“How long ago was all this?” asked the youth.
“If the child lived,” said Creusa, “he would be of your age.”
“Oh, how like my own is the destiny of your friend!” cried the youth sorrowfully. “She is looking for her son, and I seek my mother. But what happened to her took place in a far-off land, and we are strangers to each other. Do not hope, however, that the god will give you the answer you desire. For in your friend’s name you have come to accuse him of faithlessness, and he will not wish to pronounce judgment upon himself.”
“Stop!” said Creusa. “There comes the husband of the woman I was speaking of. Try to forget what I have told you—perhaps too readily and openly.”
Xuthus advanced joyfully toward his wife. “Creusa!” he called out to her, “Trophonius has given me happy tidings. I shall not leave this place without a child! But who is this with you? Who is this youthful priest?”
The boy modestly approached the prince and told him that he was only Apollo’s servant, that the noblest among the men of Delphi, chosen by lot, were in the innermost sanctuary, seated around the tripod from which the priestess was preparing to issue the oracle. When the prince heard this, he bade Creusa adorn herself with the sprays which suppliants must carry, and implore a favorable answer from Apollo at the god’s altar, which stood in the open under the sky and was wreathed about with branches of laurel. He himself hastened to the shrine within, while the boy remained on guard in the outer court. Before long he heard the doors open and close with a sound like thunder. Then he saw Xuthus hurrying forth with an air of happy bewilderment. Impetuously he flung his arms about the boy, called him “son” over and over, and begged him to clasp him in return and kiss him with filial devotion, until the young servant of Apollo thought the old man must be out of his mind and thrust him aside with youthful strength. But Xuthus would not accept such denial. “The god himself revealed this to me,” he insisted. “The oracle issued to me was that the first person I met outside should be my son—a gift of the immortals. How this can be I do not know, for my wife has never borne me a child. But I trust in the god. If and when he will, let him lay bare the secret.”
And now the boy too gave up his reserve and yielded himself up to happiness. But not utterly, for even as he kissed and embraced his father he sighed: “O darling mother, where are you? When may I look on your dear face?” He was, moreover, in grave doubt as to what the childless wife of Xuthus, whom—so he thought—he had never seen, would say to this unexpected stepson, and how the city of Athens would receive one who was not his father’s legitimate heir. But Xuthus bade him be of good courage, promising to present him to his wife and to his people, not as his son, but as a stranger. He then gave him the name of Ion, the Pacer, because he had clasped him to his breast as his son while the boy paced the court of the temple.
Creusa, in the meantime, had not stirred from Apollo’s altar, at which she had prostrated herself in prayer. But her earnest supplication was interrupted by her servants, who came to her lamenting loudly. “Unhappy mistress!” they called out to her, “your husband rejoices, but you will never hold a child in your arms or suckle it at your breast. Apollo has granted him a son, a son full-grown, who was probably borne to him years ago by heaven knows what concubine. He came to meet Xuthus, as he was coming from the temple. And now the father will delight in the son he has recovered while you will live in your empty house like a widow.”
The poor princess, whose spirit the gods must have struck with blindness, since she did not solve so transparent a secret, brooded over her sad fate in silence. After a little she inquired after the name and person of this stepson she seemed to have acquired.
“He is the young guard of the temple, the one you spoke with,” her servants replied. “His father has named him Ion. We do not know who his mother is. And now your husband has gone to the altar of Dionysus to make secret sacrifice for his son. Later there will be a solemn banquet. He threatened us with death if we told you these things, and only the love we bear you compels us to disobey him. But do not betray us to him!”
And now an old servant, who was completely loyal to the house of Erechtheus and loved his mistress with deep devotion, separated himself from the rest and began to rail against Prince Xuthus, calling him a faithless adulterer. In his passionate zeal he even offered to do away with this bastard son, who would otherwise unlawfully acquire the heritage of the Erechthides. Creusa thought herself deserted both by her husband and her lover of long ago. Confused with sorrow and hopelessness she agreed to the evil plans of the old man and, in return, confided to him her relationship to the god.
When Xuthus left the temple with Ion, he took him to the double peak of Mount Parnassus, where the people of Delphi used to worship Dionysus, whom they held no less sacred than Apollo himself and celebrated with wild orgies. After the prince had poured a libation in gratitude for his son, the boy—with the help of the servants who had accompanied him—set up a large and magnificent tent under the open sky and covered it with tapestries finely woven, which he had bidden them bring from the temple of Apollo. Long tables were placed within, and on them silver platters heaped with rich and dainty foods, and golden cups of fragrant wine. Then Xuthus sent his herald down to the city of Delphi and invited all its inhabitants to share in his joy. Soon the great tent was filled with guests whose heads were garlanded with wreaths. They dined in gaiety and splendor, and when the dessert was served, an aged man, whose curious gestures amused the guests, came out into their midst and took upon himself the office of cup-bearer. Xuthus recognized him as Creusa’s old servant, praised his industry and faithfulness, and, for the rest, let him do as he pleased. So he went to the board which held the wines and saw to the cups and the needs of the guests. Toward the end of the banquet, when the flutes were beginning to play, he bade the serving-boys take the small cups from the festal board and set large vessels of gold and silver before the guests. He himself took the most beautiful of all and filled it to the brim with the noblest wine, as if to honor his new young lord, but secretly he added a deadly poison. As he approached Ion and poured a few drops on the ground as a libation, a servant who stood close by inadvertently uttered a curse. Ion, who had grown up among the sacred rites of the temple, knew this for an evil omen, emptied all the wine, and asked for a fresh draught from another cup, from which he himself solemnly poured the libation. All the guests followed his example. Just then a flock of holy doves, bred and fed in the temple of Apollo, under the god’s protection, fluttered into the tent, and when they saw the streams of wine flowing on all sides, greedily alighted and began to sip with thrust-out bills. And none was harmed save one which settled where Ion had emptied his first cup. Hardly had she wetted her bill when she began to beat her wings and reel about, until at last she died in spasms of pain, while the guests looked on in amazement.
At this Ion rose from his seat, angrily shook his arms free of his robe, clenched his fists, and cried: “Who is it that wanted to kill me? Speak, old man, for it was you who lent your aid. You blended the draught and handed me the cup!” And he gripped the servant’s shoulder and would not release him. Taken off his guard and alarmed, he confessed his crime but shifted all the blame to Creusa. Then Ion, whom Apollo’s oracle had declared son of Xuthus, left the tent, and all crowded after him in wild confusion. Under the open sky, within a circle of the noblest Delphians, he lifted his hands and said: “Holy Earth, you are witness that this alien woman of the line of the Erechthides wanted to kill me with poison!”
“Stone her, stone her!” clamored the people as if with a single voice, and they followed Ion in search of Creusa. Xuthus himself was swept away with the rest, hardly aware of what he was about, for the dreadful discovery had dulled his reason.
Creusa was awaiting the outcome of her desperate attempt at Apollo’s altar. But it was quite other from what she expected. A gust of sound from far off roused her from her lonely brooding, and as it swelled and came nearer, one of her husband�
��s serving-men, who was loyal to her above all others, ran in the van of the surging mob to tell her that her plot had been discovered and that the people of Delphi were resolved to kill her. “Hold fast to the altar,” her women counseled, pressing about her, “and if this holy place does not save you from your murderers, they will, at least, incur blood guilt which no penance can atone for.”
In the meantime the furious Delphians, led by Ion, came closer and closer, and even before they reached the temple, the boy’s angry words were carried to her by the wind. “The gods have favored me!” he cried. “For this crime, which was never accomplished, was intended to free me of a hostile stepmother. Where is she? Where is that viper with poisonous fangs, that she-dragon with eyes flashing flames of death? Let us hurl the murderess from the highest cliff!” And the throngs around him howled their applause.
They reached the altar, and Ion seized the woman who was his mother, but who seemed to him his deadly foe, and tried to drag her from the sanctuary whose holiness she had invoked to save herself. But Apollo did not wish the son to murder his mother. His divine will carried the news of Creusa’s attempted crime and of the punishment to be meted out to her to the ears of his priestess and illumined her spirit, so that she suddenly grasped the meaning in all that had happened and knew that her foster child Ion was not the son of Xuthus, as she herself had declared in ambiguous prophecy, but of Apollo and Creusa. She left her tripod and fetched forth the basket in which the newborn babe, together with certain tokens she had carefully preserved, had once been found at the gates of the temple at Delphi. With these in her hands, she hastened to the altar where Creusa was struggling with Ion for her very life. When Ion saw the priestess, he at once loosened his hold and advanced toward her reverently. “Welcome, dear mother,” he said, “for so I must call you, although you did not give birth to me. Have you heard what wicked designs I have just escaped? Scarcely had I found a father, when my evil stepmother planned my destruction! Now tell me what to do, and I will obey your command.”
The priestess lifted a warning finger and said: “Ion, start for Athens with unstained hands, and under favorable auspices.”
Ion thought for a moment and then countered: “Is he not stainless who kills his foes?”
“Do not kill until you have heard me,” said the priestess in majesty. “Do you see this basket in my hands? And the fresh garlands I have twined around the old withes? In this you were once exposed; from this I took you and reared you.”
Ion looked at her in astonishment. “You never told me anything of this, mother,” he said. “Why have you kept this secret so long?”
“Because the god wanted you to serve him all these years,” she answered. “Now that he has given you a father, he has freed you to go to Athens.”
“But how is this basket to help me?” asked Ion.
“It contains the linen in which you were wrapped, dear son,” said the priestess.
“Linen?” exclaimed Ion. “Why, that is a token which may lead me to my rightful mother!”
The priestess held out the basket to him, and he eagerly thrust his hand into it and drew out the folded linen. While his eyes, dim with tears, rested on this treasured keepsake, Creusa had gradually regained her composure. A glance at the basket discovered the whole truth to her. She rushed from the altar, and with a single jubilant word, “Son!” clasped Ion in her arms.
With renewed suspicion he tried to free himself from her embraces, thinking that this was only another ruse. But Creusa herself released him and stepping back said: “This linen shall testify to the truth of my words. Do not hesitate to undo the folds. You will find the tokens I shall describe to you. The embroidery which adorns them I myself stitched long ago, when I was a girl. In the middle of the stuff you will see the Gorgon’s head, ringed with serpents, as it appears on the shield of Athene.”
Dubiously Ion unfolded the linen, but suddenly he cried out joyfully: “O mighty Zeus, here is the Medusa, and these are the serpents!”
“It is not enough,” said Creusa. “There must be a necklace of small dragons, wrought of gold, in memory of the dragons in the chest of Erichthonius.”
Ion searched the basket and, smiling in delight, drew out the necklace.
“And the last token,” said Creusa, “is a wreath of unfading olive leaves which I set on the head of my newborn son. They come from the first olive tree planted in Athens.”
Ion put his hand into the bottom of the basket and lifted out a fresh green olive wreath. “Mother, mother!” he cried in a voice broken with sobs, flung his arms around Creusa, and covered her face with kisses. At last he tore himself away and asked about Xuthus, his father. Then Creusa told him the secret of his birth, that he was the son of the god in whose temple he had served so long and faithfully. Now he understood the mystery of those early events and Creusa’s mistake and was glad to pardon her designs upon one she did not know. Xuthus embraced Ion, whom he accepted as a stepson and a cherished gift of the gods, and all three went into the temple to give thanks to Apollo. Seated at her tripod, the priestess prophesied that Ion would be the father of a glorious race, to be named Ionians, in honor of him. And to Xuthus she prophesied that Creusa would bear him a son, Dorus, who would father the Dorians, famed throughout the world. Rejoicing in fulfilment and hope, Xuthus and Creusa set out for Athens with the son who had been restored to her, and all the people of Delphi came to speed them on their way.
DAEDALUS AND ICARUS
DAEDALUS of Athens, son of Metion and great-grandson of Erechtheus, also belonged to the family of the Erechthides. He was an architect and a sculptor—the greatest artist of his age. His works were admired in all quarters of the world, and those who beheld his statues said that they lived and moved and saw; that they were not mere likenesses, but animate beings. For while the masters of earlier times had made images with closed eyes and hands hanging slackly down and joined to the sides of the body, he was the first to give his marbles open eyes, hands that reached out, and feet that seemed to walk. But this perfect craftsman was as envious and conceited as he was gifted, and these flaws in his nature tempted him to wrongdoing and drove him into misery.
Talus, his sister’s son, whom he instructed in his art, was more talented than his teacher. When he was little more than a boy, he had contrived the potter’s wheel, and he became the much-acclaimed inventor of the saw by copying a tool which Nature herself put into his hands; for once, when he had killed a snake, he found he could use its jawbone to cut through a thin strip of wood. Immediately he set about notching a metal bar with a series of zigzag teeth and so made a sturdier replica of the serpent’s jaw. He also built the first turning lathe by joining two metal arms, one of which turned while the other stood still. He devised other ingenious implements, all without his uncle’s help, and acquired such fame that Daedalus began to fear that the name of his pupil would outshine his own. Overcome with envy he killed the boy in secret, hurling him down from the Acropolis in Athens. But someone saw him digging the grave for his victim and, although he pretended to have been burying a serpent, he was accused of murder and pronounced guilty by the court of the Areopagus.
He escaped and wandered through Attica as a fugitive. Later he fled to Crete, where King Minos afforded him shelter and honored him both as a distinguished artist and as his personal friend. He commissioned Daedalus to build an abode for the Minotaur, a monster of evil origin, whose head and shoulders were those of a bull while the lower part of his body resembled that of a man. The artist drew upon the rich resources of his mind and built the labyrinth, a structure full of intricate windings which bewildered the eyes and the feet of anyone who entered it. The countless corridors twined like the serpentine flow of the Phrygian river Maeander, which seems to turn back upon its course and meet its own waves. When the building was completed and Daedalus went over it, he, its builder, could scarcely find his way back to the threshold of the maze he had constructed. At its very center dwelt the Minotaur, who every ninth year d
evoured seven youths and seven girls, whom, according to an old agreement, Athens sent as a tribute to the king of Crete.
Notwithstanding the praise and friendship accorded him, Daedalus grew oppressed by his long exile from his beloved country, and the thought of spending the rest of his life on an island encircled by the sea and with a ruler who distrusted even his friends, became more and more tormenting. He pondered a way out. After long reflection he exclaimed exultantly: “Let Minos block my escape on land and sea, but I shall still have the air! Be he ever so great and powerful, there he is helpless, and through the air I shall depart!”
It was no sooner said than done. Daedalus yoked Nature by the vigor of his imagination. He began to arrange the feathers of birds in a certain order, putting the shortest first, and then the longer, so that it looked as if they had grown of themselves in increasing length. In the middle he bound them together with linen threads, and the ends he fastened with wax. Then he bent them to a curve so shallow and so gradual that they appeared to be wings.
Daedalus had a son by the name of Icarus. The boy watched his father’s labors, and his childish hands joined eagerly in the work. Now he reached out for the feathers whose down stirred at a breath of wind; now he kneaded the yellow wax between thumb and forefinger. And Daedalus let him be and smiled at the child’s awkward efforts. When all was made perfect, he fitted the wings to his body, balanced himself for an instant, and then floated up into the sky, light as any bird. After he had lowered himself to earth, he instructed his young son Icarus, for whom he had fashioned a smaller pair of wings. “Always fly the middle course, dear child,” he said. “If you sink too low, your wings will touch the sea, grow waterlogged, and pull you down into the waves. But if you rise too high into the upper regions of the air, your plumage will approach the sun and catch fire. So fly between sea and sun, and stay close behind me.” While he warned him, Daedalus bound the wings to his son’s shoulders, but the old man’s fingers trembled, and an anxious tear fell on his hand. Then he took the boy in his arms and kissed him—for the last time.
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