off
the glorious halo that hurt mortal eyes, and embraced him tenderly.
"Indeed, thou art my son," said he. "Ask any gift of me and it shall be
thine; I call the Styx to witness."
"Ah!" cried Phaethon rapturously. "Let me drive thy chariot for one
day!"
For an instant the Sun's looks clouded. "Choose again, my child," said
he. "Thou art only a mortal, and this task is mine alone of all the
gods. Not Zeus himself dare drive the chariot of the Sun. The way is
full of terrors, both for the horses and for all the stars along the
roadside, and for the Earth, who has all blessings from me. Listen, and
choose again." And therewith he warned Phaethon of all the dangers that
beset the way,--the great steep that the steeds must climb, the numbing
dizziness of the height, the fierce constellations that breathe out
fire, and that descent in the west where the Sun seems to go headlong.
But these counsels only made the reckless boy more eager to win honor
of such a high enterprise.
"I will take care; only let me go," he begged.
Now Phoebus' had sworn by the black river Styx, an oath that none of
the gods dare break, and he was forced to keep his promise.
Already Aurora, goddess of dawn, had thrown open the gates of the east
and the stars were beginning to wane. The Hours came forth to harness
the four horses, and Phaethon looked with exultation at the splendid
creatures, whose lord he was for a day. Wild, immortal steeds they
were, fed with ambrosia, untamed as the winds; their very pet names
signified flame, and all that flame can do,--Pyrois, Eoüs, Aethon,
Phlegon.
As the lad stood by, watching, Phoebus anointed his face with a philter
that should make him strong to endure the terrible heat and light, then
set the halo upon his head, with a last word of counsel.
"Follow the road," said he, "and never turn aside. Go not too high or
too low, for the sake of heavens and earth; else men and gods will
suffer. The Fates alone know whether evil is to come of this. Yet if
your heart fails you, as I hope, abide here and I will make the
journey, as I am wont to do."
But Phaethon held to his choice and bade his father farewell. He took
his place in the chariot, gathered up the reins, and the horses sprang
away, eager for the road.
As they went, they bent their splendid necks to see the meaning of the
strange hand upon the reins,--the slender weight in the chariot. They
turned their wild eyes upon Phaethon, to his secret foreboding, and
neighed one to another. This was no master-charioteer, but a mere lad,
a feather riding the wind. It was holiday for the horses of the Sun,
and away they went.
Grasping the reins that dragged him after, like an enemy, Phaethon
looked down from the fearful ascent and saw the Earth far beneath him,
dim and fair. He was blind with dizziness and bewilderment. His hold
slackened and the horses redoubled their speed, wild with new liberty.
They left the old tracks. Before he knew where he was, they had
startled the constellations and well-nigh grazed the Serpent, so that
it woke from its torpor and hissed.
The steeds took fright. This way and that they went, terrified by the
monsters they had never encountered before, shaking out of their silver
quiet the cool stars towards the north, then fleeing as far to the
south among new wonders. The heavens were full of terror.
Up, far above the clouds, they went, and down again, towards the
defenceless Earth, that could not flee from the chariot of the Sun.
Great rivers hid themselves in the ground, and mountains were consumed.
Harvests perished like a moth that is singed in a candle-flame.
In vain did Phaethon call to the horses and pull upon the reins. As in
a hideous dream, he saw his own Earth, his beautiful home and the home
of all men, his kindred, parched by the fires of this mad chariot, and
blackening beneath him. The ground cracked open and the sea shrank.
Heedless water-nymphs, who had lingered in the shallows, were left
gasping like bright fishes. The dryads shrank, and tried to cover
themselves from the scorching heat. The poor Earth lifted her withered
face in a last prayer to Zeus to save them if he might.
Then Zeus, calling all the gods to witness that there was no other
means of safety, hurled his thunderbolt; and Phaethon knew no more.
His body fell through the heavens, aflame like a shooting-star; and the
horses of the Sun dashed homeward with the empty chariot.
Poor Clymene grieved sore over the boy's death; but the young Heliades,
daughters of the Sun, refused all comfort. Day and night they wept
together about their brother's grave by the river, until the gods took
pity and changed them all into poplar-trees. And ever after that they
wept sweet tears of amber, clear as sunlight.
NIOBE.
There are so many tales of the vanity of kings and queens that the half
of them cannot be told.
There was Cassiopaeia, queen of Aethiopia, who boasted that her beauty
outshone the beauty of all the sea-nymphs, so that in anger they sent a
horrible sea-serpent to ravage the coast. The king prayed of an Oracle
to know how the monster might be appeased, and learned that he must
offer up his own daughter, Andromeda. The maiden was therefore chained
to a rock by the sea-side, and left to her fate. But who should come to
rescue her but a certain young hero, Perseus, who was hastening
homeward after a perilous adventure with the snaky-haired Gorgons.
Filled with pity at the story of Andromeda, he waited for the dragon,
met and slew him, and set the maiden free. As for the boastful queen,
the gods forgave her, and at her death she was set among the stars.
That story ended well.
But there was once a queen of Thebes, Niobe, fortunate above all women,
and yet arrogant in the face of the gods. Very beautiful she was, and
nobly born, but above all things she boasted of her children, for she
had seven sons and seven daughters.
Now there came the day when the people were wont to celebrate the feast
of Latona, mother of Apollo and Diana; and Niobe, as she stood looking
upon the worshippers on their way to the temple, was filled with
overweening pride.
"Why do you worship Latona before me?" she cried out. "What does she
possess that I have not in greater abundance? She has but two children,
while I have seven sons and as many daughters. Nay, if she robbed me
out of envy, I should still be rich. Go back to your houses; you have
not eyes to know the rightful goddess."
Such impiety was enough to frighten any one, and her subjects returned
to their daily work, awestruck and silent.
But Apollo and Diana were filled with wrath at this insult to their
divine mother. Not only was she a great goddess and a power in the
heavens, but during her life on earth she had suffered many hardships
for their sake. The serpent Python had been sent to torment her; and,
driven from land to land, under an evil spell, beset with dangers, she
had found no resting-place but the island of Delos, held sacred ever
after to her and her children. Once she had even been refused water by
some churlish peasants, who could not believe in a goddess if she
appeared in humble guise and travel-worn. But these men were all
changed into frogs.
It needed no word from Latona herself to rouse her children to
vengeance. Swift as a thought, the two immortal archers, brother and
sister, stood in Thebes, upon the towers of the citadel. Near by, the
youth were pursuing their sports, while the feast of Latona went
neglected. The sons of Queen Niobe were there, and against them Apollo
bent his golden bow. An arrow crossed the air like a sunbeam, and
without a word the eldest prince fell from his horse. One by one his
brothers died by the same hand, so swiftly that they knew not what had
befallen them, till all the sons of the royal house lay slain. Only the
people of Thebes, stricken with terror, bore the news to Queen Niobe,
where she sat with her seven daughters. She would not believe in such a
sorrow.
"Savage Latona," she cried, lifting her arms against the heavens,
"never think that you have conquered. I am still the greater."
At that moment one of her daughters sank beside her. Diana had sped an
arrow from her bow that is like the crescent moon. Without a cry, nay,
even as they murmured words of comfort, the sisters died, one by one.
It was all as swift and soundless as snowfall.
Only the guilty mother was left, transfixed with grief. Tears flowed
from her eyes, but she spoke not a word, her heart never softened; and
at last she turned to stone, and the tears flowed down her cold face
forever.
ADMETUS AND THE SHEPHERD.
Apollo did not live always free of care, though he was the most
glorious of the gods. One day, in anger with the Cyclopes who work at
the forges of Vulcan, he sent his arrows after them, to the wrath of
all the gods, but especially of Zeus. (For the Cyclopes always make his
thunderbolts, and make them well.) Even the divine archer could not go
unpunished, and as a penalty he was sent to serve some mortal for a
year. Some say one year and some say nine, but in those days time
passed quickly; and as for the gods, they took no heed of it.
Now there was a certain king in Thessaly, Admetus by name, and there
came to him one day a stranger, who asked leave to serve about the
palace. None knew his name, but he was very comely, and moreover, when
they questioned him he said that he had come from a position of high
trust. So without further delay they made him chief shepherd of the
royal flocks.
Every day thereafter, he drove his sheep to the banks of the river
Amphrysus, and there he sat to watch them browse. The country-folk that
passed drew near to wonder at him, without daring to ask questions. He
seemed to have a knowledge of leech-craft, and knew how to cure the
ills of any wayfarer with any weed that grew near by; and he would pipe
for hours in the sun. A simple-spoken man he was, yet he seemed to know
much more than he would say, and he smiled with a kindly mirth when the
people wished him sunny weather.
Indeed, as days went by, it seemed as if summer had come to stay, and,
like the shepherd, found the place friendly. Nowhere else were the
flocks so white and fair to see, like clouds loitering along a bright
sky; and sometimes, when he chose, their keeper sang to them. Then the
grasshoppers drew near and the swans sailed close to the river banks,
and the country-men gathered about to hear wonderful tales of the
slaying of the monster Python, and of a king with ass's ears, and of a
lovely maiden, Daphne, who grew into a laurel-tree. In time the rumor
of these things drew the king himself to listen; and Admetus, who had
been to see the world in the ship Argo, knew at once that this was no
earthly shepherd, but a god. From that day, like a true king, he
treated his guest with reverence and friendliness, asking no questions;
and the god was well pleased.
Now it came to pass that Admetus fell in love with a beautiful maiden,
Alcestis, and, because of the strange condition that her father Pelias
had laid upon all suitors, he was heavy-hearted. Only that man who
should come to woo her in a chariot drawn by a wild boar and a lion
might ever marry Alcestis; and this task was enough to puzzle even a
king.
As for the shepherd, when he heard of it he rose, one fine morning, and
left the sheep and went his way,--no one knew whither. If the sun had
gone out, the people could not have been more dismayed. The king
himself went, late in the day, to walk by the river Amphrysus, and
wonder if his gracious keeper of the flocks had deserted him in a time
of need. But at that very moment, whom should he see returning from the
woods but the shepherd, glorious as sunset, and leading side by side a
lion and a boar, as gentle as two sheep! The very next morning, with
joy and gratitude, Admetus set out in his chariot for the kingdom of
Pelias, and there he wooed and won Alcestis, the most loving wife that
was ever heard of.
It was well for Admetus that he came home with such a comrade, for the
year was at an end, and he was to lose his shepherd. The strange man
came to take leave of the king and queen whom he had befriended.
"Blessed be your flocks, Admetus," he said, smiling. "They shall
prosper even though I leave them. And, because you can discern the gods
that come to you in the guise of wayfarers, happiness shall never go
far from your home, but ever return to be your guest. No man may live
on earth forever, but this one gift have I obtained for you. When your
last hour draws near, if any one shall be willing to meet it in your
stead, he shall die, and you shall live on, more than the mortal length
of days. Such kings deserve long life."
So ended the happy year when Apollo tended sheep.
ALCESTIS.
For many years the remembrance of Apollo's service kept Thessaly full
of sunlight. Where a god could work, the people took heart to work
also. Flocks and herds throve, travellers were befriended, and men were
happy under the rule of a happy king and queen.