A Book of Myths
steadily he looked in her eyes until again they fell as though at last
they had found a conqueror.
Like two swallows that skim across a sunny sea, filled with the
joyousness of the coming of spring, Atalanta and Milanion started.
Scarcely did their feet seem to touch the solid earth, and all
those who stood by vowed that now, at length, was a race indeed, a
race worthy for the gods to behold.
But as they ran, almost abreast, so that none could tell which was the
gainer, Milanion obeyed the bidding of Aphrodite and let fall one of
the golden apples. Never before had Atalanta dreamed of such a
thing--an apple of glistening gold! She stopped, poised on one foot as
a flying bird poises for a moment on the wing, and picked up the
treasure. But Milanion had sped several paces ahead ere she was again
abreast of him, and even as she gained on him, he dropped the second
apple. Again Atalanta was tempted. Again she stopped, and again
Milanion shot ahead of her. Her breath came short and fast, as once
more she gained the ground that she had lost. But, yet a third time,
Milanion threw in her way one of the golden illusions of the gods.
And, yet again, Atalanta stooped to pick up the apple of gold.
Then a mighty shout from those who watched rent the air, and Atalanta,
half fearful, half ashamed, yet wholly happy, found herself running,
vanquished, into the arms of him who was indeed her conqueror. For not
only had Milanion won the race, but he had won the heart of the virgin
huntress, a heart once as cold and remote as the winter snow on the
peak of Mount Olympus.
ARACHNE
The hay that so short a time ago was long, lush grass, with fragrant
meadow-sweet and gold-eyed marguerites growing amongst it in the green
meadow-land by the river, is now dry hay--fragrant still, though dead,
and hidden from the sun's warm rays underneath the dark wooden rafters
of the barn. Occasionally a cat on a hunting foray comes into the barn
to look for mice, or to nestle cosily down into purring slumber. Now
and then a hen comes furtively tip-toeing through the open door and
makes for itself a secret nest in which to lay the eggs which it
subsequently heralds with such loud clucks of proud rejoicing as to
completely undo all its previous precautions. Sometimes children come
in, pursuing cat or hen, or merely to tumble each other over amongst
the soft hay which they leave in chaotic confusion, and when they have
gone away, a little more of the sky can be seen through the little
window in the roof, and through the wooden bars of the window lower
down. Yet, whatever other living creatures may come or go, by those
windows of the barn, and high up on its dark rafters, there is always
a living creature working, ceaselessly working. When, through the
skylight, the sun-god drives a golden sunbeam, and a long shaft of
dancing dust-atoms passes from the window to what was once a part of
the early summer's glory, the work of the unresting toiler is also to
be seen, for the window is hung with shimmering grey tapestries made
by Arachne, the spider, and from rafter to rafter her threads are
suspended with inimitable skill.
She was a nymph once, they say--the daughter of Idmon the dyer, of
Colophon, a city of Lydia. In all Lydia there was none who could weave
as wove the beautiful Arachne. To watch her card the wool of the
white-fleeced sheep until in her fingers it grew like the soft clouds
that hang round the hill tops, was pleasure enough to draw nymphs from
the golden river Pactolus and from the vineyards of Tymolus. And when
she drove her swift shuttle hither and thither, still it was joy to
watch her wondrous skill. Magical was the growth of the web, fine of
woof, that her darting fingers span, and yet more magical the
exquisite devices that she then wrought upon it. For birds and flowers
and butterflies and pictures of all the beautiful things on earth were
limned by Arachne, and old tales grew alive again under her creative
needle.
To Pallas Athene, goddess of craftsmen, came tidings that at Colophon
in Lydia lived a nymph whose skill rivalled that of the goddess
herself, and she, ever jealous for her own honour, took on herself the
form of a woman bent with age, and, leaning on her staff, joined the
little crowd that hung round Arachne as she plied her busy needle.
With white arms twined round each other the eager nymphs watched the
flowers spring up under her fingers, even as flowers spring from the
ground on the coming of Demeter, and Athene was fain to admire, while
she marvelled at the magic skill of the fair Arachne.
Gently she spoke to Arachne, and, with the persuasive words of a wise
old woman, warned her that she must not let her ambition soar too
high. Greater than all skilled craftswomen was the great goddess
Athene, and were Arachne, in impious vanity, to dream that one day she
might equal her, that were indeed a crime for any god to punish.
Glancing up for a moment from the picture whose perfect colours grew
fast under her slim fingers, Arachne fixed scornful eyes on the old
woman and gave a merry laugh.
"Didst say _equal_ Athene? old mother," she said. "In good sooth thy
dwelling must be with the goat-herds in the far-off hills and thou art
not a dweller in our city. Else hadst thou not spoken to Arachne of
_equalling_ the work of Athene; _excelling_ were the better word."
In anger Pallas Athene made answer.
"Impious one!" she said, "to those who would make themselves higher
than the gods must ever come woe unutterable. Take heed what thou
sayest, for punishment will assuredly be thine."
Laughing still, Arachne made reply:
"I fear not, Athene, nor does my heart shake at the gloomy warning of
a foolish old crone." And turning to the nymphs who, half afraid,
listened to her daring words, she said: "Fair nymphs who watch me day
by day, well do ye know that I make no idle boast. My skill is as
great as that of Athene, and greater still it shall be. Let Athene try
a contest with me if she dare! Well do I know who will be the victor."
Then Athene cast off her disguise, and before the frightened nymphs
and the bold Arachne stood the radiant goddess with eyes that blazed
with anger and insulted pride.
"Lo, Athene is come!" she said, and nymphs and women fell on their
knees before her, humbly adoring. Arachne alone was unabashed. Her
cheeks showed how fast her heart was beating. From rosy red to white
went the colour in them, yet, in firm, low voice she spoke.
"I have spoken truth," she said. "Not woman, nor goddess, can do work
such as mine. Ready am I to abide by what I have said, and if I did
boast, by my boast I stand. If thou wilt deign, great goddess, to try
thy skill against the skill of the dyer's daughter and dost prove the
victor, behold me gladly willing to pay the penalty."
The eyes of Athene, the grey-eyed goddess, grew dark as the sea when a
thunder-cloud hangs over it and a mighty storm is coming. Not for one
moment did she delay, but took her place by the side of Arachne. On
the loom they stretched out two webs with a fine warp, and made them
fast on the beam.
"The sley separates the warp, the woof is inserted in
the middle with sharp shuttles, which the fingers hurry
along, and, being drawn within the warp, the teeth
notched in the moving sley strike it. Both hasten on,
and girding up their garments to their breasts, they
move their skilful arms, their eagerness beguiling their
fatigue. There both the purple is being woven, which is
subjected to the Tyrian brazen vessel, and fine shades
of minute difference; just as the rainbow, with its
mighty arch, is wont to tint a long tract of sky by
means of the rays reflected by the shower; in which,
though a thousand different colours are shining, yet the
very transition eludes the eyes that look upon it....
There, too, the pliant gold is mixed with the threads."
Ovid.
Their canvases wrought, then did Athene and Arachne hasten to cover
them with pictures such as no skilled worker of tapestry has ever
since dreamed of accomplishing. Under the fingers of Athene grew up
pictures so real and so perfect that the watchers knew not whether the
goddess was indeed creating life. And each picture was one that told
of the omnipotence of the gods and of the doom that came upon those
mortals who had dared in their blasphemous presumption to struggle as
equals with the immortal dwellers in Olympus. Arachne glanced up from
her web and looked with eyes that glowed with the love of beautiful
things at the creations of Athene. Yet, undaunted, her fingers still
sped on, and the goddess saw, with brow that grew yet more clouded,
how the daughter of Idmon the dyer had chosen for subjects the tales
that showed the weaknesses of the gods. One after another the living
pictures grew beneath her hand, and the nymphs held their breath in
mingled fear and ecstasy at Arachne's godlike skill and most arrogant
daring. Between goddess and mortal none could have chosen, for the
colour and form and exquisite fancy of the pictures of the daughter of
Zeus were equalled, though not excelled, by those of the daughter of
the dyer of Colophon.
Darker and yet more dark grew the eyes of Athene as they looked on
the magical beauty of the pictures, each one of which was an insult to
the gods. What picture had skilful hand ever drawn to compare with
that of Europa who,
"riding on the back of the divine bull, with one hand
clasped the beast's great horn, and with the other
caught up her garment's purple fold, lest it might trail
and be drenched in the hoar sea's infinite spray. And
her deep robe was blown out in the wind, like the sail
of a ship, and lightly ever it wafted the maiden
onward."
Moschus.
Then at last did the storm break, and with her shuttle the enraged
goddess smote the web of Arachne, and the fair pictures were rent into
motley rags and ribbons. Furiously, too, with her shuttle of boxwood
she smote Arachne. Before her rage, the nymphs fled back to their
golden river and to the vineyards of Tymolus, and the women of
Colophon in blind terror rushed away. And Arachne, shamed to the dust,
knew that life for her was no longer worth possessing. She had
aspired, in the pride of her splendid genius, to a contest with a god,
and knew now that such a contest must ever be vain. A cord hung from
the weaver's beam, and swiftly she seized it, knotted it round her
white neck, and would have hanged herself. But ere the life had passed
out of her, Athene grasped the cord, loosened it, and spoke Arachne's
doom:
"Live!" she said, "O guilty and shameless one! For evermore shalt thou
live and hang as now, thou and thy descendants, that men may never
forget the punishment of the blasphemous one who dared to rival a
god."
Even as she spoke, Arachne's fair form dried up and withered. Her
straight limbs grew grey and crooked and wiry, and her white arms were
no more. And from the beam where the beautiful weaver of Lydia had
been suspended, there hung from a fine grey thread the creature from
which, to this day, there are but few who do not turn with loathing.
Yet still Arachne spins, and still is without a compeer.
"Not anie damzell, which her vaunteth most
In skilfull knitting of soft silken twyne,
Nor anie weaver, which his worke doth boast
In dieper, in damaske, or in lyne,
Nor anie skil'd in workmanship embost,
Nor anie skil'd in loupes of fingring fine,
Might in their divers cunning ever dare
With this so curious networke to compare."
Spenser.
Thus, perhaps, does Arachne have her compensations, and in days that