A Book of Myths
were deemed worthy of being companions of the gods, seemingly no good
fortune came. Yet, after all, if even in a brief span of life they had
tasted god-given happiness, was their fate one to be pitied? Rather
let us keep our tears for those who, in a colourless grey world, have
seen the dull days go past laden with trifling duties, unnecessary
cares and ever-narrowing ideals, and have reached old age and the
grave--no narrower than their lives--without ever having known a
fulness of happiness, such as the Olympians knew, or ever having dared
to reach upwards and to hold fellowship with the Immortals.
Hyacinthus was a Spartan youth, son of Clio, one of the Muses, and of
the mortal with whom she had mated, and from mother, or father, or
from the gods themselves, he had received the gift of beauty. It
chanced one day that as Apollo drove his chariot on its
all-conquering round, he saw the boy. Hyacinthus was as fair to look
upon as the fairest of women, yet he was not only full of grace, but
was muscular, and strong as a straight young pine on Mount Olympus
that fears not the blind rage of the North Wind nor the angry tempests
of the South.
When Apollo had spoken with him he found that the face of Hyacinthus
did not belie the heart within him, and gladly the god felt that at
last he had found the perfect companion, the ever courageous and
joyous young mate, whose mood was always ready to meet his own. Did
Apollo desire to hunt, with merry shout Hyacinthus called the hounds.
Did the great god deign to fish, Hyacinthus was ready to fetch the
nets and to throw himself, whole-souled, into the great affair of
chasing and of landing the silvery fishes. When Apollo wished to climb
the mountains, to heights so lonely that not even the moving of an
eagle's wing broke the everlasting stillness, Hyacinthus--his strong
limbs too perfect for the chisel of any sculptor worthily to
reproduce--was ready and eager for the climb. And when, on the
mountain top, Apollo gazed in silence over illimitable space, and
watched the silver car of his sister Diana rising slowly into the deep
blue of the sky, silvering land and water as she passed, it was never
Hyacinthus who was the first to speak--with words to break the spell
of Nature's perfect beauty, shared in perfect companionship. There
were times, too, when Apollo would play his lyre, and when naught but
the music of his own making could fulfil his longing. And when those
times came, Hyacinthus would lie at the feet of his friend--of the
friend who was a god--and would listen, with eyes of rapturous joy, to
the music that his master made. A very perfect friend was this friend
of the sun-god.
Nor was it Apollo alone who desired the friendship of Hyacinthus.
Zephyrus, god of the South Wind, had known him before Apollo crossed
his path and had eagerly desired him for a friend. But who could stand
against Apollo? Sulkily Zephyrus marked their ever-ripening
friendship, and in his heart jealousy grew into hatred, and hatred
whispered to him of revenge. Hyacinthus excelled at all sports, and
when he played quoits it was sheer joy for Apollo, who loved all
things beautiful, to watch him as he stood to throw the disc, his taut
muscles making him look like Hermes, ready to spurn the cumbering
earth from off his feet. Further even than the god, his friend, could
Hyacinthus throw, and always his merry laugh when he succeeded made
the god feel that nor man nor god could ever grow old. And so there
came that day, fore-ordained by the Fates, when Apollo and Hyacinthus
played a match together. Hyacinthus made a valiant throw, and Apollo
took his place, and cast the discus high and far. Hyacinthus ran
forward eager to measure the distance, shouting with excitement over a
throw that had indeed been worthy of a god. Thus did Zephyrus gain his
opportunity. Swiftly through the tree-tops ran the murmuring South
Wind, and smote the discus of Apollo with a cruel hand. Against the
forehead of Hyacinthus it dashed, smiting the locks that lay upon it,
crashing through skin and flesh and bone, felling him to the earth.
Apollo ran towards him and raised him in his arms. But the head of
Hyacinthus fell over on the god's shoulder, like the head of a lily
whose stem is broken. The red blood gushed to the ground, an
unquenchable stream, and darkness fell on the eyes of Hyacinthus, and,
with the flow of his life's blood, his gallant young soul passed away.
"Would that I could die for thee, Hyacinthus!" cried the god, his
god's heart near breaking. "I have robbed thee of thy youth. Thine is
the suffering, mine the crime. I shall sing thee ever--oh perfect
friend! And evermore shalt thou live as a flower that will speak to
the hearts of men of spring, of everlasting youth--of life that lives
forever."
As he spoke, there sprang from the blood-drops at his feet a cluster
of flowers, blue as the sky in spring, yet hanging their heads as if
in sorrow.[4]
And still, when winter is ended, and the song of birds tell us of the
promise of spring, if we go to the woods, we find traces of the vow of
the sun-god. The trees are budding in buds of rosy hue, the willow
branches are decked with silvery catkins powdered with gold. The
larches, like slender dryads, wear a feathery garb of tender green,
and under the trees of the woods the primroses look up, like fallen
stars. Along the woodland path we go, treading on fragrant
pine-needles and on the beech leaves of last year that have not yet
lost their radiant amber. And, at a turn of the way, the sun-god
suddenly shines through the great dark branches of the giants of the
forest, and before us lies a patch of exquisite blue, as though a god
had robbed the sky and torn from it a precious fragment that seems
alive and moving, between the sun and the shadow.
And, as we look, the sun caresses it, and the South Wind gently moves
the little bell-shaped flowers of the wild hyacinth as it softly
sweeps across them. So does Hyacinthus live on; so do Apollo and
Zephyrus still love and mourn their friend.
FOOTNOTE:
[4] Legend says that on the petals of the hyacinth Apollo transcribed
the letters "Ai,"--"Alas!"
KING MIDAS OF THE GOLDEN TOUCH
In the plays of Shakespeare we have three distinct divisions--three
separate volumes. One deals with Tragedy, another with Comedy, a third
with History; and a mistake made by the young in their aspect of life
is that they do the same thing, and keep tragedy and comedy severely
apart, relegating them to separate volumes that, so they think, have
nothing to do with each other. But those who have passed many
milestones on the road know that "_History_" is the only right label
for the Book of Life's many parts, and that the actors in the great
play are in truth tragic comedians.
This is the story of Midas, one of the chief tragic comedians of
mythology.
Once upon a time the kingdom of Phrygia lacked a king, and in much
perplexity, the people sought help from an oracle. The answer was very
definite:
"The first man who enters your city riding in a car shall be your
king."
That day there came slowly jogging into the city in their heavy,
wooden-wheeled wain, the peasant Gordias and his wife and son, whose
destination was the marketplace, and whose business was to sell the
produce of their little farm and vineyard--fowls, a goat or two, and
a couple of skinsful of strong, purple-red wine. An eager crowd
awaited their entry, and a loud shout of welcome greeted them. And
their eyes grew round and their mouths fell open in amaze when they
were hailed as King and Queen and Prince of Phrygia.
The gods had indeed bestowed upon Gordias, the low-born peasant, a
surprising gift, but he showed his gratitude by dedicating his wagon
to the deity of the oracle and tying it up in its place with the
wiliest knot that his simple wisdom knew, pulled as tight as his
brawny arms and strong rough hands could pull. Nor could anyone untie
the famous Gordian knot, and therefore become, as the oracle promised,
lord of all Asia, until centuries had passed, and Alexander the Great
came to Phrygia and sliced through the knot with his all-conquering
sword.
In time Midas, the son of Gordias, came to inherit the throne and
crown of Phrygia. Like many another not born and bred to the purple,
his honours sat heavily upon him. From the day that his father's wain
had entered the city amidst the acclamations of the people, he had
learned the value of power, and therefore, from his boyhood onward,
power, always more power, was what he coveted. Also his peasant father
had taught him that gold could buy power, and so Midas ever longed for
more gold, that could buy him a place in the world that no descendant
of a long race of kings should be able to contest. And from Olympus
the gods looked down and smiled, and vowed that Midas should have the
chance of realising his heart's desire.
Therefore one day when he and his court were sitting in the solemn
state that Midas required, there rode into their midst, tipsily
swaying on the back of a gentle full-fed old grey ass, ivy-crowned,
jovial and foolish, the satyr Silenus, guardian of the young god
Bacchus.
With all the deference due to the friend of a god Midas treated this
disreputable old pedagogue, and for ten days and nights on end he
feasted him royally. On the eleventh day Bacchus came in search of his
preceptor, and in deep gratitude bade Midas demand of him what he
would, because he had done Silenus honour when to dishonour him lay in
his power.
Not even for a moment did Midas ponder.
"I would have gold," he said hastily--"much gold. I would have that
touch by which all common and valueless things become golden
treasures."
And Bacchus, knowing that here spoke the son of peasants who many
times had gone empty to bed after a day of toilful striving on the
rocky uplands of Phrygia, looked a little sadly in the eager face of
Midas, and answered: "Be it as thou wilt. Thine shall be the golden
touch."
Then Bacchus and Silenus went away, a rout of singing revellers at
their heels, and Midas quickly put to proof the words of Bacchus.
An olive tree grew near where he stood, and from it he picked a little
twig decked with leaves of softest grey, and lo, it grew heavy as he
held it, and glittered like a piece of his crown. He stooped to touch
the green turf on which some fragrant violets grew, and turf grew into
cloth of gold, and violets lost their fragrance and became hard,
solid, golden things. He touched an apple whose cheek grew rosy in the
sun, and at once it became like the golden fruit in the Garden of the
Hesperides. The stone pillars of his palace as he brushed past them on
entering, blazed like a sunset sky. The gods had not deceived him.
Midas had the Golden Touch. Joyously he strode into the palace and
commanded a feast to be prepared--a feast worthy of an occasion so
magnificent.
But when Midas, with the healthy appetite of the peasant-born, would
have eaten largely of the savoury food that his cooks prepared, he
found that his teeth only touched roast kid to turn it into a slab of
gold, that garlic lost its flavour and became gritty as he chewed,
that rice turned into golden grains, and curdled milk became a dower
fit for a princess, entirely unnegotiable for the digestion of man.
Baffled and miserable, Midas seized his cup of wine, but the red wine
had become one with the golden vessel that held it; nor could he
quench his thirst, for even the limpid water from the fountain was
melted gold when it touched his dry lips. Only for a very few days was
Midas able to bear the affliction of his wealth. There was nothing now
for him to live for. He could buy the whole earth if he pleased, but