Fear and sorrow shadowed the god’s shining face. Three—four times he shook his radiant head. At last he said: “O son, you beguiled me into speaking rash words. If only I could retract my promise! For you have asked something which is beyond your strength. You are young, you are mortal, but what you crave is granted only to the gods—and not to all of them, for only I am permitted to do what you are so eager to try. Only I can stand on the glowing axle which showers sparks as it moves through the air. My chariot must travel a steep path. It is a difficult climb for the horses even when they are fresh, at dawn. The middle of the course lies at the zenith of the sky. I tell you that I myself am often shaken with dread when, at such a height, I stand upright in my chariot. My head spins when I look down on the lands and seas so far beneath me. And the last stretch of the way descends sharply and requires a sure hand on the reins. Even Thetis, goddess of the sea, who waits to receive me in her smooth waters, is full of alarm lest I be hurled from the sky. And there is still another peril to consider, for you must remember that heaven turns incessantly and that the driving is against the sweep of its vast rotations. Even if I gave you my chariot, how could you overcome such obstacles? No, dear son, do not insist that I keep my word to you, but mend your wish while there is still time. You can read my concern from my face. Could you but look through my eyes into my heart, heavy with a father’s anxiety! Choose anything that earth and heaven have to offer, and by the Styx I swear it shall be yours!—You fling your arms around me? Alas, that it is to ask this dangerous thing!”
The youth pleaded and pleaded, and Phoebus Apollo had, after all, sworn a most sacred oath. So he took his son by the hand and led him to the sun-chariot, the work of Hephaestus. Pole, axle, and the rims of the wheels were of gold, the spokes of silver, and the yoke glittered with chrysolite and other precious stones. While Phaethon was still marvelling at this perfect craftsmanship, Dawn wakened in the east and flung wide the doors to her rosy chamber. The stars faded, last of all the morning star, which lingers longest at his post in the heavens, and the horns of the crescent moon paled on the brightening horizon. Now Phoebus ordered the winged Hours to yoke the horses, and they did as he bade, bringing the shining-flanked animals, sated with ambrosia, out of their splendid stalls, and putting them into the gleaming harness. Then the father salved the face of his son with a magic ointment to enable him to withstand the heat of the flames. He crowned his head with sun-rays, sighing all the while, and said warningly: “Child, spare the goad and use the reins, for the horses will run of themselves, and your labor will lie in slowing their flight. The course slants in a wide and shallow curve. Keep away from both the South and the North poles. You will find the road by the tracks the wheels have left. Do not drive too slow, lest the earth catch fire, nor too high, lest you burn up the sky. So go now, if you must! Darkness is passing. Take the reins in your hands, or—dear son, there is still time to give up this folly! Leave the chariot to me, and let me shed the light on the world. Be content to watch!”
The boy scarcely heard what his father said. One spring, and he was up in the chariot, exultant at having the reins in his own hands. He only nodded and smiled his thanks to unhappy Phoebus. The four winged horses neighed, and the air kindled with their burning breath. In the meantime Thetis, knowing nothing of her grandchild’s venture, opened wide her portals; the vast spaces of the world lay before Phaethon’s eyes, and the horses bounded up the course and broke through the mists of morning.
But soon they felt that their burden was lighter than usual, and like ships which toss on the ocean when the hold is not heavy with cargo, the chariot reeled and floundered through the air and swerved aimlessly, as though it were empty. When the horses became aware of this, they wheeled from the beaten paths of the sky and jostled each other in savage haste. Phaethon began to tremble. He did not know which way to pull the reins, he did not know where he was, nor could he curb the animals straining from him with headlong speed. When he looked down from the arch of the heavens and saw the land spread out so far below, his cheeks grew pale and his knees shook with terror. He glanced back over his shoulder, and much of the sky lay in his wake; he turned forward, and more loomed ahead. In his mind he measured the vast reaches before and behind, and not knowing what to do he stared into space. His helpless hands neither slackened nor tightened the reins. He wanted to call to the horses but did not know their names. He saw the many constellations strewing the heavens, and his heart numbed with horror at their strange shapes, like those of monsters. Chill with despair he dropped the reins, and instantly the horses shied from their course, leaping sidewise into unfamiliar regions of air. Now they sprang forward, now they plunged down. Now they rushed against the fixed stars, and now they slanted toward earth. They grazed against drifts of cloud, which kindled and began to smoulder. Lower and lower hurtled the chariot until the wheels touched the tall mountains. The earth panted and cracked with heat, the saps were dried out of growing things, and suddenly everything began to flicker. The heather yellowed and drooped. The leaves of the forest trees shrivelled and burst into flame. The fire sped on to the plains and scorched the harvests. Entire cities went up in smoke, and whole countries with all their peoples burned to cinders. Hills were consumed, and woods, and mountains. They say that it was then the skin of the Ethiopians turned black. Rivers ran dry or streamed backwards to regain their sources. The sea itself shrank and narrowed so that what its waters had only lately covered was now nothing but dry sand.
The world was afire, and Phaethon began to suffer from the intolerable heat. Every breath he drew seemed to come from a seething furnace, and the chariot seared the soles of his feet. He was tortured with fumes and blasts of ashes cast up by the burning earth. Smoke black as pitch surged around him, while the horses jounced and tossed him hither and thither. And then his hair caught fire. He fell from the chariot and whirled through space like a shooting star, such as sometimes trails its brightness through the clear sky. Far from his home the broad river Eridanus received him and closed over his throbbing limbs.
His father, the sun-god, who had witnessed this sight of destruction, veiled his radiant head and brooded in sorrow. It is said that this day brought no light to the world. Only the great conflagration shone far and wide.
EUROPA
IN the land of Tyre and Sidon, Europa, daughter of King Agenor, was reared in the seclusion of her father’s palace. Once, at midnight, when mortals are visited by fanciful dreams which have a clear core of truth, Heaven sent her a curious vision. It seemed to her that two continents—Asia and that which lies opposite—in the guise of women, were fighting to possess her. One of the women had a foreign air. The other—and this was Asia—looked and acted like one of Europa’s own countrywomen, and claimed her warmly and vehemently, saying that it was she who had borne and nurtured this lovely child. But the strange woman clasped her in her strong arms like a stolen treasure and drew her away with her. The oddest part of the dream was that Europa did not resist her with any real force or purpose.
“Come with me, little love,” said the stranger. “I shall bring you to Zeus, the Aegis-Bearer, for Destiny has appointed you his beloved!”
Europa awoke. The blood pulsed madly in her temples, and she started up from her couch, for the vision of night had been as bright and distinct as the reality of day. For a long time she sat upright and motionless, staring into space with wide-open eyes, and still seeing the two women before her. At last her lips moved, and she asked herself in alarm: “What god has sent me this vision? What curious dream has beguiled me while I slept, safe in the house of my father? Who was the strange woman? What new yearning quickened my heart at sight of her? How lovingly she approached me, and even when she snatched me away she looked at me with a mother’s tender gaze! May the gods let my dream be for the best!”
Morning had come, and the fair light of day dispelled the darkness of her visions from Europa’s spirit. She rose to busy herself with her usual girlish tasks and pleasures. Friend
s and companions of her own age gathered about her, the daughters of noble houses, who attended her on her walks, at choral dances, and the rites of offering. They came to conduct their young mistress to a meadow strewn with many flowers, close by the sea where the girls of that region assembled to delight in the mass of blooms and the sound of the surf lapping the shore. All the girls carried baskets, and Europa herself had one of gold, carved with shining scenes from the lives of the gods. It was the work of Hephaestus, and Poseidon, the Earth-Shaker, had given it to Libya in those long-ago days when he was courting her. It had passed from hand to hand until Agenor received it as an heirloom. Swinging this basket, which was more like a bride’s finery than an article for everyday use, lovely Europa ran before her playmates, on to the shoreland meadows bright with color. The girls scattered with merry words and gay laughter, each to pluck those flowers that pleased her fancy. One broke the glistening narcissus, another the fragrant hyacinth; a third chose the fainter-scented violet. Some preferred the spicy thyme, others the yellow crocus. So they ran here and there over the meadow, but Europa soon found what she was seeking. Taller than they, like the foam-born goddess of love among the Graces, she stood among her friends, and held high in her hands a great bunch of glowing roses.
When they had gathered all they wanted, the girls flung themselves down in the soft grass and began to plait wreaths, which later they would hang on green boughs as thank-offerings to the nymphs of that place. But their pleasure in their dainty work was doomed to be short-lived, for—of a sudden—Fate broke in upon Europa’s carefree maidenhood, the fate the dream of the past night had shadowed forth.
Zeus, son of Cronus, struck by the arrow of Aphrodite, who alone among the immortals could overcome the unconquerable father of the gods, was stirred by the beauty of young Europa. But because he feared the anger of jealous Hera and could hardly hope to tempt the girl’s innocent spirit if he came in his own form, the god contrived a ruse. He assumed the shape of a bull. But no ordinary bull! Not like one that paces the common field, bends to the yoke, and draws the loaded wagon! He was great and splendid, with swelling neck and massive shoulders. His horns were slight and graceful as though a hand had wrought them, and more transparent than flawless jewels. Yellow-gold in color was his body, but in the very middle of his forehead shimmered a silvery mark shaped like the crescent moon. Rolling restlessly in their sockets, his blue-black eyes smoldered with desire. Before transforming himself, Zeus had summoned Hermes to Olympus and—without a word about his purpose—had directed him to do him a certain service. “Hasten, dear son, loyal executor of my commands,” he said. “Do you see that land below us, to the left? It is Phoenicia. Go there and drive the herds of King Agenor, which you will find grazing on the mountain slopes, down to the shore of the sea.” Instantly the winged god, obedient to his father’s words, flew to the Sidonian pastures and drove the king’s cattle, among which Zeus—unbeknown to Hermes—had mingled himself in his new shape, down to those very meadows in which Agenor’s daughter, surrounded by her Tyrian maidens, was lightheartedly toying with garlands. The herd dispersed and began cropping the grass at a distance from the girls. Only the beautiful bull that housed a god approached the green mound on which Europa and her playmates were seated. He moved with perfect grace. His forehead did not threaten, and his flashing eyes begot no fears. He seemed gentleness itself. Europa and her maidens admired the noble proportions of the animal and his peaceful manner. They wanted to see him more closely and stroke his shimmering back. The bull seemed to be aware of this, for he drew nearer and nearer and finally came to a stand right in front of Europa. At first she was startled and shrank back, but the bull did not move. He appeared to be quite tame, so she took courage, went up to him, and held the roses to his foam-flecked lips, which breathed out the scent of ambrosia. Caressingly he licked the proffered flowers and the delicate hand which wiped the foam from his mouth and began to stroke him with tenderness and love. More and ever more enchanting did the glorious creature seem to the girl. She even ventured to kiss his silken forehead. At that he bellowed joyfully, but it was not the bellow of a common bull, but like the sound of a Lydian flute echoing through a gorge between high mountains. Then he crouched at her feet, looked at her full of longing, and turned his head as if to point his broad back to her.
And now Europa called to her maidens. “Come closer,” she cried. “Let us climb on the back of this beautiful bull and ride him. I think there is room for four of us at a time. See how tame he is, how gentle! Not in the least like other bulls! I do believe he has the power of reason, just like human beings, and all that he lacks is speech!” While she was speaking, she took the wreaths from the hands of her playmates and hung them one after another on the lowered horns of the bull. Then she sprang lightly to his back, while the other girls hung back, hesitating and afraid.
When the bull had thus got what he wanted, he bounded up from the ground. First he walked slowly, yet so that Europa’s companions could not quite keep pace with him. But when the meadow lay behind and the empty strand stretched ahead, he doubled his speed and seemed a flying steed rather than a trotting bull. Before the girl knew what was happening, he had leaped into the sea and was swimming away with his quarry. With her right hand she clung to one of his horns, with her left she steadied herself on his back. The wind billowed out her gown as though it were a sail. In terror she looked back at the receding shore and called to her comrades—but in vain. The waters lapped against the sides of the bull, and shying from the wet she drew up her little heels. The bull floated on like a ship. Soon the land vanished from sight, the sun set, and in the vague shimmer of night, the girl saw nothing but waves and stars. All the next day the bull swam through vast reaches of sea, but he parted the water so adroitly that not a drop touched his rider. At last, toward evening, they reached a far-off land. The bull swung himself ashore and let the girl slip from his back under the arching boughs of a tree. Then he vanished, and in his place stood a man, beautiful as the gods, who told her he was the ruler of the island to which she had come, the island of Crete, and that he would protect her if she consented to be his. In her sadness and desolation, Europa gave him her hand in token of agreement. Zeus had accomplished his desire.
Europa woke from the numbness of long sleep when the sun stood high in the heavens. She was alone and looked about her, helpless and bewildered, as though she expected to find herself at home. “Father, father!” she cried in distress. Then she remembered and said: “How dare I even utter the word ‘father,’ I who have had no care for my maidenhood! What madness made me forget a child’s love and devotion?” Again she looked around, and slowly everything came back to her. “From where, and to what place have I come?” she said. “Death would be a penalty too light for my failing. But am I really awake? Am I mourning an actual disgrace? Perhaps only a misty dream, which will dissolve when I close my lids again, is troubling my spirit. It is impossible to think that I chose to climb on a monster’s back, that I swam the seas, rather than pluck fresh blooms in sweet security!”
Even as she spoke, she passed her palm across her eyes as if to banish a nightmare. But when she opened them, she saw the same alien scene: unfamiliar trees and rocks, and the white churn of the tide, dashing against looming cliffs and rushing on to a shore she had never seen. “Oh, if someone would only deliver that bull up to me now!” she cried in anger. “I should rend his flesh and break his horns. Idle wish! I have left my home thoughtlessly and without shame, so what is there for me but to die! If all the gods have forsaken me, let them at least send a lion or a tiger. Perhaps my beauty will tempt their appetites, and I need not wait for hunger to fade the bloom on my cheeks.”
But no savage beast appeared. Smiling and tranquil the unfamiliar landscape spread before her, and the sun shone from a cloudless sky. As though pursued by the Furies, the girl sprang to her feet. “Miserable Europa,” she cried, “do you not hear your father’s voice? He is far away, but still he will curse you unless yo
u put an end to your shameful life. Do you not see him pointing to that ash tree, on which you can hang yourself by your girdle, or that steep cliff, from which you can plunge to an unquiet grave in the stormy sea? Or do you prefer to be the concubine of a barbarian lord and slave for him day after day, spinning your wool, you, the daughter of a great and powerful king?”
In this way she tormented herself with the thought of death without finding the courage to die. Suddenly, she heard a low mocking whisper, and fearing an eavesdropper, looked over her shoulder in alarm. There, bright with unearthly radiance, stood Aphrodite and beside her Eros, her son, with lowered bow. A smile lingered on the lips of the goddess. “Calm your anger and rebel no longer,” she said. “The bull you loathe will come and hold out his horns so that you may break them. It is I who sent you the dream you had in your father’s house. Be comforted, Europa! You were carried off by a god. You are destined to be the mortal wife of Zeus, the Unconquerable. And your name shall be immortal, for from this time on the continent which received you shall be called Europe!”
CADMUS
CADMUS was Europa’s brother, a son of Agenor, king of Phoenicia. When Zeus, in the shape of a bull, had carried off Europa, Agenor sent Cadmus and his brothers in search of her, telling them not to come back until they had accomplished their quest. For a long time Cadmus wandered through the world in vain, unable to find her whom the wiles of Zeus had spirited away. He feared his father’s anger at his failure, and so—not wishing to return to his own country—he consulted the oracle of Phoebus Apollo and asked what land he should dwell in the rest of his life. And the sun-god replied: “In a lonely meadow you will find a heifer who has never borne the yoke. Follow her, and where she lies down to rest in the grass, in that place you shall build a city and call it Thebes.”
Gods and Heroes of Ancient Greece Page 5