Читать книгу The Mythology of Ancient Greece and Rome - Ultimate Collection - Homer - Страница 21

The purest and highest worship of the Greeks was perhaps that offered to Phœbus Apollo, the glorious god of light, who in later mythology took the place of the Titan Helios. In his chariot he drives across the heavens, attended by the Hours and Seasons, and at evening stables his horses in the golden west. Nothing false or impure might be brought near to him; his was a cleansing and enlightening power. With his arrows, the rays of the brilliant Greek sun, he destroyed his enemies and brought pestilence and death upon those that had fallen under his displeasure. But he was a destructive god only when provoked to anger; he was preeminently the god of healing and medicine. It was he that inspired physicians to divine the hidden cause of disease; he was their patron. This healing gift was especially exercised by Apollo's son, the divine physician As cle’pi us, who incurred Zeus's wrath by even restoring the dead to life.

But Apollo's greatest importance in the Greek world was as god of prophecy, the giver of the prophetic gift. The most famous of all oracles was that at Delphi, a town of central Greece situated on the slopes of Mt. Parnassus. Here the priestess, seated on a tripod over a cleft in the rock, was thrown into an inspired frenzy by the vapors that rose about her. Her incoherent utterances were interpreted by the priests of the shrine. Hither came those seeking guidance, not only from all the Greek world, but from distant and non-Hellenic lands. No great undertaking might be entered upon without the sanction and guidance of the god; especially those seeking to found a new colony must first consult the oracle of Apollo. Thus the god was the founder of cities, the promoter of colonization, the extender of just and civilized law.

Fig. 15. The Sun-God in his Chariot.

Fig. 16. Foundations of Apollo's Temple at Delphi.

In all his manifestations Apollo stands for the Greek ideal of manly strength and beauty, of the highest and purest development of body and intellect. He inspires not alone physicians with their art and prophets with their power, but to him all poets and musicians owe the divine spark. He is the giver of all beauty and harmony. On Mt. Parnassus he led his chorus of the Nine Muses, and at the banquets of the gods he charmed the Olympians by the music of his golden lyre.

Apollo is always represented as in the prime of youth, with smooth face and refined (in later art almost feminine) features. As the archer he is usually entirely nude and holds the bow. As sun-god he appears in his chariot drawn by winged horses, while "rosy-fingered Dawn" throws open before him the gates of the East and the Hours and Seasons accompany the chariot. As god of music and leader of the Muses, he is dressed in the long flowing garment of the Greek bard and holds the lyre. About his forehead he wears the wreath of laurel, sacred to him and always the reward of the poet.

Apollo was the son of Zeus and the goddess Leto (Lato’na). The story of his mother's wanderings, driven by the cruel jealousy of Hera to seek a birthplace for her children, and of how at last the little rocky isle of Delos offered her a refuge, is told in the Homeric Hymn.

Fig. 17. Apollo as leader of the Muses.

But the lands trembled sore and were adread, and none, nay not the richest, dared to welcome Phcebus, not till Lady Leto set foot on Delos, and speaking winged words besought her: "Delos, would that thou wert minded to be the seat of my son, Phœbus Apollo, and to let build him therein a rich temple. . . ." And forth leaped the babe to light, and all the goddesses raised a cry. Then, great Phœbus, the goddesses washed thee in fair water holy and purely, and wound thee in white swaddling bands, delicate, new-woven, with a golden girdle around thee. Nor did his mother suckle Apollo, the golden sworded, but Themis with immortal hands first touched his lips with nectar and sweet ambrosia, while Leto rejoiced, in that she had borne her strong son, the bearer of the bow. (Homeric Hymn to the Delian Apollo.)

After the birth of the twins, Apollo and Artemis, the story tells how once in Lycia Leto came, weary and parched with thirst, to a pond where some countrymen were gathering reeds. The boors refused her the privilege she entreated of quenching her thirst, and threatened the fainting goddess with violence. They even waded into the pond and stirred up the mud to make the water undrinkable. In just anger at their boorishness and cruelty the goddess prayed that they might never leave that pool. There they live still, often coming to the top to breathe, or squatting on the bank, croaking their discontent with hoarse voices. Their backs are green and their bellies are white; their heads grow out of bloated bodies; their eyes bulge. You can see coldblooded creatures like them in the nearest frog-pond.

At Delphi, before the coming of Apollo, the site of the oracle was guarded by a pestilential earth-born serpent. Python, who laid waste all the land. This monster of disease and darkness the god of light killed with his golden shafts and made the oracle his own. Exulting in his victory, he now sang for the first time the Paean, the song of triumph and thanksgiving, and on the scene of his victory he planted his sacred laurel tree.

How the laurel came to be sacred to Apollo is told by the Latin poet Ovid as follows:

Eros (Cupid) was responsible for Apollo's unhappy love for Daphne. Once the sun-god saw him fitting an arrow to the string, and being haughty because of his recent victory over Python, he taunted the little god of love. "Mischievous boy, what have you to do with such weapons! These are arms that become my shoulders — I, who lately with my arrows laid low swelling Python. Be you content to track out love-adventures with your torch; do not aspire to my honors!" Aphrodite's son answered him: "Your arrows pierce all things, Phœbus; mine pierce you." As he spoke he drew from his quiver two arrows; the one with point of gold inspires love, that tipped with lead repels it. With the first he wounded Apollo; with the second he pierced Daphne, the daughter of a river-god. Straightway the god loved, but the nymph hated the very name of lover and gave herself, like the maiden goddess Artemis, to hunting wild things in the woods. Many suitors sought her, but she refused them all and persuaded her father to permit her always to live a maiden. But Apollo loved. He saw her hair in charming confusion about her neck; he saw her eyes beaming like stars; he saw her lips and longed to kiss them. He praised her hands and her shapely arms; he thought her all beautiful. She fled from him more elusive than the light breeze, nor did she stay to hear his entreaties: "Nymph, I pray you, stay! I who pursue you am no enemy. Nymph, stay! love is the cause of my pursuit. Alas! what if you should fall! What if the horrid thorns should wound your innocent ankles, and I should be to you the cause of pain! The ground is rough; run not so fast! I, too, will follow more slowly. I who love you am no boorish mountaineer; I am no rough shepherd. Rash girl, you know not whom you flee. Jupiter is my father. Through me what was and is and will be is disclosed; through me the notes ring harmonious on the strings. My arrow is sure, yet one arrow is surer; it has wounded my heart. Medicine is my invention; I am called savior through all the world. Alas! no medicine can cure my love, nor can the skill that saves all others save its master."

But the nymph still fled and the god still pursued, she swift through fear, he swifter yet as winged with love. Now he drew so close upon her that she felt his breath upon her neck. She felt her strength go from her and in her despair called upon her father, the river-god: "Help me, O Father! Let the earth open for me, or else change this form that has been my ruin!" As she ceased her prayer a heaviness seized her limbs; her soft bosom was inclosed in a delicate bark; her locks became leaves, her arms branches. The foot, lately so swift, was rooted in the ground; only her beauty remained. Phœbus still loved her, and placing his hand upon the trunk, he felt her breast tremble beneath the new-formed bark. He put his arms about it and kissed the wood; the wood shrank from his kisses. Then said the god: "Since you cannot be my wife, you shall surely be my tree, O Laurel, and ever shall you adorn my head, my lyre, and my quiver. And as my head is ever crowned with youth and beauty, so shall your branches ever be crowned with green and glossy leaves."

As the ever-green laurel. recalls the story of Apollo's unrequited love for a nymph, so the fragrant hyacinth springs from his unhappy attachment to a mortal youth snatched away by an untimely death.

There was a time when even Delphi was deserted by Apollo, when the bow and the lyre lost their charm for him. He spent all his days with Hy a cin’thus, carrying his hunting-nets, holding in his dogs, accompanying him on the hunt or in his sports. One day the friends, having taken off their clothes and been rubbed with oil, were amusing themselves throwing the discus. Apollo threw it high and far, exhibiting skill and strength in the sport. Hyacinthus rushed forward to get the discus, not counting for the strong rebound from such a throw. It glanced upward and struck the boy full in the temple. The god caught him in his fall and held him close, trying to staunch the wound and applying medicinal herbs. For once his art failed him. For as a lily when the rays of the sun have struck hot upon it droops its head towards the earth and faints and dies, so the mortal youth drooped his head upon his breast and fell lifeless from the god's embrace.

In his grief Apollo upbraided himself as its cause, and, since he could not restore the boy to life, declared that at least his name should live forever, celebrated by him in song. And lo! where the red blood had flowed out upon the earth, there sprang up a splendid purple flower with a form like a lily. It bore on its petals "Ai, Ai" (Alas, Alas), a memorial of the sun-god's mourning. And as often as the fresh young, spring drives away the winter, so often are these flowers fresh in the fields. Hyacinthus rises again.

There was an occasion when Apollo presented himself as rival to a mortal and was rejected. Mar pes’sa was a beautiful maiden, loved by Idas, who, with the help of winged horses given him by Poseidon, stole her from her father. Apollo overtook the runaway couple and seized the maiden for himself. But Idas, fearing not even the god in defense of his beloved, drew his bow against him. To prevent the unequal contest, Zeus gave Marpessa her choice between the two. On the one side stood the glorious sun-god, offering immortality, power, glory, and freedom from all earthly trouble. On the other stood Idas, offering only faithful love and partnership in his life with its mingled joy and sorrow. The woman chose the mortal, fearing unfaithfulness on the god's part, since immortal youth was not granted her with immortal life, and preferring to live, love, grow old, and die, with one capable of a like love and destined to a like fate.

In the tragic fate of Ni’o be and her fourteen children, Apollo with his sister Artemis appears as his mother's avenger, and his golden arrows bring destruction.

The story of Arachne’s punishment for her presumption towards Athena should have been a warning to all. But Niobe was too haughty to heed it. Many things made her proud. Her husband was a celebrated musician; on both sides of her family she was descended from the gods, and she ruled over a great kingdom. More than all, she was proud of her children, seven sons and seven daughters.

The Priest of Leto had cried through the city: " Come, all ye people, offer to Leto and the children of Leto the sacrifice of prayer and incense! Bind your heads with laurel! Leto bids it by my lips." All the people obeyed and offered sacrifice. Then came Niobe, dressed in purple and gold, moving stately and beautiful among her subjects and casting haughty looks about. "What madness," said she," to place celestial beings of whom you have only heard above those seen! Why is Leto worshiped at the altars, while no incense rises in my honor? My grandfather is Atlas, who bears on his shoulders the starry heavens. My other grandfather is Zeus. Wide kingdoms own me as queen. Moreover, my beauty is worthy of a goddess. Add to all this my seven sons and seven daughters, and see what cause I have for pride! I know not how you dare to prefer Leto to me — Leto, who is the mother of but two! I am beyond the power of Fortune to injure. Go! enough honor has been paid to her and her offspring. Put off the laurel from your heads!" Niobe was obeyed; the worship of Leto was neglected or celebrated in secret. The goddess was indignant and said to her two children: "Lo, I, your mother, proud of having borne you, and second to no one of the goddesses, unless it be Hera, am brought to doubt whether I am a goddess. I am cut off from the honor due, unless you help me. Moreover, this woman adds insults and has dared to set her children above you." Apollo and Artemis heard her. Hidden in clouds they came to the city of Thebes.

Two of Niobe's sons happened to be practising their horses on the race-course near the city. The elder was just nearing the end of the course when he received Apollo's arrow full in the breast. Dropping the reins from his dying hand, he fell from his chariot in the dust. His brother, hearing the whizz of the arrow and seeing no man, gave free rein to his horses, hoping to escape. Apollo's unescapable shaft overtook him, and his blood reddened the earth. Two others of the sons were wrestling in the palestra. One arrow pierced the two, locked as they were in one another's arms. As they fell, another brother rushed up to save them; he fell before he could reach them. A sixth met his death in the same way. The youngest raised his hands in prayer: "O all ye gods, spare me!" Apollo might have been moved, but the arrow had already left the string.

Chance report and the prayers of those about her first told Niobe of her calamity. Her husband, unable to bear his grief, had fallen on his own sword. How different was Niobe now from her who had lately driven the worshipers from Leto's altars and had passed in haughty state through her city; envied then by all, now pitiable even to her enemies. With her seven daughters she came to the place where the bodies lay and, throwing herself upon them, cried: "Gloat over my grief, Leto, satisfy your cruel heart! Yet are you the victor! More remains to me in my wretchedness than to you in your vengeance." Hardly were the words spoken than the cord of Artemis' bow twanged. One by one six of the daughters fell dead beside their brothers. But one remained, the youngest; her mother tried to shield her with her own body. "Leave one, and that the youngest!" she cried; but she for whom she prayed fell. Niobe sat, childless and a widow, among the corpses of her sons and daughters. In stony grief she sat there; no breeze stirred her hair; her cheeks were pallid, her eyes unmoved; her blood was frozen in her veins; she was turned to stone. Magically borne to her fatherland in Asia, there she still sits on the mountain, and from her marble cheeks the tears still flow.

Fig. 18. Niobe and her Daughter.

Pha’e thon was the son of Apollo by a nymph, Clym’e ne. When one of his playmates mocked him for believing that Apollo was really his father, Phaëthon made no answer, but, coming home, asked his mother to give him some assurance of his parentage. Clymene swore to him by all that was sacred that she had told him truly, but suggested that if he was not satisfied, he should go and put the question to his father himself.

The boy eagerly traveled toward the sunrise, beyond the borders of earth, and came to the palace of the sun. Phœbus, dressed in a purple robe, was seated on a throne glittering with gems. To right and left stood the Days, the Months, the Years, and the Ages. There too were the Seasons; young Spring, crowned with fresh flowers; Summer, nude but for her wreaths of grain; Autumn, stained with trodden grapes; and icy Winter, rugged and hoary-haired. Before this company appeared the boy Phaëthon, and stood hesitating near the door, unable to bear his father's brightness. But the sun, looking at him with those eyes that see all things, greeted him kindly and asked the reason of his coming. Phaëthon, encouraged by his recognition, answered: " O light of the vast world, Phœbus, my father, if that name is permitted, I pray you to give me some pledge that I may be recognized as your very son." In answer the father embraced him and promised to grant whatever he should ask; he swore it by the Styx, an oath no god might break. But when Phaëthon asked for the privilege of driving for one day the chariot of the sun, Phœbus did all in his power to dissuade him, telling him the dangers of the way, and that not even Zeus, who wields the thunder, could drive that chariot. Surely it was no task for a mortal! But Phaëthon was obstinate in his demand, and Apollo had sworn by the Styx.

The chariot was Hephæstus' work, all of gold and ivory, set with gems, and marvelously wrought. As Phaëthon wondered at the work, wakeful Aurora threw wide the golden gates and opened the courts full of rosy light. The stars fled away. When Phœbus saw the earth grow red and the pale moon vanish, he bade the Hours harness the fiery horses. Then he touched his son's face with sacred ointment that it might bear the scorching flame, and on his head he placed the rays, giving him this last advice. "If you can still heed your father's words, my boy, spare the whip and firmly hold the reins! Keep to the middle course, where you will see the tracks of my wheels; for if you go too high you will burn the homes of the gods, if too low, the earth. I commit the rest to Fortune. As I speak, damp Night has reached its western goal; we may no longer delay; we are demanded, and Dawn has put the shades to flight. Take the reins, if you are still resolved."

The boy joyfully mounted the chariot and thanked his father. The fiery horses sprang forward, outstripping the wind that rose at dawn from the east. But the chariot seemed light without the accustomed weight of the mighty god, and the horses bolted and left the trodden road. Phaëthon neither knew which way to turn, nor, had he known, could he have guided the horses. When from his dizzy height he looked down on the lands lying far below him, he grew pale and his knees trembled in sudden fear; his eyes were blinded by excess of light. And now he wished that he had never touched his father's horses; he wished that he had never even known of his high birth. What should he do? He looked at the great expanse of sky behind his back; yet more was before him. He measured the two with his eye. Trembling, he saw about him the monsters of which his father had warned him. The Serpent, roused from his age-long lethargy by the too near approach of the sun's chariot, hissed horribly; there Scorpio, curving menacing arms, threatened death with his poisonous fangs. At sight of. this monster Phaëthon's heart failed him and he dropped the reins. The horses ran wild. The Moon wondered to see her brother's chariot running nearer the earth than her own, and the clouds all on fire. Then all the moisture in the earth was dried up and the ground cracked. Trees and crops, cities with their inhabitants, all were turned to ashes. They say that this was how the people of Africa were turned black, and how Sahara became a sandy waste. The nymphs pined away, seeing their fountains dried up about them, and the river-beds were dusty hollows. The ground cracked so wide that the light penetrated even into Tartarus and startled Hades and his queen. The seas shrank and the fishes sought the bottom. Three times Poseidon dared to raise his head above his waters, and each time the heat forced him back. At last Earth, the mother of all, faint and scorched, appealed to Zeus for help, calling him to witness her own undeserved distress, and the danger to his own realm of heaven if this wild conflagration continued. Then Zeus hurled his thunder-bolt against Apollo's son. The horses tore themselves loose and left the chariot a wreck. Phaëthon fell, like a shooting star, leaving a trail of fire behind him, until the waters of the river Po in Italy closed over him. Then Apollo hid his face in grief, and they say that one whole day went by without a sun. The raging fires gave light. The waternymphs found Phaëthon's body and buried it, raising over it a tomb with this inscription: "Here lies Phaëthon, who drove his father's chariot; if he could not control it, yet he fell nobly daring."

Another son of Apollo, As cle’pi us, the divine physician, has already been mentioned. Asclepius was widely worshiped as god of medicine, and at his temple in Epidaurus marvelous cures were wrought. Here his priests cared for the sick, and about the shrine rose a great establishment to which flocked those needing his ministrations. The god appeared by night to the patients, not so often in his own form as in that of the serpent sacred to him. It was in this form that Asclepius (called by the Romans Æs cu la’pi us) was brought to Rome at the time of a plague. It is said that the serpent left the ship before it came to land and swam to an island in the Tiber. There his worship was established, and it is interesting to know that at this day a city hospital is still there.

Fig. 19. Asclepius.

When Zeus, in anger at Asclepius' presumption in restoring the dead to life, struck and slew him by a thunderbolt, Apollo rashly attempted to avenge his son's death by shooting with his arrows the forgers of the thunderbolt, the Cyclopes. In punishment for this insubordination, Zeus compelled him for one year to serve a mortal. During this time of exile he kept the sheep of the just Ad me’tus, a prince of Thessaly. Al ces’tis, the wife of Admetus, gained a place among the women famous in story by an act of noble self-sacrifice.

When the day approached that was destined for Admetus' death, that prince won the reward for his just and wise treatment of his divine shepherd; for Apollo gained for him the promise of a postponement of that evil day, on condition that he could induce some other to take his place. With full assurance that some one of his devoted friends and servants, or, most certainly, one of his parents, would feel disposed to offer his life as a ransom, Admetus appealed to one after another. All refused; even his father, though reminded by his son that in any case he had not long to live, and that he should feel quite content to die since he would leave a son to carry on the family, quite obstinately refused. It almost seemed that Death must have his own, and Apollo's promise be unfulfilled. Then Admetus' young wife, Alcestis, took his fate upon herself, and for love of her husband, offered to go to the dark home of Hades in his place.

The day of the sacrifice came, and Apollo, whose brightness and purity might not be polluted by nearness to the dead, prepared to leave the house of his servitude. Meeting Death by the way, he vainly tried to persuade him to spare Alcestis too, but that relentless enemy passed inside the house to cut from his victim's head the lock of hair that consecrated her to the gods of the lower world.

Meanwhile Alcestis had been preparing herself for her terrible visitor. She put on her finest robes and her ornaments, she decked the house with garlands, and before the shrine of Hestia, the guardian of the home, she prayed that her two little children might find in the goddess a protectress loving as a mother. And when the children came running to her and the. servants sadly crowded round her, she bade them each one a loving and courageous farewell. Admetus came and with tears entreated her not to leave him forlorn. He did not offer to meet Death for her. Only one request she made as her strength ebbed, let her husband bring no stepmother to tyrannize over her children.

To the house of mourning the hero Heracles (Hercules), on one of his many adventurous journeys, came and begged entertainment. The servants would have turned him away, unwilling that their attentions to their dead mistress should be interrupted, but Admetus, true to the Greek law of hospitality, concealed his trouble and ordered a feast to be prepared for his guest. The hero, warmed by food and wine, became so noisy in his enjoyment of it that the servants could not contain their indignation and reproached him with his inconsiderate behavior. Great was Heracles' mortification at finding that it was a house of mourning he had unwittingly invaded, and swearing that the courteous Admetus should never regret his kindness, he hurriedly left the house.

The funeral ceremonies were over and Alcestis had been committed to the tomb. Her husband returned to his widowed home, bowed with grief and half awakened to the selfishness of his own choice. At this moment Heracles reappeared, leading with him a veiled woman whom he urged the prince to keep for him for a time. Admetus, remembering his promise to Alcestis, was unwilling to admit any woman to his roof, wishing to avoid even the appearance of setting up any one in his wife's place. Only by much insistence could the hero induce him to take her by the hand and lead her in. Then Heracles drew off the veil and disclosed Alcestis herself, whom he had rescued by wrestling with and overthrowing Death.

The worship of the Greek god Apollo was early introduced into Rome under the same name. With the introduction of his worship was associated the acquisition of the Sibylline Books, sold, according to the legend, to King Tarquin by the Sibyl of Cumæ. These precious books of prophecy were kept beneath the temple on the Capitoline Hill and in time of danger to the state were solemnly consulted by those ordained for that purpose.