Actæon
Actæon was the son of the hunt-loving deity, Aristæus, and Autonoë,
daughter of Cadmus. When he had passed the childhood age he was taken to
the woody mountain of Pelion by the wise centaur, Chiron, and trained as
a robust hunter. It was his greatest pleasure to hunt in the valleys and
mountains. One day he hunted with some jovial companions in the forests
of Mount Cithæron until midday, when it grew so hot that he rested in
the cool shade of the trees. While reposing, he called his companions to
him and said: "We have game enough. Our steel and traps are drenched
with blood. Let us end hunting for to-day. When the sun rises in the
morning we will resume the joyous sport." Thus he spoke and dismissed
his willing companions. Then he went with his hounds deeper into the
forest to find a cool, shadowy spot where he could sleep through the
heat of the noon and rest his wearied limbs.
He reached a valley full of fir trees and lofty cypresses, called
Gargaphia, which was sacred to Artemis. Deep in a corner of the valley
he found a leafy grotto. The rocky arch seemed to be the product of
human skill, but was the work of nature. A stream murmured gently along,
whose clear water, bordered by green turf, broadened out into a wide
pool. This was the spot where the goddess, tired with the chase, bathed
her sacred limbs. She was in the grotto, attended by her nymphs, one of
whom took her hunting spear and bow. Another relieved the goddess of her
cloak, and two of them unloosed her sandals. The beautiful Crocale,
cleverest of them all, fastened her tresses together in a knot. Then her
attendants filled urns with water and poured it over the goddess.
While the goddess was thus enjoying her bath, Actæon approached through
the bushes by an untrodden way. Evil destiny led him to the sacred haunt
of Artemis' grotto. Unsuspecting any harm, he entered, delighted to have
found such a cool resting place. When the nymphs beheld a man, they
cried aloud and crowded about their mistress to conceal her with their
bodies; but being a head taller, the goddess towered above them all. Her
glowing face wore a wrathful look, and her eyes were sternly fixed upon
the intruder, who stood motionless, surprised, and dazzled by the
wondrous sight.
It would have been better for the unfortunate Actæon had he fled at
once, for the goddess suddenly bent her head, dipped up water with her
hand, sprinkled it over the face and hair of the youth, and said in a
threatening tone: "What thou hast seen, now tell to men, if thou canst."
Hardly had the last word been uttered when unspeakable distress seized
him. Swiftly he dashed off, and in his running was amazed by his speed.
The unfortunate one did not notice that antlers sprang from his head,
that his neck was longer, that his ears were pointed, his arms changed
to legs, and his hands to hoofs. His limbs were covered with a dappled
skin. He was no longer a man, but had been changed by the wrathful
goddess to a stag. As he fled, he saw his image mirrored in the water.
"Woe is me," he would have cried, but his voice was mute and no word
escaped from his groaning breast. He could only utter a sigh of despair.
Tears poured from his eyes, but not upon human cheeks. Only his heart,
his old recollection, remained.
What should he do now? Return to his grandfather's palace? Conceal
himself in the depths of the forest? While thus torn by the conflicting
emotions of fear and shame, his hounds saw him. The whole pack, fifty in
number, rushed upon the imaginary stag. Eager for their prey, they
chased him over mountain and valley, jagged rocks and yawning abysses.
Thus the despairing one, himself the hunted, fled over well-known
regions where he had often hunted wild animals. Twice he would have
turned and cried, "Spare me! I am Actæon." But he was speechless. Baying
furiously, the leader of the pack overtook him and seized him by the
neck, while all the others rushed upon him and tore him with their sharp
teeth. The victim groaned heavily; no stag ever groaned that way, and
yet it was not a human groan. Like one praying he fell upon his knees,
and in mute anguish turned his face towards his assailants. At this
instant his companions, hearing the baying of the hounds, came up. With
their usual call they incited the hounds and then shouted for their
master, whom they believed was not far away. "Actæon," rang through the
forest, "where art thou? Come and behold this wonderful capture." Thus
they cried as the unfortunate victim was killed by the spears of his own
friends.
After Actæon had thus wretchedly perished, his hounds began to miss
their loved master. Baying and whining, they sought the lost one
everywhere, until at last they came to Chiron's cavern. Chiron made a
bronze image of Actæon so much like him that it deceived them. When the
hounds saw it they sprang upon it, licked the hands and feet, and acted
as joyfully as if they had found their real master again.