way that I may find them."
But the Grey Women were kin to the Gorgons, and hated all the children
of men, and ugly was their evil mirth as they mocked at Perseus and
refused to tell him where Medusa might be found.
But Perseus grew wily in his desire not to fail, and as the eye passed
from one withered, clutching hand to another, he held out his own
strong young palm, and in her blindness one of the three placed the
eye within it.
Then the Grey Women gave a piteous cry, fierce and angry as the cry of
old grey wolves that have been robbed of their prey, and gnashed upon
him with their toothless jaws.
And Perseus said: "Wicked ye are and cruel at heart, and blind shall
ye remain forever unless ye tell me where I may find the Gorgons. But
tell me that, and I give back the eye."
Then they whimpered and begged of him, and when they found that all
their beseeching was in vain, at length they told him.
"Go south," they said, "so far south that at length thou comest to the
uttermost limits of the sea, to the place where the day and night
meet. There is the Garden of the Hesperides, and of them must thou
ask the way." And "Give us back our eye!" they wailed again most
piteously, and Perseus gave back the eye into a greedy trembling old
hand, and flew south like a swallow that is glad to leave the gloomy
frozen lands behind.
To the garden of the Hesperides he came at last, and amongst the
myrtles and roses and sunny fountains he came on the nymphs who there
guard the golden fruit, and begged them to tell him whither he must
wing his way in order to find the Gorgons. But the nymphs could not
tell.
"We must ask Atlas," they said, "the giant who sits high up on the
mountain and with his strong shoulders keeps the heavens and earth
apart."
And with the nymphs Perseus went up the mountain and asked the patient
giant to guide him to the place of his quest.
"Far away I can see them," said Atlas, "on an island in the great
ocean. But unless thou wert to wear the helmet of Pluto himself, thy
going must be in vain."
"What is this helmet?" asked Perseus, "and how can I gain it?"
"Didst thou wear the helmet of the ruler of Dark Places, thou wouldst
be as invisible as a shadow in the blackness of night," answered
Atlas; "but no mortal can obtain it, for only the Immortals can brave
the terrors of the Shadowy Land and yet return; yet if thou wilt
promise me one thing, the helmet shall be thine."
"What wouldst thou?" asked Perseus.
And Atlas said, "For many a long year have I borne this earth, and I
grow aweary of my burden. When thou hast slain Medusa, let me gaze
upon her face, that I may be turned into stone and suffer no more
forever."
And Perseus promised, and at the bidding of Atlas one of the nymphs
sped down to the land of the Shades, and for seven days Perseus and
her sisters awaited her return. Her face was as the face of a white
lily and her eyes were dark with sadness when she came, but with her
she bore the helmet of Pluto, and when she and her sisters had kissed
Perseus and bidden him a sorrowful farewell, he put on the helmet and
vanished away.
Soon the gentle light of day had gone, and he found himself in a place
where clammy fog blotted out all things, and where the sea was black
as the water of that stream that runs through the Cocytus valley. And
in that silent land where there is "neither night nor day, nor cloud
nor breeze nor storm," he found the cave of horrors in which the
Gorgons dwelt.
Two of them, like monstrous swine, lay asleep,
"But a third woman paced about the hall,
And ever turned her head from wall to wall,
And moaned aloud and shrieked in her despair,
Because the golden tresses of her hair
Were moved by writhing snakes from side to side,
That in their writhing oftentimes would glide
On to her breast or shuddering shoulders white;
Or, falling down, the hideous things would light
Upon her feet, and, crawling thence, would twine
Their slimy folds upon her ankles fine."
William Morris.
In the shield of Pallas Athene the picture was mirrored, and as
Perseus gazed on it his soul grew heavy for the beauty and the horror
of Medusa. And "Oh that it had been her foul sisters that I must
slay!" he thought at first, but then--"To slay her will be kind
indeed," he said. "Her beauty has become corruption, and all the joy
of life for her has passed into the agony of remembrance, the torture
of unending remorse."
And when he saw her brazen claws that still were greedy and lustful to
strike and to slay, his face grew stern, and he paused no longer, but
with his sword he smote her neck with all his might and main. And to
the rocky floor the body of Medusa fell with brazen clang, but her
head he wrapped in the goatskin, while he turned his eyes away. Aloft
then he sprang, and flew swifter than an arrow from the bow of Diana.
With hideous outcry the two other Gorgons found the body of Medusa,
and, like foul vultures that hunt a little song-bird, they flew in
pursuit of Perseus. For many a league they kept up the chase, and
their howling was grim to hear. Across the seas they flew, and over
the yellow sand of the Libyan desert, and as Perseus flew before them,
some blood-drops fell from the severed head of Medusa, and from them
bred the vipers that are found in the desert to this day. But bravely
did the winged shoes of Hermes bear Perseus on, and by nightfall the
Gorgon sisters had passed from sight, and Perseus found himself once
more in the garden of the Hesperides. Ere he sought the nymphs, he
knelt by the sea to cleanse from his hands Medusa's blood, and still
does the seaweed that we find on sea-beaches after a storm bear the
crimson stains.
And when Perseus had received glad welcome from the fair dwellers in
the garden of the Hesperides, he sought Atlas, that to him he might
fulfil his promise; and eagerly Atlas beheld him, for he was aweary of
his long toil.
So Perseus uncovered the face of Medusa and held it up for the Titan
to gaze upon.
And when Atlas looked upon her whose beauty had once been pure and
living as that of a flower in spring, and saw only anguish and
cruelty, foul wickedness, and hideous despair, his heart grew like
stone within him. To stone, too, turned his great, patient face, and
into stone grew his vast limbs and strong, crouching back. So did
Atlas the Titan become Atlas the Mountain, and still his head,
white-crowned with snow, and his great shoulder far up in misty
clouds, would seem to hold apart the earth and the sky.
Then Perseus again took flight, and in his flight he passed over many
lands and suffered weariness and want, and sometimes felt his faith
growing low. Yet ever he sped on, hoping ever, enduring ever. In Egypt
he had rest and was fed and honoured by the people of the land, who
were fain to keep him to be one of their gods. And in a place called
Chemmis they built a statue of him when he had gone, and for many
hundreds of years it stood there. And the Egyptians said that ever and
again Perseus returned, and that when he came the Nile rose high and
the season was fruitful because he had blessed their land.
Far down below him as he flew one day he saw something white on a
purple rock in the sea. It seemed too large to be a snowy-plumaged
bird, and he darted swiftly downward that he might see more clearly.
The spray lashed against the steep rocks of the desolate island, and
showered itself upon a figure that at first he took to be a statue of
white marble. The figure was but that of a girl, slight and very
youthful, yet more fair even than any of the nymphs of the Hesperides.
Invisible in his Helmet of Darkness, Perseus drew near, and saw that
the fragile white figure was shaken by shivering sobs. The waves,
every few moments, lapped up on her little cold white feet, and he saw
that heavy chains held her imprisoned to that chilly rock in the sea.
A great anger stirred the heart of Perseus, and swiftly he took the
helmet from his head and stood beside her. The maid gave a cry of
terror, but there was no evil thing in the face of Perseus. Naught but
strength and kindness and purity shone out of his steady eyes.
Thus when, very gently, he asked her what was the meaning of her cruel
imprisonment, she told him the piteous story, as a little child tells
the story of its grief to the mother who comforts it. Her mother was
queen of Ethiopia, she said, and very, very beautiful. But when the
queen had boasted that no nymph who played amongst the snow-crested
billows of the sea was as fair as she, a terrible punishment was sent
to her. All along the coast of her father's kingdom a loathsome
sea-monster came to hold its sway, and hideous were its ravages. Men
and women, children and animals, all were equally desirable food for
its insatiate maw, and the whole land of Ethiopia lay in mourning
because of it. At last her father, the king, had consulted an oracle
that he might find help to rid the land of the monster. And the oracle
had told him that only when his fair daughter, Andromeda, had been
sacrificed to the creature that scourged the sea-coast would the
country go free. Thus had she been brought there by her parents that
one life might be given for many, and that her mother's broken heart
might expiate her sin of vanity. Even as Andromeda spoke, the sea was
broken by the track of a creature that cleft the water as does the
forerunning gale of a mighty storm. And Andromeda gave a piteous cry.
"Lo! he comes!" she cried. "Save me! ah, save me! I am so young to
die."
Then Perseus darted high above her and for an instant hung poised like
a hawk that is about to strike. Then, like the hawk that cannot miss
its prey, swiftly did he swoop down and smote with his sword the
devouring monster of the ocean. Not once, but again and again he
smote, until all the water round the rock was churned into slime and
blood-stained froth, and until his loathsome combatant floated on its
back, mere carrion for the scavengers of the sea.
Then Perseus hewed off the chains that held Andromeda, and in his arms
he held her tenderly as he flew with her to her father's land.
Who so grateful then as the king and queen of Ethiopia? and who so
happy as Andromeda? for Perseus, her deliverer, dearest and greatest
hero to her in all the world, not only had given her her freedom, but
had given her his heart.
Willingly and joyfully her father agreed to give her to Perseus for
his wife. No marriage feast so splendid had ever been held in Ethiopia
in the memory of man, but as it went on, an angry man with a band of
sullen-faced followers strode into the banqueting-hall. It was
Phineus, he who had been betrothed to Andromeda, yet who had not dared
to strike a blow for her rescue. Straight at Perseus they rushed, and
fierce was the fight that then began. But of a sudden, from the
goatskin where it lay hid, Perseus drew forth the head of Medusa, and
Phineus and his warriors were turned into stone.
For seven days the marriage feast lasted, but on the eighth night
Pallas Athene came to Perseus in a dream.
"Nobly and well hast thou played the hero, O son of Zeus!" she said;
"but now that thy toil is near an end and thy sorrows have ended in
joy, I come to claim the shoes of Hermes, the helmet of Pluto, the
sword, and the shield that is mine own. Yet the head of the Gorgon
must thou yet guard awhile, for I would have it laid in my temple at
Seriphos that I may wear it on my shield for evermore."
As she ceased to speak, Perseus awoke, and lo, the shield and helmet
and the sword and winged shoes were gone, so that he knew that his
dream was no false vision.
Then did Perseus and Andromeda, in a red-prowed galley made by cunning
craftsmen from Phoenicia, sail away westward, until at length they
came to the blue water of the AEgean Sea, and saw rising out of the
waves before them the rocks of Seriphos. And when the rowers rested on
their long oars, and the red-prowed ship ground on the pebbles of the
beach, Perseus and his bride sought Danae, the fair mother of Perseus.
Black grew the brow of the son of Danae when she told him what cruel
things she had suffered in his absence from the hands of Polydectes
the king. Straight to the palace Perseus strode, and there found the
king and his friends at their revels. For seven years had Perseus been
away, and now it was no longer a stripling who stood in the palace
hall, but a man in stature and bearing like one of the gods.
Polydectes alone knew him, and from his wine he looked up with mocking
gaze.
"So thou hast returned? oh nameless son of a deathless god," he said.
"Thou didst boast, but methinks thy boast was an empty one!"
But even as he spoke, the jeering smile froze on his face, and the
faces of those who sat with him stiffened in horror.
"O king," Perseus said, "I swore that, the gods helping me, thou
shouldst have the head of Medusa. The gods have helped me. Behold the
Gorgon's head."
Wild horror in their eyes, Polydectes and his friends gazed on the
unspeakable thing, and as they gazed they turned into stone--a ring of
grey stones that still sit on a hillside of Seriphos.
With his wife and his mother, Perseus then sailed away, for he had a
great longing to take Danae back to the land of her birth and to see
if her father, Acrisius, still lived and might not now repent of his
cruelty to her and to his grandson. But there he found that the sins
of Acrisius had been punished and that he had been driven from his
throne and his own land by a usurper. Not for long did the sword of
Perseus dwell in its scabbard, and speedily was the usurper cast
forth, and all the men of Argos acclaimed Perseus as their glorious
king. But Perseus would not be their king.
"I go to seek Acrisius," he said. "My mother's father is your king."
Again his galley sailed away, and at last, up the long Euboean Sea
they came to the town of Larissa, where the old king now dwelt.
A feast and sports were going on when they got there, and beside the
king of the land sat Acrisius, an aged man, yet a kingly one indeed.
And Perseus thought, "If I, a stranger, take part in the sports and
carry away prizes from the men of Larissa, surely the heart of
Acrisius must soften towards me."
Thus did he take off his helmet and cuirass, and stood unclothed
beside the youths of Larissa, and so godlike was he that they all
said, amazed, "Surely this stranger comes from Olympus and is one of
the Immortals."
In his hand he took a discus, and full five fathoms beyond those of
the others he cast it, and a great shout arose from those who watched,
and Acrisius cried out as loudly as all the rest.
"Further still!" they cried. "Further still canst thou hurl! thou art
a hero indeed!"
And Perseus, putting forth all his strength, hurled once again, and
the discus flew from his hand like a bolt from the hand of Zeus. The
watchers held their breath and made ready for a shout of delight as
they saw it speed on, further than mortal man had ever hurled before.
But joy died in their hearts when a gust of wind caught the discus as
it sped and hurled it against Acrisius, the king. And with a sigh like
the sigh that passes through the leaves of a tree as the woodman fells
it and it crashes to the earth, so did Acrisius fall and lie prone. To
his side rushed Perseus, and lifted him tenderly in his arms. But the
spirit of Acrisius had fled. And with a great cry of sorrow Perseus
called to the people:
"Behold me! I am Perseus, grandson of the man I have slain! Who can
avoid the decree of the gods?"
For many a year thereafter Perseus reigned as king, and to him and to
his fair wife were born four sons and three daughters. Wisely and well
he reigned, and when, at a good old age, Death took him and the wife
of his heart, the gods, who had always held him dear, took him up
among the stars to live for ever and ever. And there still, on clear
and starry nights, we may see him holding the Gorgon's head. Near him
are the father and mother of Andromeda--Cepheus and Cassiopeia, and
close beside him stands Andromeda with her white arms spread out
across the blue sky as in the days when she stood chained to the rock.
And those who sail the watery ways look up for guidance to one whose
voyaging is done and whose warfare is accomplished, and take their
bearings from the constellation of Cassiopeia.
NIOBE
"... Like Niobe, all tears."
Shakespeare.
The quotation is an overworked quotation, like many another of those
from _Hamlet_; yet, have half of those whose lips utter it more than
the vaguest acquaintance with the story of Niobe and the cause of her
tears? The noble group--attributed to Praxiteles--of Niobe and her
last remaining child, in the Uffizi Palace at Florence, has been so
often reproduced that it also has helped to make the anguished figure
of the Theban queen a familiar one in pictorial tragedy, so that as
long as the works of those Titans of art, Shakespeare and Praxiteles,
endure, no other monument is wanted for the memory of Niobe.
Like many of the tales of mythology, her tragedy is a story of
vengeance wreaked upon a mortal by an angry god. She was the daughter
of Tantalus, and her husband was Amphion, King of Thebes, himself a
son of Zeus. To her were born seven fair daughters and seven beautiful
and gallant sons, and it was not because of her own beauty, nor her
husband's fame, nor their proud descent and the greatness of their
kingdom, that the Queen of Thebes was arrogant in her pride. Very sure
she was that no woman had ever borne children like her own children,
whose peers were not to be found on earth nor in heaven. Even in our
own day there are mortal mothers who feel as Niobe felt.
But amongst the Immortals there was also a mother with children whom
she counted as peerless. Latona, mother of Apollo and Diana, was
magnificently certain that in all time, nor in eternity to come, could
there be a son and daughter so perfect in beauty, in wisdom, and in
power as the two that were her own. Loudly did she proclaim her proud
belief, and when Niobe heard it she laughed in scorn.
"The goddess has a son and a daughter," she said. "Beautiful and wise
and powerful they may be, but I have borne seven daughters and seven
sons, and each son is more than the peer of Apollo, each daughter more
than the equal of Diana, the moon-goddess!"
And to her boastful words Latona gave ear, and anger began to grow in
her heart.
Each year the people of Thebes were wont to hold a great festival in
honour of Latona and her son and daughter, and it was an evil day for
Niobe when she came upon the adoring crowd that, laurel-crowned, bore
frankincense to lay before the altars of the gods whose glories they
had assembled together to celebrate.
"Oh foolish ones!" she said, and her voice was full of scorn, "am I
not greater than Latona? I am the daughter of a goddess, my husband,
the king, the son of a god. Am I not fair? am I not queenly as Latona
herself? And, of a surety, I am richer by far than the goddess who has
but one daughter and one son. Look on my seven noble sons! behold the
beauty of my seven daughters, and see if they in beauty and all else
do not equal the dwellers in Olympus!"
And when the people looked, and shouted aloud, for in truth Niobe and
her children were like unto gods, their queen said, "Do not waste thy
worship, my people. Rather make the prayers to thy king and to me and
to my children who buttress us round and make our strength so great,
that fearlessly we can despise the gods."
In her home on the Cynthian mountain top, Latona heard the arrogant
words of the queen of Thebes, and even as a gust of wind blows
smouldering ashes into a consuming fire, her growing anger flamed into
rage. She called Apollo and Diana to her, and commanded them to avenge
the blasphemous insult which had been given to them and to their
mother. And the twin gods listened with burning hearts.
"Truly shalt thou be avenged!" cried Apollo. "The shameless one shall
learn that not unscathed goes she who profanes the honour of the
mother of the deathless gods!"
And with their silver bows in their hands, Apollo, the smiter from
afar, and Diana, the virgin huntress, hasted to Thebes. There they
found all the noble youths of the kingdom pursuing their sports. Some
rode, some were having chariot-races, and excelling in all things were
the seven sons of Niobe.
Apollo lost no time. A shaft from his quiver flew, as flies a bolt
from the hand of Zeus, and the first-born of Niobe fell, like a young
pine broken by the wind, on the floor of his winning chariot. His
brother, who followed him, went on the heels of his comrade swiftly
down to the Shades. Two of the other sons of Niobe were wrestling
together, their great muscles moving under the skin of white satin
that covered their perfect bodies, and as they gripped each other, yet
another shaft was driven from the bow of Apollo, and both lads fell,
joined by one arrow, on the earth, and there breathed their lives
away.
Their elder brother ran to their aid, and to him, too, came death,
swift and sure. The two youngest, even as they cried for mercy to an
unknown god, were hurried after them by the unerring arrows of Apollo.
The cries of those who watched this terrible slaying were not long in
bringing Niobe to the place where her sons lay dead. Yet, even then,
her pride was unconquered, and she defied the gods, and Latona, to
whose jealousy she ascribed the fate of her "seven spears."
"Not yet hast thou conquered, Latona!" she cried. "My seven sons lie
dead, yet to me still remain the seven perfect lovelinesses that I
have borne. Try to match them, if thou canst, with the beauty of thy
two! Still am I richer than thou, O cruel and envious mother of one
daughter and one son!"
But even as she spoke, Diana had drawn her bow, and as the scythe of a
mower quickly cuts down, one after the other, the tall white blossoms
in the meadow, so did her arrows slay the daughters of Niobe. When one
only remained, the pride of Niobe was broken. With her arms round the
little slender frame of her golden-haired youngest born, she looked up
to heaven, and cried upon all the gods for mercy.
"She is so little!" she wailed. "So young--so dear! Ah, spare me
_one_," she said, "only one out of so many!"
But the gods laughed. Like a harsh note of music sounded the twang of
Diana's bow. Pierced by a silver arrow, the little girl lay dead. The
dignity of Latona was avenged.
Overwhelmed by despair, King Amphion killed himself, and Niobe was
left alone to gaze on the ruin around her. For nine days she sat, a
Greek Rachel, weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted,
because they were not. On the tenth day, the sight was too much even
for the superhuman hearts of the gods to endure. They turned the
bodies into stone and themselves buried them. And when they looked on
the face of Niobe and saw on it a bleeding anguish that no human hand
could stay nor the word of any god comfort, the gods were merciful.
Her grief was immortalised, for Niobe, at their will, became a stone,
and was carried by a wailing tempest to the summit of Mount Sipylus,
in Lydia, where a spring of Argos bore her name. Yet although a rock
was Niobe, from her blind eyes of stone the tears still flowed, a
clear stream of running water, symbol of a mother's anguish and
never-ending grief.
HYACINTHUS
... "The sad death
Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath
Of Zephyr slew him--Zephyr penitent
Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament,
Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain."
Keats.
"Whom the gods love die young"--truly it would seem so, as we read the
old tales of men and of women beloved of the gods. To those men who
were deemed worthy of being companions of the gods, seemingly no good
fortune came. Yet, after all, if even in a brief span of life they had
tasted god-given happiness, was their fate one to be pitied? Rather
let us keep our tears for those who, in a colourless grey world, have
seen the dull days go past laden with trifling duties, unnecessary
cares and ever-narrowing ideals, and have reached old age and the
grave--no narrower than their lives--without ever having known a
fulness of happiness, such as the Olympians knew, or ever having dared
to reach upwards and to hold fellowship with the Immortals.