Kitabı oku: «Gods and Heroes», sayfa 13

PART IX. – HIS TWELFTH LABOR: THE DESCENT INTO HADES

I DARESAY you have forgotten – for it is a long way back – the name of Admetus, that King of Pheræ in Thessaly, whom Apollo, when banished from heaven, served as a shepherd for nine years. Admetus did not know that it was a god whom he had to keep his sheep; but he was so good and kind a master that Apollo, revealing himself at the end of his exile, bade him name any boon he desired, and it should be granted.

There is no such difficult question in the world to answer as that. Admetus answered, “Grant that I may never die.”

But that is the one thing which not even the gods can grant to mortal men. The very cause of Apollo’s having been banished to earth was his killing the Cyclops for forging the thunderbolt with which Jupiter had killed Æsculapius for making dead men live again. Not even the Fates could change that law even for the sake of Apollo. But they said, “Admetus shall live so long as he can find somebody else to die instead of him whenever his death-time comes,” which was all they could allow.

After the return of Apollo to heaven, Admetus lived on in great happiness and welfare. He was one of the Argonauts; and he took part in the hunting of the Calydonian boar. He had fallen in love with Alcestis, the beautiful daughter of that King Pelias of whom you read in the story of the Golden Fleece, whose hand had been promised to the man who should come for her in a chariot drawn by a wild boar and a lion. This Admetus did; and in this chariot he drove her back to his own kingdom of Pheræ, where he made her his queen. And there they lived in great love and happiness for many years.

But the day came at last which had been appointed to Admetus for his death-time. Then Admetus, remembering the promise of the Fates, and not able to bear losing the happiness of living, thus besought his old father, Pheres —

“Father, you are already old and near to death; you have lived your life; it matters nothing to you whether your old age lasts a year less or a year more. What you now call life is only weariness and pain. But I am still young and strong, with the best part of my life still unlived, and my children ungrown, and my kingdom to govern: I beseech you to die for me, so that I also may live to be as old and as wise as you.”

But his father answered: “No, my son; life is precious, even when one is old. The nearer we approach the cold dark grave, the dearer grow the sunshine and the living air. I will do anything else for you, but not die.”

Then Admetus besought Clymene, his mother —

“Mother, you are old and weak, and a woman; I am young and strong, and a man. What is such life as yours compared with mine? I beseech you to die for me: let not a mother doom to death her own child.”

But his mother answered: “No, my son; he who loves his life as you love it, and fears death as you fear it, is not one for whom even his mother ought to die.”

Then Admetus besought all his friends and kinsmen; but all were deaf to him. For well the Fates had known that their promise would be in vain. But at last his dear and beautiful wife Alcestis came to him, and said —

“I will die for you, and gladly!” Ah, those Fates do not know everything after all!

Admetus, with all his selfishness, had never thought sacrificing his wife; and he was overcome with horror. He prayed that Apollo’s gift might be taken back; but the Fates are not to be played fast and loose with in that way, and they were angry perhaps at finding themselves baffled by a mere loving woman. Alcestis had to die instead of Admetus; and so she died, as she had said, proudly and gladly.

Now that it was too late, her husband was broken-hearted at having caused his wife’s death for the sake of what had been but a selfish whim. All he could do for her in return was honor her love and devotion by a splendid funeral, to which people came from far and near to cover her grave with flowers.

Alcestis was buried, and the farewell hymn was being sung, when there thrust his way, rather roughly, through the crowded temple a stranger of mighty build, carrying a club, and clad with a lion’s skin, seemingly the worse for wine. Admetus was too absorbed in his grief to notice this rude intrusion; but some of the bystanders cried shame on the stranger, and one of the priests came in his way, and said sternly —

“Who are you that dare to trouble grief like ours?”

“Who am I? Why, the servant of Eurystheus, King of Argos and Mycenæ. Is this how you receive strangers in your land? I had heard that Admetus of Pheræ is the most generous of kings, and Alcestis the most gracious of queens; and here I find you all like ghosts at a funeral. Where is the king?”

“There stands the king,” said the priest, solemnly. And then he told the stranger the story which many a poet has told since – the story of how strong true love is, and how foolish it is to measure life by the number of its years.

Hercules – for he the stranger was – was sobered in a moment. “It is a shame!” he exclaimed, bringing down his club on the floor. “Fates or no fates, it shall not be! I am bound to Hades on an errand for my own king, and I will not come back unless I do a better one for yours.”

So, leaving them all offended at what they took for a drunken boast, he dropped into the open grave: the people only thinking that he had passed from the temple somewhat suddenly. Hence he followed the passage taken by the queen’s soul till he reached the Styx; and hard work must poor old Charon have had to row across such a weight as Hercules instead of the ghosts to which he was accustomed. On he went, finding his way as best he could without a guide, until, chancing upon the black gate of Tartarus, there growled in the middle of his path the three-headed dog Cerberus, with flashing eyes and flaming jaws.

Orpheus, you remember, had quieted Cerberus with the music of his lute: Hercules, going to work in other fashion, brought down his club upon one of the dog’s skulls in a way that bewildered the other two. Then, seizing the monster by the throat, and in spite of its furious struggles, he fairly dragged it along with him by sheer strength, even into the very presence of Pluto and Proserpine.

“And,” he cried, “god and goddess though you are, I will brain this dog of yours upon the steps of your throne unless you surrender to me the soul of Alcestis, that I may deliver her from death, and lead her back into life again.”

It was an unheard-of thing that a man should thus take Hades by storm, and dictate terms to its king and queen. But for that moment I verily believe that Hercules became more than man – nay, more than Alcestis, because, while she had betaken herself to Elysium for the love of one who was dear to her, he had dared the torments of Tartarus out of pity for strangers and hate of wrong. Nay, I think it was truly this which had made his grip so fast on the dog’s throat, and his club so heavy on the dog’s three skulls; and this that made a mortal stand as their master before even Pluto and Proserpine.

“In the name of all the gods,” said Pluto, “take the woman, and begone.”

Then Alcestis appeared – a mere gray shade, the touch of whose hand was but like a film of gossamer. But as he dragged the less and less struggling Cerberus with one hand, and led her with the other, her shade took color and formed, and her fingers tightened upon his, until the living Alcestis, more beautiful than before, stepped with him out of her still open grave, and threw herself into her husband’s arms.

Hercules did not wait for thanks; indeed, with Cerberus still on his hands, his only thought was to hurry back to Mycenæ. It is the strangest picture one can think of – a man dragging along the three-headed dog of Hades in the open light of day. It was one long strain on his whole strength, all day and all night long, for many nights and days. But he reached Mycenæ at last – and into his brazen pot leaped Eurystheus in the twinkling of an eye.

“I have brought him,” said Hercules. “Cerberus is yours.”

“Then,” cried Eurystheus, as well as his terror would let him, “be off with you, Cerberus and all. Never more be servant of mine; never let me see your face or hear of you again!”

Thus Hercules, by obedient service, won his freedom, and his great penance was fulfilled. And the first use he made of freedom was to give it to Cerberus, who straightway, with a terrible howl, plunged into the earth, and disappeared.

PART X. – THE CHOICE OF HERCULES

YES; at last Hercules was free, after twelve long years of slavery, during which he had scarce known a day’s pleasure or ease. It seemed too good to be true.

His only trouble now was what to do with his liberty. He was his own master; the whole world was before him, and he was strong enough to do whatever he pleased. And while thus thinking what he should do with his life and strength, there came to him in the middle of the night a vision as of two women, real and yet unreal, bringing with them a strange light of their own.

The first to speak was young and beautiful, crowned with flowers, and with a voice as sweet as her smile.

“What folly is thinking!” said she. “You have toiled enough; you have won the right to do whatever you like best for the rest of your days. No more labor to serve another’s will or whim; no more hateful tasks, one ending only for another to begin; no more cold, hunger, thirst, strife with monsters, and self-denial; and all for what? Why, for nothing. My name is Pleasure. Choose me for your soul, and you shall have Power, Glory, Riches, Comfort, Delight – all your whole heart’s desire.”

The other shape wore no flowers: her lips did not smile, and the light of her clear bright eyes was cold; and her voice belonged to her eyes.

“Yet think,” said she, “before you choose, because you must choose to-night once for all. Was it Pleasure who helped you to rid the people of the ravage of the Nemæan lion? No, indeed: she would have bidden you stay at home. Was it Pleasure who stood by you as you struck off the heads of the Hydra, one by one? No, indeed. Did Pleasure join with you in chasing the Erymanthine boar and the stag with the golden horns? Did she clean away the Augean stable? Did she send you forth to free the world of the man-eating birds of Lake Stymphalus, and the dreadful Cretan bull, and the mares of King Diomedes, and the Giant Antæus, and the Ogre Geryon, and Cacus the Robber? Did Pleasure save Alcestis from death, and break through the very gates of hell? No; it was Obedience. And if obedience to a mere earthly master has worked such wonders for the good of all mankind, how much more good will come of willing obedience to Me?”

“And how, then, are you called?” asked Hercules, looking from one to the other – from the warm glowing smile of Pleasure to the grave eyes of the form which had last spoken.

“Among men I am called Duty,” said she.

Hercules could not help sighing – for the more he looked at Pleasure the more beautiful she grew; while the face of Duty seemed every moment to become more stern and cold.

“It does seem hard,” said he, “to use my freedom in only making a change of service. But after all, what is the good of having more strength than other men, except to help them? It’s true, though I never thought of it before. And if Pleasure won’t help me to rid the world of the rest of its monsters, and Duty will, why, there’s only one thing for a man to do, and that’s to choose Duty, and obey her, however hard she may be.”

Then he went to sleep with his mind made up, and when he woke in the morning his choice woke with him.

So Hercules, instead of being the servant of Eurystheus, became, of his own free will, the servant of all mankind. He made it his work to seek out wrong, and never to rest until he had set it right: he traveled about the world, carrying everywhere with him the love of law and justice, and the worship of the gods, even into savage lands where such things had never been known. Ogres and monsters disappeared: it seemed as if his strength were bringing back the Golden Age.

One day his wanderings brought him into the heart of the great mountain-range called Caucasus, a vast and dreadful region of snow-covered peaks which no human foot had ever climbed. Never had even he known a harder labor than to make his way among these icy precipices, where every step meant danger. Not a sign of life was to be seen or heard, when suddenly he heard a terrible cry like that of a giant in pain.

He looked round; but saw nothing but the silent mountains. Then the cry came again, as if from far above him; and, lifting his eyes to the highest peak of all, he was sure that something moved there like the flapping of great wings.

What could it be? What could be happening upon the highest mountain peak in the world? He set himself to climb its sides, often so steep and icy that he was over and over again on the point of giving up in despair; and the higher he climbed the louder and more full of agony became the cry. At last, after many days of toil, he reached the topmost peak whence the cry came, and there he forgot hunger, cold, and weariness in wonder at what he saw.

Bound to the rocks by huge chains, so that he could not move a limb, lay what seemed a man, bigger than Hercules himself, with every muscle drawn and writhing in agony. And with good reason, for a gigantic and horrible vulture had his limbs in its talons and its beak in his heart, which it was fiercely tearing.

The vulture was too busy at his cruel feast to see Hercules. But its tortured victim cried —

“Depart, whoever you are: I am Prometheus the Titan, who tried to conquer the strength of the gods by cunning, and am thus punished for my sin forever.”

And then he sent forth another dreadful cry as the vulture plunged its beak into his heart again.

Prometheus! Yes; it was nothing less than Prometheus the Titan, who, when his race was beaten in the great battle with the gods of Olympus, had stolen fire from heaven, and made Man, and who was thus punished for having made what gave the gods such trouble. But Hercules, though he knew all this, and the story of Pandora besides, exclaimed —

“Then, gods or no gods, sin or no sin, this shall not be!”

And at the word he grasped the vulture by the throat, and then followed a struggle beside which even his battle with the hell-hound Cerberus had been as nothing. For it was no common vulture of the mountains: it was the demon of Remorse, whose beak had not left the heart of Prometheus one moment for thousands and thousands of years. But it was over at last, and the vulture lay strangled at the feet of Hercules.

To free Prometheus from his chains was the work of a moment, and the Titan rose and stretched his free limbs with a heart at ease.

What passed between the Titan and the Mortal is beyond my guessing, and I have never heard. I only know that a mere Man had, by his strength and his courage, saved one who was greater and wiser than he from Remorse and Despair. I have thought of this story till it means too much for me to say anything more. Only, if you have forgotten the story of Prometheus and Pandora, I should be glad if you will read it again.

PART XI. – THE TUNIC OF NESSUS

HERCULES, passing through the land of Thessaly, fell deeply in love with the Princess Iole, daughter of King Eurytus, whom her father, a famous archer, had promised in marriage to the man who should fly an arrow further than he.

This Hercules did with such ease that the king, angry at being surpassed, refused to perform his promise, so that Hercules went mad with rage and sorrow. In a sudden fury he slew Iphitus, a brother of Iole, and his own friend and comrade, and then, still more maddened by what he had done, wandered away again to Delphi to ask Apollo’s oracle once more what he should do.

But this time the voice of Apollo was silent. It seemed as if, in spite of all he had done for men, the gods had turned away their faces from him, and had become deaf to his prayers, even to his repentance – for he would have given his own life if that would bring Iphitus to life again. Were they angry because he had saved Prometheus from their vengeance? Or were the labors of a life to be lost for one moment of passion? Then were the gods unjust, and Hercules, who abhorred injustice, broke forth against the gods themselves.

“I will no longer serve such wretches!” he cried. “Beings which bring man into the world only to torment him, and to be a sport and a jest for them! I will tear down their temples and destroy their altars; I will side with the fallen Titans; I will sooner bear the punishment of Prometheus forever, with none to save me, than serve monsters of injustice, who allow man to sin and to suffer without help, and then cast him away.”

But Apollo was as deaf to his curses as to his prayers. So Hercules put forth his whole strength against the temple, and no doubt would have left it a ruin, when, from the clear sky there burst such flames and thunders that the Titans themselves would have been dismayed. And then spoke the oracle at last —

“Is this the free service you vowed when you chose between Pleasure and Duty? It is the justice of the gods that you go back into slavery again until you have learned how to be free.”

The thunder and the lightning ceased, and Hercules saw beside him a young man who looked like a traveling merchant – at least for such he took him, until the stranger for one moment stood revealed as the god Mercury, with winged heels and cap, and bearing the rod round which two live serpents twined. It was only for a moment; the next, the god became the traveling merchant again.

“As we are to be fellow-travelers,” said Mercury, “I will tell you at once that I am under orders from the Court of Olympus to take you to market and sell you for a slave. Do you submit? Or do you wish to learn from me the strength of heaven?”

“I wish I could learn its justice,” said Hercules. “But I suppose I am too stupid to understand. Everything is so dark and so strange. But what does it all matter, after all? I would as soon be a slave as anything else, now that I have lost Iole and killed my friend.”

“That is not the right mood,” said Mercury. “It is better to rebel, as you did a minute ago, than to think that nothing matters, as you do now. However, let us go.”

Mercury was always the most delightful and amusing of companions; and he was very good-natured also, and did his best to make the journey cheerful. But, though he was the god of Eloquence, and of Business besides, he could not persuade anybody to become the purchaser of Hercules either by auction or by private bargain. Nobody wanted a slave who looked so certain to become his master’s master. Besides, people had forgotten all his good deeds, and only remembered that he had been a dangerous madman. But in time they came to a country in Asia called Lydia, which was then ruled by a queen whose name was Omphale. And she, having seen Hercules, was brave enough to buy him.

Of course Hercules expected that she would make him outdo what he had done for Eurystheus; and nothing would have pleased him better than to be sent on the most impossible errands, so that, in toil and danger, he might forget his murder of Iphitus and his love for Iole. Instead, however, of treating him like the most glorious hero of his time, and employing him on services of honor, she amused herself by giving him a spindle and distaff, and setting him to spin among her women, while she robed herself in his lion-skin and tried to swing his club in her delicate hands. And whenever he was clumsy with the distaff, which was very often, she would laugh at him, and strike him across the face with her slipper.

For three long years Hercules sat and span among Omphale’s handmaids; and then she, being tired of her amusement and of his submission, set him free, and gave him back his club and lion-skin. They had been three wasted, unwholesome years, and his strength had wasted with them; moreover, his fame was being forgotten, and nothing seemed left for him to do. How long it seemed since he had fought the Hydra and borne upon his shoulders the weight of the sky – it was as if he had become another and a feebler man.

While waiting to see what should happen, he abode at the Court of King Tyndarus of Sparta, the step-father of the great twin brethren, Castor and Pollux, and of their sister Helen – the most beautiful woman in the whole world; of whom you will hear more some day. And it was while here that he heard of the fame of another beautiful woman, the Princess Deianira, daughter of King Œneus of Ætolia, whose hand was to be the prize of a great wrestling-match to be held at Calydon. Hercules, longing for some adventure to try his strength again, betook himself thither; and, weakened though he was, overthrew every one of his rivals with ease. Then, after his marriage with Deianira, he set out with her for the Court of King Ceyx of Trachinia, where he intended to remain a while.

But when they reached the river Evenus, which they had to cross on their way from Calydon to Trachinia, the water was so swollen with heavy rains that Hercules did not know how to bring his wife over. As they stood wondering what they should do without boat or bridge, there cantered up a Centaur, who saw the plight they were in, and said —

“I am Nessus. If this fair lady will deign to seat herself upon my back, I will swim over with her quickly; and then I will come back for you also.”

He spoke frankly and courteously; so Hercules, thinking no harm, lifted Deianira upon the back of the Centaur, who plunged into the river, and soon reached the other side. But on landing, instead of performing his promise, he set off at a gallop; and it was soon clear enough that he meant to run away with Deianira, while Hercules stood helpless beyond the river.

He was almost out of sight when Hercules let fly an arrow, which had been dipped in the poison of the Hydra, with such force and so true an aim that it pierced the Centaur without touching Deianira. Nessus fell to the earth, and, feeling himself dying, said to her —

“I die for love of you; but I forgive you freely. Take my tunic; for it is of magic power. If your husband’s heart ever strays from you, bid him wear it, and his love will return to you and never wander again.”

So saying, he groaned and died; and Deianira, having taken from him his blood-stained tunic, waited there till Hercules, having found a ford higher up the river, was able to rejoin her. And so at last they reached the Court of King Ceyx, who received them with all kindness and honor.

Here they dwelt in great content; nor was there any cause why they should not have spent all their life to come in rest and peace, had not, by ill luck, a great war broken out between King Ceyx and King Eurytus of Thessaly. Hercules gained the victory for his host; King Eurytus was slain; and then – among the prisoners of war was the slain king’s daughter, Iole; she on whose account Hercules had killed Iphitus, and cursed the gods, and been a slave.

Yet, seeing her again, all thought of Deianira passed away from him, and his love for Iole was stronger even than at first; while he found that her love had remained true to him and unchanged. He could not part from her, and so he took her with him to Mount Œta, where he was about to sacrifice to Jupiter in honor of his victory.

The altar was prepared, and the sacrifice was ready, when there arrived from Trachinia, the city of King Ceyx, his servant Lichas, who knelt before him, and said —

“The Princess Deianira, your loving wife, has heard of this great sacrifice, and sends you by me this tunic, which she prays you to wear for her sake, that she may have some part in your thanksgiving.”

But in truth it was of her husband’s love for Iole that Deianira had heard; and therefore she had sent him the tunic of Nessus, which was to bring his heart back to her again.

Little she guessed the cunning revenge of the Centaur, who knew that the arrow of Hercules, in piercing the tunic, had left upon it a drop of the poison of the Hydra. Hercules put on the gift of Deianira, and, accompanied only by Prince Philoctetes of Melibœa, ascended Mount Œta to celebrate the sacrifice. But no sooner had he reached the altar than the poison began to work, eating through his skin into his flesh, even to his bones, so that his agony was too great to bear.

He tried to tear off the fatal tunic; but the more he tore at it the more it clung. At last the agony began to gnaw his heart, and he despaired.

“Would,” he cried, “that I had never been born! My strength has been my curse. I have labored to clear the world of evil; and pain and sin are still as strong as if the serpents had strangled me in my cradle. The Hydra is dead, but its poison goes on working; and open savage force is only changed into fraud and guile. Happier is Eurystheus, whom weakness and cowardice have kept from doing harm; wiser are they who choose peace and pleasure; who sit with folded hands, and let monsters and ogres devour whomsoever else they will. As for me, I have been a curse to those whom I have loved the best, and leave more evil in the world than I found. There is no use in strength, since it can be conquered by pain; nor in subduing others, when one cannot master one’s own self; nor in duty without knowledge; nor in life, which is only blunder and misery and toil and sin. The best thing is never to have been born; and the next best thing is to die.”

So he gave his bow and arrows to Philoctetes, whom he swore to bury his ashes in the earth, and never to reveal where they were laid. “For,” said he, “I wish to sleep and forget and be forgotten. I will not that men shall pay me even so much honor as a tomb.” Then he spread his lion skin over the altar, and laid himself upon it with his club for a pillow, and bade Philoctetes set fire to it, so that he might die, not of poison and treachery, but like a man, and of his own free will, making himself the sacrifice he had vowed.

Philoctetes mournfully obeyed. And thus miserably perished Hercules, the greatest and last of the heroes; for after him there came no more. Thus died the strongest of men, in the belief that all effort is useless, and that he had lived in vain.

But the gods knew better; for not once had they been unjust, in spite of seeming. They knew both his strength and his weakness; they saw the whole man – often foolish and sinful and weak; often failing and falling, but willing what was right, and loving it even when he fell into wrong. They judged him by his whole life, not by its wretched end, when he was maddened by passion and tortured by pain. The gods remembered how he had chosen between Pleasure and Duty; how he had striven with Tartarus for the life of Alcestis; how he had scaled Caucasus because he had heard a cry of pain; how, even when he cursed the gods at Delphi, it was because he thought them unjust, and because he loved justice and hated injustice with his whole soul and being. He might hold his own service cheap; but not they, for, with the gods, effort cannot fail: to fight is the same thing as to conquer. If Hercules had cut off ninety-nine of the Hydra’s heads, and been slain by the hundredth, men would still have held him a hero. And so was it with the gods. They had watched his long battle with the Hydra of Life and Evil, and did not condemn him because he was slain before the end.

And so, in the fire of the altar on Mount Œta, his pains, his sins, his weaknesses, were purged away. And even as he was the only mortal who ever conquered Tartarus, so was he the only one who ever received such reward. Instead of being sent among the happy shades of the Elysian fields, he was received into the glory of Olympus, among the gods themselves, there, with strength made pure and perfect, to serve and help mankind forever.