“Turn your eyes upon me,” she said. “Look at me, goddesses of vengeance, look at this offering to the Furies! And you, spirits of my brothers, so recently fled from the body, know what I am doing for your sake! Accept the hapless fruit of my own body as your burial gift—ah! so dearly bought! My heart is breaking with motherlove, and soon I shall follow him whose life I am taking for your sake!” So she spoke and, turning away her gaze, threw the brand into the fire with shaking fingers.
Meleager, in the meantime, had returned to the city, brooding with mingled emotions on his triumph, his love, and his crime. Suddenly he felt his innermost being burn with fever, and he threw himself on his couch in an agony of pain. He bore it like a hero but grieved to die an inglorious death far from the battlefield, and envied his comrades who had perished from the thrusts of the boar. Moaning he called for his brother, his sisters, his aged father, and his mother, who was still standing at the hearth, watching with stony gaze while the fire consumed the brand. Her son’s pains waxed with the flames, but when they waned and nothing was left but pale ash, his suffering grew less, and at the last spark he breathed his last, and the spirit left his body. His father, his sisters, and all Calydon mourned at his bier. But his mother was absent. They found her strangled in a noose, stretched at the very hearth which held the brittle cinders.
TANTALUS
TANTALUS, son of Zeus, ruled over Sipylus in Lydia. He was very rich in worldly goods and famed for his wealth in both Asia and Greece. If ever the Olympian gods paid honor to a mortal, it was to him. Because of his divine origin, they cherished him as a friend, and at last he was even, permitted to dine at the board of Zeus and listen to the words which passed between the immortals. But his vain human spirit could not bear the exquisite burden of unearthly bliss, and he began to sin against the gods in a number of ways: he betrayed their secrets; he filched nectar and ambrosia from their board and distributed it among his companions in the world below; he hid the image of a dog, wrought of precious gold, which another had stolen from Zeus’ temple in Crete, and when the king of the gods demanded it back, he swore he had never seen it. Finally, in his matchless arrogance, he invited the gods to his palace as a return for their hospitality, and in order to test whether they really knew all things, he had his own son Pelops slain and prepared for their meal. Only Demeter ate of the gruesome dish—one shoulder-blade. The other gods recognized what had been put before them and threw the torn limbs of the boy into a cauldron, from which Clotho, one of the Fates, drew him forth in fresh beauty. But one shoulder was of ivory!
With this, Tantalus had exceeded all bounds of iniquity, and the gods thrust him down to Hades, where he was punished with cruel torments. He had to stand in the middle of a lake whose waters came to his chin, yet he suffered burning thirst, for he could not reach the draught so close to his lips. Whenever he bent down to quench his thirst, the water receded, and at his feet lay the dark dry earth. At the same time he had to endure the pangs of hunger. Behind him, on the margin of the lake, grew beautiful fruit trees which arched their boughs over his head. Looking up, he saw juicy pears, red-cheeked apples, glowing pomegranates, plump figs, and green olives. But the moment he reached to pluck them, a strong wind whipped the branches up into the clouds. His last and most terrible torment was the incessant fear of death. A great block of stone hung in the air over his head and constantly threatened to crush him. So impious Tantalus, who scorned the gods, was destined to threefold, perpetual suffering in the underworld.
PELOPS
TANTALUS had done the gods great wrong; his son Pelops honored them devoutly. After his father had been thrust into Hades, a war with his neighbor, the king of Troy, drove Pelops from his own country of Lydia, and he journeyed to Greece. The chin of the youth was only just touched with the first dark down, but his heart had already chosen a wife. It was Hippodamia, the daughter of king Oenomaus of Elis, and she was a prize not easily won. For an oracle had foretold that the king would die when his daughter married, and so he did all he could to keep her suitors at a distance. Throughout the land he issued a proclamation that he who would wed his daughter must first defeat her father in a chariot race. If, however, the king were victorious, the contestant was to forfeit his life. The race was to begin at Pisa and end at Poseidon’s altar on the isthmus of Corinth, and the start Oenomaus arranged as follows: he would first sacrifice a ram to Zeus, taking his time about it, while the suitor set off in his four-horse chariot. Only when the rites of offering were duly fulfilled would he begin the race and pursue the other, spear in hand, in the chariot guided by Myrtilus, his charioteer. If he caught up with him, he should have the right to pierce him to the heart.
When the many youths who wooed Hippodamia for her beauty heard these conditions, they were of good courage, for they regarded the king as a feeble old man who knew very well that he could not race with the young, and gave them so great a start in order to explain his probable defeat by this act of generosity. One after another came to Elis and asked the king for his daughter. He received each in a most friendly manner, gave him a splendid four-horse chariot, and went to sacrifice a ram to Zeus without the slightest show of haste. Only then did he mount his light chariot, drawn by his two mares Phylla and Harpinna, who ran swifter than the north wind. And every time the charioteer caught up with the suitor long before the goal was reached, and the cruel king pierced him with his spear. In this fashion he had already slain more than twelve youths.
On the way to his beloved, Pelops had landed on the peninsula which was one day to bear his name. He soon heard all that was happening in Elis. At nightfall he went to the shore and called upon his patron god, Poseidon, swinger of the mighty trident, and the waves parted and he surged up through the sea, “O Poseidon,” cried Pelops, “if the gifts of Aphrodite are welcome to you, turn the sharp spear of Oenomaus from me. Send me to Elis in the swiftest chariot, and lead me to victory. Already he has destroyed thirteen wooers, and he is still putting off marriage for his daughter. Great danger calls for a brave spirit. I am determined to try my luck. I must die someday, so why sit in gloom, awaiting inglorious old age, and share in no brilliant conquests? I want to undertake this race. Give me the success I pray for!”
And Pelops did not plead in vain. For again the waves surged and parted, and a chariot of shimmering gold with four winged horses swift as arrows rose from the depths. On this Pelops sped to Elis, guiding the sea-god’s horses at will and outrunning the wind. When Oenomaus saw him coming he quailed, for he recognized Poseidon’s chariot at a glance. But he did not refuse to race with the stranger on the usual conditions. After Pelops’ horses had rested from their journey along the isthmus, he started them off on the race track. He was close to the goal when the king, who had sacrificed the ram according to his custom, suddenly caught up with him, brandishing his spear to deal the bold suitor the fatal blow. But Poseidon, the protector of Pelops, loosened the wheels of the king’s chariot while it was going at full speed, so that it crashed to earth. Oenomaus fell and was killed instantly. At that very moment, Pelops reached the goal. When he looked back, he saw the king’s palace in flames. A flash of lightning had set it afire and destroyed it until only a single pillar was left standing. But Pelops sped toward the burning house in his winged chariot and fetched his bride out of the ruins.
NIOBE
NIOBE, queen of Thebes, had much to be proud of. The Muses had given her husband Amphion a lyre whose strings breathed sounds of such persuasive sweetness that once at his playing the very stones had joined themselves to rear the palace of Thebes. Her father was Tantalus, the guest of the immortals. She herself ruled over a mighty realm and was famed for her noble spirit, for her beauty, and for her stateliness. But nothing made her heart beat higher than the thought of her fourteen children, seven sons and seven daughters. Niobe was known as the happiest of all mothers, and this she would, indeed, have been, had she not vaunted her happiness too exultantly. As it was, her awareness of it proved her destruction.
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One day the seeress Man to, daughter of Tiresias, was moved to cry out in the streets, exhorting the women of Thebes to do honor to Leto and her twin children Apollo and Artemis. She bade them wreathe their brows with laurel, make fervent prayer, and offer sacrifice. While the women of Thebes gathered to listen, Niobe suddenly appeared amid a throng of her followers. She wore a gown worked with golden thread. Radiant in her beauty, except where anger clouded her countenance, tossing her lovely head with its lustrous hair rippling down over her shoulders, she stood among the women who were preparing the sacrifice under the open sky. Her haughty glances swept over the assembly, and she said:
“Are you mad that you honor the gods, who are no more than idle tales among you, while beings more favored by heaven actually dwell in your midst? You set up altars to Leto! Why does not incense rise to my divine name? Is not my father Tantalus the only mortal who ever ate at the board of Zeus? My mother Dione is sister to the Pleiades, who shine as a brilliant constellation in the skies. One of my ancestors, Atlas, was so strong that he carried the broad heavens on his shoulders. My father’s father is Zeus himself. Even the peoples of Phrygia obey me. The city of Cadmus, the walls that rose to the playing of Amphion, are subject to me and my husband. Every chamber in my palace is filled with marvellous treasures. Add to this that I have a face worthy of a goddess, and children such as no other mother can boast of: seven flower-like daughters and seven sturdy sons, and soon I shall have an equal number of sons- and daughters-in-law! But you have the boldness to prefer to me Leto, the unknown daughter of Titans, whom the wide earth once grudged even a little space wherein to bear children to Zeus, until the floating island of Delos took pity on her and granted her a temporary refuge! And there the poor creature bore her two children—a mere seventh part of my joy-bringing harvest. Who will deny that I am happy? Who will doubt that I shall remain so? The Fates would have much to do if they set about harming my possessions. Even if they took one or the other of my brood, how could their number ever sink to a mere two, such as Leto’s children? So away with your offerings! Snatch the wreaths from your heads! Disperse and go home, and never again let me find you engaged in such foolishness.”
The women were afraid. They tore the laurel from their brows, left the sacrifice unfinished and crept home, honoring the offended goddess with silent prayers.
On the peak of Mount Cynthus in Delos stood Leto with her twin children, gazing with divine eyes upon what was happening in far-off Thebes. “Behold, my children,” she said, “I, your mother, who am so proud to have borne you, I who give place to no goddess but Hera, must suffer the disdain of insolent mortals! Unless you aid me, I shall be thrust away from my ancient holy altars. Yes, and Niobe is slandering you also by placing you second to her own brood.” She was complaining thus when Phoebus interrupted her.
“Leave off lamenting, mother,” he said. “You are only delaying punishment.” And his sister seconded him. Both veiled themselves in cloud and sped through the air to the city of Cadmus. Before its walls was a spacious field, not intended for sowing and reaping, but for races and practice with horses and chariots. There the seven sons of Amphion were engaged in gay sport. Ismenus, the eldest, was just driving his mount in a circle at a trot, reining him in with a sure hand close to the bit in his foam-flecked mouth, when he suddenly groaned, “Alas!” and the rein slipped from his powerless fingers. Struck to the heart by an arrow, he slowly sank to earth at the horse’s right flank. His brother Sipylus, who was nearest him, had heard a quiver rattling in the air and fled at full gallop, like a helmsman who catches the lightest wind in his sails to make the harbor before the storm. And yet an arrow whirring down from the sky pierced him in the nape of the neck, and its iron point jutted from his throat. Over the mane of his speeding horse he slid to the ground and spattered the earth with his blood. Two others, Tantalus, named after his grandfather, and Phaedimus were wrestling with each other, locked breast to breast. Once more the bowstring twanged, and an arrow stabbed both at once. They moaned, writhed on the earth, their limbs contorted with pain, their eyes dimmed, and they died in the dust at the selfsame moment. A fifth son, Alphenor, saw them fall. Beating his breast, he ran toward them and tried to warm the cold bodies of his brothers in his embrace, but while he was performing this office of love, Apollo launched a deadly dart at him, and when he drew it forth from his heart, his blood and breath flowed from him. Damasichthon, the sixth, a charming youth with long locks, was struck in the hollow of the knee, and when he bent backward to pull out the missile, a second arrow entered his open mouth up to the feathering, and his blood spurted out like a fountain. Ilioneus, a mere boy, the last and youngest son, who had watched his brothers perish one after another, fell on his knees, spread wide his arms, and began to plead: “O gods, all ye gods, spare me!” Even the grim archer was moved to compassion, but it was too late. The arrow could not be recalled. The boy fell, but he died of a painless wound, for the point barely grazed his heart.
Rumor of the disaster soon spread through the city. When Amphion heard the awful tidings, he pierced his own breast with his sword. Presently the loud laments of the servants and the people reached the women’s chambers. For a long time Niobe could not grasp her misfortune. She did not want to believe that the immortals had so much power, that they dared, that they had succeeded! But soon she could no longer doubt the truth. Ah, how different was this Niobe from her who had just driven the people away from the altars of the mighty goddess and paced through the city, her head held high! Then she had seemed enviable to her dearest friends, but now she evoked the pity even of her foes. She rushed out to the field and threw herself on the cold bodies of her sons, kissing now this one, now that. Then she lifted her weary arms to the sky and cried: “Gloat over my misery! Sate your angry heart, cruel Leto! The death of these seven will cast me into the grave! Triumph over me, yours is the victory!”
Now her seven daughters, already garbed in mourning and with loosened locks, came and stood beside their fallen brothers. At sight of them a gleam of malice flickered over Niobe’s pale face. She forgot herself, shot a mocking glance at the sky, and said: “Victory? No! Even in my wretchedness I have more than you in your triumph! Though all these are dead, I am still the richer!”
Hardly had the words left her lips, when through the air came a sound as of a sinew tightened on the bow. Everyone trembled, all but Niobe, whom disaster had dulled. Suddenly one of the sisters put her hand to her heart and drew out an arrow. She fainted, and as she fell turned her dying gaze upon the dead body of the brother lying nearest her. Another of the girls hastened to her mother, to give her words of comfort, but her mouth was forever closed by an unseen dart. A third fell as she turned to flee, and still others faltered while they bowed over their dead sisters. Only the youngest was left. She fled to her mother, hid her face against her knees and clung to her, covering herself with the folds of her robe.
“Leave me this one!” Niobe cried out to heaven in pain. “Only this youngest of so many!” But even as she uttered her plea, the child loosened her hold on her, and now Niobe sat alone among the bodies of her sons and daughters. She grew rigid with sorrow. Not a hair on her head stirred in the wind. The color ebbed from her cheeks. Her eyes stared motionless in her ravaged face. The blood stopped running in her veins. Her pulse fluttered and died. Her neck, her arms, her feet were utterly still. Even her heart had turned to stone. She was lifeless save for the tears flowing unceasingly from her stark eyes. And now a tempest swept her through the air and across the sea to her old home in Lydia and set her down among the cliffs of Sipylus. Here, on the peak of the mountain, she still stands, a block of marble, which even now is washed with her tears.
SALMONEUS
SALMONEUS, ruler over Elis, was a wealthy and unjust prince with an arrogant heart. He had founded a beautiful city and called it Salmonea, and he grew so overbearing in his pride that he commanded his subjects to give him the honors and offerings due to a god. He wanted to be taken fo
r Zeus himself, and he traversed his country and other parts of Greece in a chariot meant to resemble that of the Thunderer. To accomplish this, he tried to imitate lightning with torches launched through the air, and thunder with the hoofbeats of champing horses which he drove over a brazen bridge. He even had people killed and then pretended that his lightning had struck them down. From the heights of Olympus Zeus noted his folly. He reached into the thick of the clouds, drew forth a real thunderbolt, and hurled it at this mortal, raging in madness and insolence below. The bolt shattered the king and destroyed the city he had built with all those who dwelt in it.
HERACLES
THE INFANT HERACLES
HERACLES was the son of Zeus and Alcmene, the granddaughter of Perseus. His stepfather, Amphitryon, was also a grandson of Perseus. He was king of Tiryns, but had left that city to take up his dwelling in Thebes. Hera, the wife of Zeus, hated her rival Alcmene and begrudged her the son for whom Zeus himself had predicted a glorious future. And so when Alcmene had borne Heracles, she did not think that he would be safe in the palace, and fearing the jealousy of the mother of the gods, exposed him in a field, which even in later times was still called the Field of Heracles. Here the child would surely have perished, had not curious chance brought Athene and Hera, his enemy, along the very path where he lay. Athene looked at the beautifully formed child with wonder, had pity on him, and induced her companion to nurse him at her divine breast. There he sucked far more lustily than his tender age warranted, and he hurt Hera, who put the boy ungently back on the ground. But Athene lifted him up, carried him to the nearby city, brought him to Queen Alcmene as a poor foundling, and asked her to rear him. Thus while his real mother, for fear of Hera, had suppressed her love and had been willing to let the child perish, his stepmother, filled with hatred for him, had unwittingly saved her rival’s child from death. And she had done even more for him! Heracles had sucked at her breast only an instant, but those few drops of the goddess’ milk had made him immortal.
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