Arachne
In Hypaipa, a little city of Lydia, dwelt a maiden of lowly birth named
Arachne. Idmon, her father, was a dyer at Colophon and her mother, who
died early, was born of poor parents. The name of Arachne was famous in
Lydia, for she surpassed all human women in skill and industry in
weaving. The nymphs of the vine-clad mountain of Tmolus and of the river
Pactolus came to her poor cottage to watch her work. Never were skill
and grace more closely united. Whether she was first preparing the
coarse wool, or drawing the threads finer and finer, or revolving the
spindle with nimble thumbs, or stitching with the needle, it always
seemed as if Pallas Athene herself must have instructed her. Arachne
knew nothing about it, but she often declared in an offended tone: "I
did not get my skill from the goddess. Let her come and try her skill
with me. If she defeats me I will bear any penalty."
Athene was very angry when she heard this boast, assumed the form of a
little old woman, covered her brow with gray hair, and leaning for
support upon a staff, came to Arachne's cottage and thus began: "The
years bring experience to gray old age. Therefore despise not my advice.
Seek for the glory of surpassing all mortals with your skill, but meekly
submit to the gods. Implore pardon for your haughty words and all will
be forgiven you." Arachne's countenance darkened, and she angrily
replied: "Thou art foolish, old one. The burden of the years has
weakened thy senses. It is not good to live long. Preach such silliness
to thy daughter. I need none of thy advice and spurn thy admonitions.
Why does not Pallas herself come? Why does she avoid the trial with me?"
The goddess could not longer restrain herself. "She is here now," she
cried, as she threw off her disguise and stood before her in her own
image.
The nymphs and the Lydian women who were present fell humbly at her
feet, but Arachne did not tremble. A fleeting blush reddened her face
and she resolutely adhered to her purpose. Urged on by her foolish
vanity, she exposed herself to the penalty of which she had been warned.
The daughter of Zeus lost no time in further attempts to dissuade her,
but undertook the trial. Seating themselves, the weaving began. Purple
and a thousand other colors, distracting to eyes not used to them, were
skilfully woven together. Threads of gold ran through the webs, and
wonderful pictures astonished the eyes of the spectators. Athene
fashioned the cliffs of the Athenian mount and their contest with the
sea god for possession of the land. Twelve gods with Zeus in the centre
sat there, serious and dignified. Here stood Poseidon as he struck the
rocks with his trident. There appeared the goddess herself, the divine
artist, armed with shield and lance, her helmet on her head, the
terrible ægis on her breast, teaching men for the first time the culture
of the olive tree, and causing it to spring from the unfruitful earth
with the point of her spear. Thus Athene wove her own victory in the
web. In the four corners she worked four examples of human pride which
have tragic results from the vengeance of the gods. In the first corner
were the Thracian king, Harnus, and his wife Rhodope, who called
themselves Zeus and Hera and were changed into mountain peaks. In
another corner was the unhappy mother of the Pygmæi, who, overcome by
Hera, was changed to a crane, and fought her own children. In the third
corner was Antigone, the charming daughter of Laomedon, who was so proud
of her beauty and her tresses that she likened herself to Hera. The
goddess changed her tresses to snakes which bit and tormented her until
Zeus, pitying her, turned her into a stork. In the last Pallas pictured
Einyras, weeping over the fate of his daughter, who because of her pride
was changed by Hera to a stone step before one of her temples. All these
pictures Athene wove and surrounded them with a wreath of olive leaves.
Arachne wove in her web many pictures illustrating the disreputable
actions of Zeus and surrounded them with a wreath of ivy and blossoms.
When she had finished her work Athene could not find fault with the
skill of the maiden, but she was enraged with the sacrilege of the
weaver. She suddenly tore the web to pieces and struck the maiden three
times on the forehead with the spindle which she held in her hand. The
unfortunate one could not endure this. Madness seized her and she hanged
herself with a rope. As she was suspended in the air, the goddess had
compassion upon her and said: "Live, but hang there, thou audacious one.
And so shall thy whole race to the latest generation be punished." With
these words she sprinkled Arachne with a few magic drops and went away.
The hair, nose, and ears of the maiden disappeared and she shrank into a
small and noxious insect. And the spider to-day still weaves its
web--the old art.