“Hungry and cold shall that man beWho rides in pride straight up to me.To ride from the left means death and sorrow,Though his horse shall live for many a morrow.He who rides from the right shall have good things all,But ere three days pass his horse shall fall!”
“Hungry and cold shall that man beWho rides in pride straight up to me.To ride from the left means death and sorrow,Though his horse shall live for many a morrow.He who rides from the right shall have good things all,But ere three days pass his horse shall fall!”
“Hungry and cold shall that man beWho rides in pride straight up to me.To ride from the left means death and sorrow,Though his horse shall live for many a morrow.He who rides from the right shall have good things all,But ere three days pass his horse shall fall!”
“Hungry and cold shall that man be
Who rides in pride straight up to me.
To ride from the left means death and sorrow,
Though his horse shall live for many a morrow.
He who rides from the right shall have good things all,
But ere three days pass his horse shall fall!”
Prince Ivan was greatly troubled at the thought of losing his horse, but to ride from the right seemed the wisest course for him to pursue. Accordingly he did so, and so swift was his horse’s flight that he had soon left the gray stone far behind. On the third day, as he was passing the borders of a gloomy forest, a big Gray Wolf sprang out from a thicket, and, flying at his horse’s throat, threw him on the ground and killed him in spite of Ivan’s gallant attempt to beat him off. Ivan would now have run the Gray Wolf through with the jeweled dagger his father had given him as a parting present, but before he could rise from the spot where he had been thrown, the creature spoke.
“Spare me, wise prince,” he entreated humbly. “I have but done as I was commanded. My death will not give you back your horse, while if you spare my life I will be your friend forever, and will carry you over the world.”
Prince Ivan saw that he would gain nothing by being revengeful, and, mindful of his quest, accepted the Wolf’s offer to be his steed.
“Tell me where you wish to go, dear master!” said the Gray Wolf, “and it shall be as you will.” And, true enough, when he heard the object of Prince Ivan’s journey, he galloped even more swiftly than the horse had done, till toward nightfall he came to a standstill behind a thick stone wall.
“On the other side of this wall,” he said, “is a terraced garden, and there, in a golden cage, is the Magic Bird. The garden is empty now, so no one will stay you if you capture her; but if you touch her cage there will be trouble.”
Dismounting from the Gray Wolf’s back, Prince Ivan climbed the wall without much difficulty, and quickly seized the Magic Bird. She fluttered so wildly, however, as he tried to hold her, though without uttering a sound, that he quite forgot the Gray Wolf’s warning, and hastened back for the cage. As he touched it, the stillness of the garden was broken by the pealing of bells and the clanking of armor, for the cage was connected with the palace courtyard by invisible wires. Before he could escape, Prince Ivan was surrounded by excited soldiers, who quickly carried him before the king.
“Are you not ashamed?” the monarch thundered, noting the young man’s rich attire, “to be caught in my garden like a common thief? Where do you come from, and what is your name?”
“I am the son of a great tsar,” the young prince answered, “and they call me Ivan. My father has a very beautiful garden, in which grows a tree of golden apples that is the pride of his heart. Night after night your Magic Bird rifled this precious fruit, until I all but succeeded in capturing her. She was too quick for me, however, and flew away, leaving one feather in my hand. This feather I took to my father, who admired it greatly, and ever since has longed to possess the Magic Bird.”
Tsar Dolmat looked less angry, though he still frowned.
“If you had come to me,” he said, “and told me what you wanted, I would have made your father a present of the Magic Bird. As it is, I feel inclined to let all nations know how dishonorably you have acted.”
Prince Ivan bowed his head in shame, and after a searching glance at him the tsar continued his speech.
“You shall go forth free, young prince,” he said, “if you will do me a service. In the realm of Tsar Afron, beyond the thrice-ninth kingdom, there is a gold-maned horse which belongs to him, and this I greatly covet. If you will procure it, and bring it here to me, I will forgive your theft of the Magic Bird, and present her to you as a mark of honor.”
Prince Ivan promised to do his best, but he did not feel very hopeful as he rejoined the Gray Wolf, who was patiently waiting for him outside the wall. When Ivan had confessed the reason that led to his capture, the Gray Wolf patted his shoulder with one rough paw.
“It takes a wise man,” he remarked, “to own himself in the wrong, so we will say no more about it. Jump on my back again, and I will take you to the far-famed realm of Tsar Afron, beyond the thrice-ninth kingdom.”
The Gray Wolf ran so swiftly that Ivan could scarcely see the country through which they passed, and after travelling for many nights and days, they reached, at last, their journey’s end. The marble stables of the tsar shone fair and stately in the morning light, and through a door which a careless groom had left half open, Prince Ivan made his way. The horse with the golden mane was feeding on the yellow pollen collected by the bees from the tall white lilies that edged the rose garden, and stared at Prince Ivan haughtily as he approached. Firmly grasping his golden mane, Prince Ivan ledhim out of the stall. The Gray Wolf had cautioned him more than once not to attempt to bring the golden bridle that hung above the door, but as he was leaving the stable the prince suddenly thought how useful this would be, and turning back, stretched out his hand and touched it. Immediately he did so, bells pealed all over the palace, for, like the cage of the Magic Bird, the Bridle was fastened to invisible wires.
The stable guards came hurrying in, full of alarm, and when they saw Prince Ivan they seized him angrily, and took him before their master. Tsar Afron was even more indignant than Tsar Dolmat had been at the prince’s attempt to rob him. When he had questioned him as to his birth and station his face became sterner still.
“Is this the deed of a gallant knight?” he asked with withering scorn. “I have a great regard for your father’s name, and if you had come to me openly and in good faith, I would gladly have given you my gold-maned horse. But now all nations shall know of your dishonor, for such acts of yours must not go unpunished.”
This was more than Prince Ivan could bear, and with eager haste he protested his willingness to atone for his fault.
“Very well, then,” said Tsar Afron, “I will take you at your word. Go forth and bring me Queen Helen the Beautiful, whom I have long loved with all my heart and soul. I have seen a picture of her in my seer’s white crystal, and she is more fair to look upon than any other maid. I cannot reach her, try as I may, since her kingdom is guarded byelves and goblins. If you can capture her for me and bring her here, in return I will give you anything you ask.”
Prince Ivan hurried away to the Gray Wolf, fearing that since he had disregarded his advice for a second time, he might refuse to help him in this new enterprise. Once more he humbly confessed that he had been at fault, and once more the Gray Wolf consoled him.
“One must buy wit,” he growled. “Well, jump on my back, and I will see what I can do for you.”
Then he ran so swiftly that it seemed as though his feet were winged, and the elves and goblins that guarded the kingdom of Helen the Beautiful scattered before him in all directions, thinking him to be a specter. When he came to the golden streamlet that bordered the queen’s magic garden, he told Prince Ivan that he must now dismount.
“Go back by the road we came,” he commanded, “and wait for me in the shade of that spreading oak tree we passed just now.”
Prince Ivan did as he was told, and the Gray Wolf crouched under a bush of juniper, and waited until evening fell. As the light faded out of the sunset sky and the pale little moon rose slowly over the mountain-tops, Queen Helen walked in her garden. She was so fair and sweet to look upon that even the heart of the Gray Wolf was moved to admiration, and he wished her a worthier mate than the stern Tsar Afron, who knew not how to be gentle even in his love. After a while she approached the streamlet, winding round her dainty throat a cloud of milk-white gossamer,that she might not feel the touch of the evening breeze.
“Do not fear, sweet lady! I will not harm you!” the Gray Wolf cried, as he sprang from his hiding place and crossed the stream. Holding her tenderly by her flowing draperies, he leaped back to the other side, and galloped with her to the prince, who waited under the spreading oak.
When the queen and prince beheld each other, it was as if a veil had fallen from their eyes. Never had the world appeared so beautiful, and as they gazed at each other in the soft twilight, the queen’s fears fled. As for Prince Ivan, he knew from that moment that she was intended for his wife, and when they rode away together on the Gray Wolf’s back, he already felt that she belonged to him.
The journey was all too short, and soon Tsar Afron’s palace loomed before them.
“Why are you weeping?” the Gray Wolf inquired, as their tears splashed on his head. Queen Helen could make no answer, but Prince Ivan’s words poured forth like a raging flood.
“How can we help it, Gray Wolf,” he cried, “since we love each other, and I must resign my beautiful queen to the stern Tsar Afron, or else be branded before all nations as a robber and a thief?”
“I have kept my promise, Prince Ivan,” said the Gray Wolf, “and served you well, but I will do more for you still. By means of magic known to myself alone, I, the Gray Wolf, will take the form of beautiful Queen Helen. You shall leave the real queen here, in the shade of this grove of pine trees, and when you have taken Tsar Afron hisstrange wolf bride, who will appear to him as a lovely woman with golden hair, he will give you the gold-maned horse. Bid him farewell as quickly as you can, and, taking your queen behind you, ride swiftly toward the west. When I have given you time to journey far, I will ask Tsar Afron to let me walk with my maidens in the woods. Then, if you call me to your mind, I shall disappear, from their midst even as they watch me, and join you and your queen.”
Prince Ivan once more did as the Gray Wolf said, and great was the delight of the Tsar Afron as he beheld the tall and gracious woman whom the prince presented to him. She was even more beautiful than he had imagined from her picture, and he would have given not only his gold-maned horse, but his crown as well, to her captor had he desired it. Prince Ivan, however, asked nothing but the gold-maned horse, and was soon speeding across the plains with the real Queen Helen nestling against his side. He rode toward the west, where lay the kingdom of Tsar Dolmat.
Tsar Afron was more than content with his wolfish bride, who was not alarmed by his fierce caresses, and only smiled when he threatened to kill her if her love for him should waver for a single instant. On the fourth day after their marriage feast she complained of feeling stifled in the royal palace.
“If I might walk in the meadows,” she said, “the breath of the cool fresh air would refresh my spirit, and I could once more laugh with my lord.”
So the tsar allowed her to walk with her maidens.Just at this time the thought of the Gray Wolf flashed into Prince Ivan’s head.
“I had forgotten him,” he exclaimed remorsefully to his dear wife. “What is he doing, I wonder? I wish we had him here.”
He had no sooner spoken than there came a clap of thunder from the distant hills, and the Gray Wolf suddenly appeared.
“You must let the queen ride the gold-maned horse alone,” he told the prince, “and I will be your steed.”
Somewhat reluctantly, the prince accepted his suggestion, and in this manner they rode to the verge of Tsar Dolmat’s capital. The kindly looks of the Gray Wolf emboldened the prince to ask him another favor.
“Since you can change yourself into a beautiful woman, and then back again into a Gray Wolf, could you not become for a time a gold-maned horse, so that I might give you to Tsar Dolmat, and keep the real one for my dear queen?”
The Gray Wolf readily assented, and striking his right paw three times in succession on a patch of bare earth, became the exact image of the gold-maned horse who bore the fair Queen Helen. Leaving the real horse with his bride in a flower-strewn meadow outside the city, Prince Ivan rode on to the tsar. He was greeted by that monarch with every sign of joy, for the mane of the Gray Wolf-horse shone in the sunshine like purest gold. The tsar kissed Prince Ivan on either cheek, and leading him to his palace, gave him a royal feast. For three whole days they reveled in the choicest wines andthe richest viands the kingdom could supply, and on the third, Tsar Dolmat rewarded the prince with many thanks, and the gift of the Magic Bird in her golden cage.
Prince Ivan felt now that his quest was over, and quickly regaining Queen Helen’s side, he fastened the cage of the Magic Bird round the neck of the gold-maned horse, and rode with her toward his father’s kingdom. Early the next afternoon they were joined by the Gray Wolf; Tsar Dolmat had ridden his newly acquired treasure in an open field, and had been heavily thrown for his pains by the false horse, which had then galloped away.
As the Gray Wolf had been so good a friend to him, Prince Ivan could not refuse his request when he asked to be allowed to carry him, so once more the queen alone sat on the gold-maned horse.
Thus they rode on until they came to the place where the Gray Wolf had slain the horse which Prince Ivan had brought from his father’s stable. Here the strange creature came to a sudden stop.
“I have done all that I said, and more,” he told the prince. “Now I am your servant no longer. Farewell!” And he galloped back to the gloomy wood from which he had first come.
Prince Ivan’s sorrow at parting with him was very real, but in the pleasure afforded by the queen’s company he soon forgot his loss. When he came within sight of his father’s realm, he stopped by the shade of a belt of fir trees, and placing the cage of the Magic Bird and the golden bridle beneath their shade, he lifted down his beautiful queen, and rested with her on a bank of fern. They were weary aftertheir long journey, and soon, talking together softly as ring-doves coo in their nests, both fell asleep.
Now Prince Dimitri and Prince Vasili had fared badly on their travels, and were returning to the palace, empty-handed, and sadly out of temper, when they caught sight of the reclining forms of the two sleepers, with the gold-maned horse browsing close beside them. As they stared in amazement, an evil spirit of envy took possession of them, and there presently entered into their minds the thought of killing their brother. Each looked at the other, and then Prince Dimitri drew his sword, and ran it through Prince Ivan as he slept; he died without a murmur, and when the queen awoke, she found him lifeless.
“What is this you have done?” she sobbed to the guilty princes. “If you had met him in fair fight, and slain him thus, he might at least have struck a blow in self-defense. But you are cowards and dastards, fit only for ravens’ food!”
In vain she wept and protested, as the princes drew lots for their dead brother’s possessions. The queen fell to the keeping of Prince Vasili, and the gold-maned horse was adjudged to Prince Dimitri. In a passion of tears, the queen hid her face in her golden hair, as her would-be lord spoke roughly to her.
“You are in our power, fair Helen,” he said. “We shall tell our father that it was we who found you, the Magic Bird, and the gold-maned horse. If you deny our words, we will instantly put you to death, so look to it that you hold your tongue, and keep our counsel.”
The poor queen was so terrified by his cruel threat that speech forsook her, and when they arrived at the palace she was mute as some marble statue, and could not contradict the wicked statements which she heard them boldly utter.
Prince Ivan lay dead with his face to the sky, but the wood elves guarded his body, so that neither beast nor bird came near to devour it until the end of thirty days. Then, as the sun was sinking, a raven seeking food for her young, hopped on his breast, and would have pecked at his eyes had not the Gray Wolf galloped up in the nick of time. He knew at once that the dead man must be Ivan, and pouncing upon one of the young birds, would have torn it asunder in his rage.
“Do not touch my little birdling, O fierce Gray Wolf!” entreated the mother piteously. “It has done you no harm, and deserves no ill from you.”
“Then listen,” the Gray Wolf replied. “I will spare the life of your birdling, if you will fly away beyond the thrice-ninth lands, and bring me back the Water of Death and the Water of Life from the crystal stream whence they flow to the great Forever.”
“I will do what you wish,” cried the raven, “only do not touch my little son.” And as she spoke she sped away.
Three days and three nights had passed before she returned to the Gray Wolf, carrying two small vials. One held the Water of Life, the other the Water of Death, and as the Gray Wolf took them from her, he gave a cry of triumph. With a snap of his teeth, he bit the young raven in two, tearingit to pieces before its mother’s frantic eyes. This done, he broke one of the vials, and when he had sprinkled three drops of the Water of Death on the slain birdling, immediately its torn body grew together again. Then he touched it with a few drops from the second vial, and the little thing spread its wings, and flew off rejoicing.
Thus the Gray Wolf knew that the raven had served him well, and he poured what was left of the Waters of Life and Death over the body of the dead prince. In a few moments, life came back to him, and stumbling to his feet, he smiled at the Gray Wolf.
“Have I slept long?” he asked dreamily.
“You would have slept forever had it not been for me,” was the reply. And the prince listened with grieved surprise as the Gray Wolf told him all that had happened.
“Your brother is going to marry your bride to-day,” he ended by saying. “We must hasten to the palace with all possible speed. Mount on my back, and I will carry you once more.”
So they galloped to the palace of the old tsar, and the Gray Wolf bade Prince Ivan farewell for the last time as he dismounted at the great gates. The prince hurried into the banquet-hall, and there, looking like some fair statue that had been moulded from frozen snow, sat beautiful Queen Helen by Prince Vasili’s side. They had just returned from the wedding ceremony, and all the nobles were gathered round.
When Queen Helen saw who had entered the hall, her speech came back to her, and she flew toher lover with a cry of rapture and kissed him on the lips.
“This is my own dear husband,” she cried. “I belong to him, and not to the wicked prince I have married to-day.” From the shelter of Ivan’s breast she told the old tsar all that had happened, and how it was to his youngest son that he owed the gold-maned horse and the Magic Bird.
The joy of the tsar at his favorite son’s return was tempered by his grief and amazement at the conduct of the elder princes. They were cast into prison, where they languish still; but Prince Ivan and the beautiful Queen Helen are as happy as the days are long, and the Magic Bird was allowed to return to her home in the golden West.
Retold from the poem by Henry W. Longfellow
King Robert of Sicily was at church one evening attended as usual by a great train of gallant knights and trusty squires and ladies of the court. As he sat proudly in his high place, dressed in rich and beautiful robes, he thought not so much of the service as of his own importance and state. Not only was he a king himself, but he was brother to the Pope and to Valmond, Emperor of Germany.
Presently his attention was attracted by the chant that the priests were singing. It was the Magnificat. Over and over again they repeated the words,
“Deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit humiles.”
“Deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit humiles.”
“Deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit humiles.”
“Deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit humiles.”
King Robert had heard the chant many times before, but now he found himself wondering what this particular phrase meant. A learned man was at his side, and the king spoke to him.
“What do those words mean?” he asked.
“He has put down the mighty from their seat,And has exalted them of low degree,”
“He has put down the mighty from their seat,And has exalted them of low degree,”
“He has put down the mighty from their seat,And has exalted them of low degree,”
“He has put down the mighty from their seat,
And has exalted them of low degree,”
replied the scholar.
“It is well that such words are sung in Latin and only by the priests,” muttered King Robert,scornfully. “Be it known to both priests and people that there is no power that can push me from my throne.”
He leaned back in his seat yawning and soon fell asleep, lulled by the monotonous chant.
Now, it was St. John’s eve and on that day strange and unlooked for things happen. When King Robert awoke from his nap it was night and he was alone in the church. The service was over and the priests and every one else except himself had gone. The great building was dark but for the little lamps which were kept burning constantly before the images of the saints.
King Robert started from his seat and looked around in amazement. All was still. He groped his way down the long aisle to the door; he took hold of the handle and tried to turn it; the door was locked. He called and listened for an answer but none came. He knocked and he shouted, but to no purpose. Growing angrier every minute, he cried out threats and complaints and the sound of his own voice came back to him echoing from the roofs and the walls. It was as though he were being mocked by unseen hearers.
After what seemed a long time, the knocking and the shouting brought the sexton to the church door. He came with his lantern suspecting that thieves were in the church.
“Who is there?” he called.
“Open the door at once,” commanded the king, who was almost beside himself with rage. “It is I, the king.”
The sexton trembled and waited to hear morebefore putting the great key in the lock. He thought that there must be a madman within.
“Art thou afraid?” cried the king.
“It is a drunken vagabond,” muttered the old man and, turning the key, he flung the door wide open.
A figure leaped past him in the darkness. It was King Robert, but the sexton did not dream of that for the figure was half-naked and forlorn. The king’s gorgeous robes had disappeared, his hat and his cloak were gone and he did not look like himself at all. Without a word or a look at the sexton he sped down the street.
Bare-headed and breathless and splashed with mud, Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane and of Valmond, Emperor of Germany, reached his palace gate—the gate that he had entered in triumph so many times.
He thundered for admittance, boiling with rage and half-mad with an overpowering sense of his wrongs. Through the gate he rushed and across the courtyard, thrusting aside every one who stood in his way, upsetting pages, and overwhelming guards. Past them all and up the broad stairway he hurried and then sped through the long halls. He paid no attention to the calls and the cries which pursued him, and did not pause until he reached the banquet room.
There on a dais sat another king wearing Robert’s robes, his crown and his signet-ring. His features were like Robert’s and so was his form, but he possessed a majesty and an exalted look which the real king lacked. The room, always welllighted, shone with an unusual brilliancy and the atmosphere was full of fragrance.
An Angel had taken the place of the king, and although no one was conscious of the change every one present vaguely felt the improvement.
Robert stood speechless before the miracle. Then his surprise gave way to anger at seeing another in his place. The Angel spoke first.
“Who art thou, and why comest thou here?” he asked benignly, meeting Robert’s threatening look with one of almost divine compassion.
“I am the king,” answered Robert indignantly, “and I have come to claim my throne from the impostor who is on it.”
As he stood before the Angel, Robert did not look at all royal, and his clothing made such a difference in his appearance that the courtiers did not notice even a resemblance to their king, and took him for a stranger. At his bold words they sprang angrily from their seats and drew their swords to put him to death for his insolence.
The Angel was unmoved. He signed to the courtiers to sheath the weapons that they had drawn in his defense.
“No, thou art not the king,” he said to Robert. “Thou art the king’s jester and henceforth thou shalt wear bells and cap and a scalloped cape and lead a monkey about by a string. Thou shalt obey my servants and wait on my men.”
In those days every king kept a jester or a fool whose duty it was to amuse his master and the court. Often the jester was not quite right in his mind and for that reason said odd things whichwould not have occurred to entirely sane people, and he was allowed to make speeches which would have been rebuked if they had come from others. Thus the Angel treated Robert’s claim as a jest.
The attendants were delighted with the new joke. Paying no attention except laughter to Robert’s cries and explanations, they thrust him from the banquet hall and down the stairs. A crowd of pages ran before him throwing the doors wide open with mock ceremony, while the boisterous men-at-arms shouted “Long live the King” with noisy glee.
How he got through the evening King Robert hardly knew. He was so tired when he was shown at last to his comfortless straw bed that he slept better than he had done many a night on his royal couch.
The next morning he awoke with the day.
“What a curious dream I have had,” he exclaimed sleepily.
But it was no dream. Straw rustled as he turned his head and by his side were the cap and bells which he was to put on. His room was bare, its walls were discolored, and presently he heard horses stamping in their near-by stalls. He was in a stable. The monkey was there, too; King Robert saw the horrid thing grinning and chattering in a corner. His past life seemed far away. He had to begin to live again, this time the butt and the jest of the palace.
Days came and went, and the Angel still sat on the throne. The island of Sicily prospered underhis reign. The crops were good, the vintage was abundant and the people were happy.
King Robert yielded to fate, but he did not yield willingly. He became sullen and silent and was a sorry jester in spite of his gay dress and his jingling bells and the chattering monkey. The courtiers mocked him in innumerable ways and the nimble pages played pranks on him; he had to be content with scraps from the tables of his masters, and the monkey was his only friend.
Sometimes the Angel asked him, as though in jest, “Art thou the king?” and Robert, still defiant, replied haughtily, “I am, I am the king!”
Almost three years passed. Then messengers came from Valmond, Emperor of Germany, to tell King Robert that their brother, Pope Urbane, summoned him to come on Holy Thursday to his city, Rome. The Angel welcomed the ambassadors with fitting ceremony, and gave them magnificent presents, embroidered vests, velvet mantles, rare jewels and costly rings. Not only were his guests messengers from the great Valmond but they were mighty nobles.
As soon as he could get ready the Angel went with the ambassadors and a mighty train of followers over the sea to Italy. As the procession travelled along crowds gathered to watch its progress. Never had there been seen a more gorgeous assembly. The Angel and his courtiers and the ambassadors were dressed in splendid garments with gold and gems and laces and embroideries and velvets and satins and nodding plumes, each one according to his state, and their horses wereresplendent with gold and silver and jeweled bridles. After them rode the servants, less fine but equally gay, and among the lowliest of these was poor Robert riding in mock state on an awkward piebald pony. As the ridiculous steed shambled along, his rider’s cloak of fox-tails flapped in the wind and his bells jingled. The king was very unhappy and his face showed it, but it was only a joke for a jester to look disconsolate and people were no more sorry for him than for the solemn monkey who perched demurely by his side and aped his ways. In all the country towns through which they went the gaping crowds stared at them and laughed.
The Pope received the Angel and the emperor with pomp. Trumpets sounded a welcome and banners waved joyously, as they met on St. Peter’s square. The Pope embraced and blessed his brothers, as he thought, for even he did not know that he was entertaining an Angel. While prayers and rejoicing were at their height Robert the jester burst through the crowd and rushed into the presence of the Pope and his guests.
“I am the king,” he cried, addressing the Pope, “look and behold in me Robert, your brother, King of Sicily. That man who looks like me and wears my robes and my crown is an impostor. Do you not know me? Does nothing tell you that we are akin?”
Robert was desperate. This seemed his last chance of regaining his rights. He was appealing to the highest authority in the world.
The Pope looked troubled. He turned silently from Robert to the Angel with searching glances. The Angel met his scrutiny with perfect serenity. Valmond only laughed.
“It is strange sport to have a madman for thy jester,” he said to the Angel, whom he believed to be his brother.
The baffled jester was hustled back into the crowd. He was in disgrace and suffered punishment for his untimely joke.
Holy Week went by in solemn state, and Easter Sunday came. On that blessed morning the city was radiant with light even before the sun rose. The Angel’s presence made Rome bright, and filled men’s hearts with love and goodness. They felt as though Christ had indeed risen from the dead and were ready to devote themselves to him with fresh zeal. Even the jester, as he opened his eyes to the marvelous light felt within his heart a power that he had never felt before. What mattered it that his bed was straw? He fell on his knees beside it and prayed to the risen Christ.
When the visit was ended Valmond returned to Germany and the Angel and his train once more flashed along the towns of Italy and then set sail for Sicily. When they reached home the Angel occupied the throne as before. Robert could not understand it but he was humbled and no longer felt angry and bitter.
One evening when the convent bells were ringing for prayer the Angel beckoned to Robert to draw near and signed to the attendants to leave the room. When they were alone the Angel turnedto Robert and asked with less sternness than ever before, “Art thou the king?”
King Robert bowed his head meekly and crossed his hands upon his breast.
“Thou knowest best,” he said. “I have sinned. Let me go away from here and spend the rest of my days in a convent cell. There, kneeling on stones, I will beg heaven to forgive my pride.”
The Angel smiled and the place was filled with a heavenly light. At the same moment through the open windows came the chant of the monks:
“He has put down the mighty from their seatAnd has exalted them of low degree.”
“He has put down the mighty from their seatAnd has exalted them of low degree.”
“He has put down the mighty from their seatAnd has exalted them of low degree.”
“He has put down the mighty from their seat
And has exalted them of low degree.”
King Robert understood it at last. Then above the measured tones of the singers rose another voice, one of heavenly sweetness. It said:
“I am an Angel, thou art the king.”
The king lifted his eyes. He was alone. No longer was he dressed in the motley attire of a jester, but he was in royal robes such as he used to wear, in velvet and ermine and cloth of gold.
When the courtiers came back to the room they found their king on his knees, absorbed in silent prayer.
By Elsie Finnimore Buckley
Long ago, in the city of Thebes, there ruled a king named Laius and his queen Iocasta. They were children of the gods, and Thebes itself, men said, had been built by hands more than mortal; for Apollo had led Cadmus the Phœnician, the son of Zeus, to the sacred spot where he was to raise the citadel of Thebes, and Pallas Athene had help him to slay the monstrous dragon that guarded the sacred spring of Ares. The teeth of the dragon Cadmus took and planted in the plain of Thebes, and from this seed there sprang up a great host of armed men, who would have slain him; but he took a stone and cast it in their midst, whereupon the serpent men turned their arms one against another, fighting up and down the plain till only five were left. With the help of these five, Cadmus built the citadel of Thebes, and round it made a wall so wide that a dozen men and more might walk upon it, and so huge were the stones and so strong was the masonry that parts of it are standing to this day.
As for the city itself, the tale goes that Amphion, the mightiest of all musicians, came with his lyre, and so sweetly did he play that the hearts of the very stones were stirred within them, so that of their own free will they fell into their places,and the town of Thebes rose up beneath the shadow of the citadel.
For many a long day did Laius and Iocasta rule over the people of Thebes, and all that time they had no children; for a dreadful curse lay on the head of Laius that, if ever he had a son, by that son’s hand he should die. At last a boy was born to them, and Laius, remembering the curse, swore that the child should never grow to manhood, and he bade Iocasta slay him forthwith. But she, being his mother, was filled with a great love and pity for the helpless child. When it nestled in her arms and clung to her breast she could not find it in her heart to slay it, and she wept over it many a bitter salt tear, and pressed it closer to her bosom.
So she called a trusty house slave, who knew the king’s decree, and placing the child in his arms, she said: “Go, take it away, and hide it in the hills. Perchance the gods will have pity on it, and put it in the heart of some shepherd, who feeds his flocks on distant pastures, to take the child home to his cot and rear it. Farewell, my pretty babe. The green grass must be thy cradle, and the mountain breezes must lull thee to sleep. May the gods in their mercy bless thy childhood’s hours, and make thy name famous among men; for thou art a king’s son, and a child of the Immortals, and the Immortals forget not those that are born of their blood.”
So the man took the child from Iocasta; but, because he feared the king’s decree, he pierced its ankles and bound them together, for he thought: “Surely, even if some shepherd wandering on themountainside should light upon the child, he will never rear one so maimed; and if the king should ask, I will say that he is dead.”
But because the child wept for the pain in its ankles, he took it home first to his wife to be fed and comforted, and when she gave it back into his arms, it smiled up into his face. Then all the hardness died out of his heart, for the gods had shed about it a grace to kindle love in the coldest breast.
Now Cithæron lies midway between Thebes and Corinth, and in winter-time the snow lies deep upon the summit, and the wild winds shriek through the rocks and clefts, and the pine trees pitch and bend beneath the fury of the blast, so that men called it the home of the Furies, the awful goddesses, who track out sin and murder. And there, too, in the streams and caverns, dwell the naiads and the nymphs, wild spirits of the rocks and waters, and if any mortal trespass on their haunts, they drive him to madness in their echoing grottoes and gloomy caves. Yet, for all that, though men called it dark Cithæron, the grass about its feet grew fine and green, so that the shepherds came from all the neighboring towns to pasture their flocks on its well-watered slopes. Here it was that Laius’s herdsman fell in with a herdsman of Polybus, King of Corinth, and, seeing that he was a kindly man, and likely to have compassion on the child, he gave it to him to rear.
Now, it had not pleased the gods to grant any children to Polybus, King of Corinth, and Merope, his wife, though they wreathed their altars with garlands and burnt sweet savor of incense; andat last all hope died out of their hearts, and they said: “The gods are angry, and will destroy our race, and the kingdom shall pass into the hands of a stranger.”
But one day it chanced that the queen saw in the arms of one of her women a child she had not seen before, and she questioned her, and asked if it were hers. And the woman confessed that her husband, the king’s herdsman, had found it on dim Cithæron, and had taken pity on it, and brought it home.
Then the queen looked at the child, and seeing that it was passing fair, she said: “Surely this is no common babe, but a child of the Immortals. His hair is golden as the summer corn, and his eyes like the stars in heaven. What if the gods have sent him to comfort our old age, and rule the kingdom when we are dead? I will rear him in the palace as my own son, and he shall be a prince in the land of Corinth.”
So the child lived in the palace, and became a son of Polybus and Merope, and heir to the kingdom. For want of a name they called him Œdipus, because his ankles, when they found him, were all swollen by the pin that the herdsman had put through them. As he grew up, he found favor in all men’s eyes, for he was tall and comely and cunning withal.
“The gods are gracious,” men said, “to grant the king such a son, and the people of Corinth so mighty a prince, to rule over them in days to come.” For as yet they knew not that he was a foundling, and no true heir to the throne.
Now, while the child was still young, he played about the courts of the palace, and in running and leaping and in feats of strength and hardihood of heart there was none to beat him among his playmates, or even to stand up against him, save one. But so well matched were these two that the other children would gather round them in a ring to watch them box and wrestle, and the victor they would carry on their shoulders round the echoing galleries with shouting and clapping of hands; and sometimes it was Œdipus, and sometimes the other lad. But at length there came a time when again and again Œdipus was proved the stronger, and again and again the other slunk home beaten, like a dog that has been whipped: and he brooded over his defeat, and nourished hatred in his heart against Œdipus, and vowed that one day he would have his revenge by fair means or by foul.
But when Merope the queen saw Œdipus growing tall and fair, and surpassing all his comrades in strength, she took him up one day on to the citadel, and showed him all the lovely land of Hellas lying at his feet. Below them spread the shining city, with its colonnades and fountains and stately temples of the gods, like some jewel of the golden sands, and far away to the westward stretched the blue Corinthian Gulf. And she showed him the hills of Arcadia, the land of song and shepherds, where Pan plays his pipe beneath the oak trees, and nymphs and satyrs dance all the day long. Away to the bleak northwest stood out the snowy peaks of Mount Parnassus and Helicon, the home of the Muses, who fill men’s mindswith wisdom and their hearts with the love of all things beautiful. Then Merope turned him to the eastward and the land of the Dawning Day, and showed him the purple peaks of Ægina and the gleaming Attic shore. And she said to him: “Œdipus, my son, seest thou how Corinth lies midway ’twixt north and south and east and west, a link to join the lands together and a barrier to separate the seas?”
And Œdipus answered: “Of a truth, mother, he who rules in Corinth hath need of a lion’s heart, for he must stand ever sword in hand and guard the passage from north to south.”
“Courage is a mighty thing, my son, but wisdom is mightier. The sword layeth low, but wisdom buildeth up. Seest thou the harbors on either side, facing east and west, and the masts of the ships, like a forest in winter, and the traffic of sailors and merchants on the shore? From all lands they come and bring their wares and merchandise, and men of every nation meet together. Think not, my son, that a lion’s heart and a fool’s head therewith can ever be a match for the wisdom of Egypt or the cunning of Phœnicia.”
Then Œdipus understood and said: “Till now I have wrestled and boxed and run races with my fellows on the sands the livelong day, and none can beat me. Henceforth I will sit in the market-place and discourse with foreigners and learned men, so that, when I come to rule in my father’s place, I may be the wisest in all the land.”
And Merope was pleased at his answer, but in her heart she was sad that his simple childish dayswere past; and she prayed that if the gods granted him wisdom they would keep his heart pure and free from all uncleanness.
So Œdipus sat in the market-place and talked with merchants and travellers, and he went down to the ships in the harbor and learned many strange things of strange lands—the wisdom of the Egyptians, who were the wisest of all men in the south, and the cunning of the Phœnicians, who were the greatest merchants and sailors in all the world. But in the evening, when the sun was low in the west, and the hills all turned to amethyst and sapphire, and the snow mountains blushed ruby red beneath his parting kiss, then along the smooth, gold sands of the Isthmus, by the side of the sounding sea, he would box and wrestle and run, till all the ways were darkened and the stars stood out in the sky. For he was a true son of Hellas, and knew that nine times out of every ten a slack body and a slack mind go together.
So he grew up in his beauty, a very god for wisdom and might, and there was no question he could not answer nor riddle he could not solve, so that all the land looked up to him, and the king and queen loved him as their own son.
Now one day there was a great banquet in the palace, to which all the noblest of the land were bidden, and the minstrels played and the tumblers danced and the wine flowed freely round the board, so that men’s hearts were opened, and they talked of great deeds and heroes, and boasted what they themselves could do. And Œdipus boasted as loud as any, and challenged one and all to meet him infair fight. But the youth who had grown up with him in rivalry, and nourished jealousy and hatred in his heart, taunted him to his face, and said: “Base born that thou art, and son of slave, thinkest thou that free men will fight with thee? Lions fight not with curs, and though thou clothe thyself with purple and gold, all men know that thou art no true son to him thou callest thy sire.”
And this he said being flushed with wine, and because myriad-mouthed Rumor had spread abroad the tale that Œdipus was a foundling, though he himself knew naught thereof.
Then Œdipus flushed red with rage, and swift as a gale that sweeps down from the mountains he fell upon the other, and seizing him by the throat, he shook him till he had not a breath to beg for mercy. “What sayest thou now, thou whelp? Begone with thy lying taunt, now that thou hast licked the dust for thy falsehood.”
And he flung him out from the hall. But Merope leant pale and sad against a pillar, and veiled her face in her mantle to hide her tears. And when they were alone, Œdipus took her hand and stroked it, and said: “Grieve not for my fiery spirit, mother, but call me thine own son, and say that I was right to silence the liar who would cast dishonor upon my father’s name and upon thee.”
But she looked at him sadly and longingly through her tears, and spoke in riddling words: “The gods, my child, sent thee to thy father and to me in answer to our prayers. A gift of God thou art, and a gift of God thou shalt be, living and dead, to them that love thee. The flesh growethold and withereth away as a leaf, but the spirit liveth on forever, and those are the truest of kin who are kin in the spirit of goodness and of love.”
But Œdipus was troubled, for she would say no more, but only held his hand, and when he drew it away it was wet with her tears. Then he thought in his heart: “Verily my mother would not weep for naught. What if, after all, there be something in the tale? I will go to the central shrine of Hellas and ask the god of Truth, golden-haired Apollo. If he say it is a lie, verily I will thrust it back down that coward’s throat, and the whole land shall ring with his infamy. And if it be true—the gods will guide me how to act.”
So he set forth alone upon his pilgrimage. He drew near to the sacred place and made due sacrifice, and washed in the great stone basin, and put away all uncleanness from his heart, and went through the portals of rock to the awful shrine within, where the undying fire burns night and day and the sacred laurel stands. And he put his question to the god and waited for an answer.
Through the dim darkness of the shrine he saw the priestess on her tripod, veiled in a mist of incense and vapor, and as the power of the god came upon her she beheld the things of the future and the hidden secrets of Fate. And she raised her hand toward Œdipus, and with pale lips spoke the words of doom: “Œdipus ill-fated, thine own sire shalt thou slay.”
As she spoke the words his head swam round like a whirlpool, and his heart seemed turned to stone; then, with a loud and bitter cry, he rushedfrom the temple, through the thronging crowd of pilgrims down into the Sacred Way, and the people moved out of his path like shadows. Blindly he sped along the stony road, down through the pass to a place where three roads meet, and he shuddered as he crossed them; for Fear laid her cold hand upon his heart and filled it with a wild, unreasoning dread, and branded the image of that awful spot upon his brain so that he could never forget it. On every side the mountains frowned down upon him, and seemed to echo to and fro the doom which the priestess had spoken. Straight forward he went like some hunted thing, turning neither to right nor left, till he came to a narrow path, where he met an old man in a chariot drawn by mules, with his trusty servants round him.
“Ho! there, thou madman!” they shouted; “stand by and let the chariot pass.”
“Madmen yourselves,” he cried, for his sore heart could not brook the taunt. “I am a king’s son, and will stand aside for no man.”
So he tried to push past them by force, though he was one against many. And the old man stretched out his hand as though to stop him, but as well might a child hope to stand up against a wild bull. For he thrust him aside and felled him from his seat, and turned upon his followers, and, striking out to right and left, he stunned one and slew another, and forced his way through in blind fury. But the old man lay stiff and still upon the road. The fall from the chariot had quenched the feeble spark of life within him, and his spirit fled away to the house of Hades and the Kingdom ofthe Dead. One trusty servant lay slain by his side, and the other senseless and stunned, and when he awoke, to find his master and his comrades slain, Œdipus was far upon his way.
On and on he went, over hill and dale and mountain stream, till at length his strength gave way, and he sank down exhausted. And black despair laid hold of his heart, and he said within himself: “Better to die here on the bare hillside and be food for the kites and crows than return to my father’s house to bring death to him and sorrow to my mother’s heart.”
But sweet sleep fell upon him, and when he awoke hope and the love of life put other thoughts in his breast. And he remembered the words which Merope the queen had spoke to him one day when he was boasting of his strength and skill.
“Strength and skill, my son, are the gifts of the gods, as the rain which falleth from heaven and giveth life and increase to the fruits of the earth. But man’s pride is an angry flood that bringeth destruction on field and city. Remember that great gifts may work great good or great evil, and he who has them must answer to the gods if he use them well or ill.”
And he thought within himself: “’Twere ill to die if, even in the uttermost parts of the earth, men need a strong man’s arm and a wise man’s cunning. Never more will I return to far-famed Corinth and my home by the sounding sea, but to far-distant lands will I go and bring blessing to those who are not of my kin, since to mine own folk I must be a curse if ever I return.”
So he went along the road from Delphi till he came to seven-gated Thebes. There he found all the people in deep distress and mourning, for their king Laius was dead, slain by robbers on the highroad, and they had buried him far from his native land at a place where three roads meet. And, worse still, their city was beset by a terrible monster, the Sphinx, part eagle and part lion, with the face of a woman, who every day devoured a man because they could not answer the riddle she set them.
All this Œdipus heard as he stood in the market place and talked with the people.
“What is this famous riddle that none can solve?” he asked.
“Alas! young man, that none can say. For he that would solve the riddle must go up alone to the rock where she sits. Then and there she chants the riddle, and if he answer it not forthwith she tears him limb from limb. And if none go up to try the riddle, then she swoops down upon the city and carries off her victims, and spares not woman or child. Our wisest and bravest have gone up, and our eyes have seen them no more. Now there is no man left who dare face the terrible beast.”
Then Œdipus said: “I will go up and face this monster. It must be a hard riddle indeed if I cannot answer it.”
“Oh, overbold and rash,” they cried, “thinkest thou to succeed where so many have failed?”
“Better to try, and fail, than never to try at all.”
“Yet, where failure is death, surely a man should think twice?”
“A man can die but once, and how better than in trying to save his fellows?”
As they looked at his strong young limbs and his fair young face they pitied him. “Stranger,” they said, “who art thou to throw away thy life thus heedlessly? Are there none at home to mourn thee and no kingdom thou shouldst rule? For, of a truth, thou art a king’s son and no common man.”
“Nay, were I to return, my home would be plunged in mourning and woe, and the people would drive me from my father’s house.”
They marveled at his answer, but dared question him no further; and, seeing that nothing would turn him from his purpose, they showed him the path to the Sphinx’s rock, and all the people went out with him to the gate with prayers and blessings. At the gate they left him, for he who goes up to face the Sphinx must go alone, and none can stand by and help him. So he went through the Crenean gate and across the stream of Dirce into the wide plain, and the mountain of the Sphinx stood out dark and clear on the other side. Then he prayed to Pallas Athene, the gray-eyed goddess of Wisdom, and she took all fear from his heart. So he went up boldly to the rock, where the monster sat waiting to spring upon her prey; yet for all his courage his heart beat fast as he looked on her. For at first she appeared like a mighty bird, with great wings of bronze and gold, and the glancing sunbeams played about them, casting a halo of light around, and in the midst of the halo her face shone out pale and beautiful as a star at dawn. But when she saw him coming near, a greedy firelit up her eyes, and she put out her cruel claws and lashed her tail from side to side like an angry lion waiting for his prey. Nevertheless, Œdipus spoke to her fair and softly: “Oh, lady, I am come to hear thy famous riddle and answer it or die.”
“Foolhardy manling, a dainty morsel the gods have sent this day, with thy fair young face and fresh young limbs.” And she licked her cruel lips.
Then Œdipus felt his blood boil within him, and he wished to slay her then and there; for she who had been the fairest of women was now the foulest of beasts, and he saw that by her cruelty she had killed the woman’s soul within her, and the soul of a beast had taken its place.
“Come, tell me thy famous riddle, foul Fury that thou art, that I may answer it and rid the land of this curse.”
“At dawn it creeps on four legs; at noon it strides on two; at sunset and evening it totters on three. What is this thing, never the same, yet not many, but one?” So she chanted slowly, and her eyes gleamed cruel and cold.
Then thought Œdipus within himself: “Now or never must my learning and wit stand me in good stead, or in vain have I talked with the wisest of men and learnt the secrets of Phœnicia and Egypt.”
And the gods who had given him understanding sent light into his heart, and boldly he answered: “What can this creature be but man, O Sphinx? For, a helpless babe at the dawn of life, he crawls on his hands and feet; at noontide he walks erect in the strength of his manhood; and at evening he supports his tottering limbs with a staff, the propand stay of old age. Have I not answered aright and guessed thy famous riddle?”
Then with a loud cry of despair, and answering him never a word, the great beast sprang up from her seat on the rock and hurled herself over the precipice into the yawning gulf beneath. Far away across the plain the people heard her cry, and they saw the flash of the sun on her brazen wings like a gleam of lightning in the summer sky. Thereupon they sent up a great shout of joy to heaven, and poured out from every gate into the open plain, and some raised Œdipus upon their shoulders, and with shouts and songs of triumph bore him to the city. Then and there they made him king with one accord, for the old king had left no son behind him, and who more fitted to rule over them than the slayer of the Sphinx and the savior of their city?
So Œdipus became King of Thebes, and wisely and well did he rule, and for many a long year the land prospered both in peace and war.
But the day came when a terrible pestilence broke out, and the people died by hundreds, so that at last Œdipus sent messengers to Delphi to ask why the gods were angry and had sent a plague upon the land. And this was the answer they brought back: “There is an unclean thing in Thebes. Never has the murderer of Laius been found, and he dwells a pollution in the land. Though the vengeance of the gods is slow, yet it cometh without fail, and the shedding of blood shall not pass unpunished.”
Then Œdipus made proclamation through the land that if any man knew who the murderer was,they should give him up to his doom and appease the anger of Heaven. And he laid a terrible curse on any who dared to give so much as a crust of bread or a draft of water to him who had brought such suffering on the land. So throughout the country far and wide a search was made to track out the stain of blood and cleanse the city from pollution, but day after day the quest was fruitless, and the pestilence raged unceasingly, and darkness fell upon the soul of the people, as their prayers remained unanswered and their burnt-offerings smoked in vain upon the altars of the gods. Then at last Œdipus sent for the blind seer Teiresias, who had lived through six generations of mortal men, and was the wisest of all prophets on earth. He knew the language of the birds, and, though his eyes were closed in darkness, his ears were opened to hear the secrets of the universe, and he knew the hidden things of the past and of the future. But at first when he came before the king he would tell him nothing, but begged him to question no further. “For the things of the future will come of themselves,” he cried, “though I shroud them in silence, and evil will it be for thee, O king, and evil for thine house if I speak out the knowledge that is hidden in my heart.”
At last Œdipus grew angry at his silence, and taunted him: “Verily, methinks thou thyself didst aid in the plotting of this deed, seeing that thou carest naught for the people bowed down beneath the pestilence and the dark days that are fallen on the land, so be it thou canst shield the murdererand escape thyself from the curse of the gods.”
Then Teiresias was stung past bearing, and would hold his tongue no longer. “By thine own doom shalt thou be judged, O king,” he said. “Thou thyself art the murderer, thyself the pollution that staineth the land with the blood of innocent men.”
Then Œdipus laughed aloud: “Verily, old man, thou pratest. What rival hath urged thee to this lie, hoping to drive me from the throne of Thebes? Of a truth, not thine eyes only, but thy heart, is shrouded in a mist of darkness.”
“Woe to thee, Œdipus, woe to thee! Thou hast sight, yet seest not who thou art, nor knowest the deed of thine hand. Soon shalt thou wander sightless and blind, a stranger in a strange land, feeling the ground with a staff, and men shall shrink back from thee in horror when they hear thy name and the deed that thou hast done.”
And the people were hushed by the words of the old man, and knew not what to think. But the wife of Œdipus, who stood by his side, said: “Hearken not to him, my lord. For verily no mortal can search the secrets of Fate, as I can prove full well by the words of this same man that he spoke in prophecy. For he it was who said that Laius, the king who is dead, should be slain by the hand of his own son. However, that poor innocent never grew to manhood, but was exposed on the trackless mountainside to die of cold and hunger; and Laius, men say, was slain by robber bands at a place where three roads meet. So hearken notto seer-craft, ye people, nor trust in the words of one who is proved a false prophet.”
But her words brought no comfort to Œdipus, and a dreadful fear came into his heart, like a cold, creeping snake, as he listened. For he thought of his journey from Delphi, and of how in his frenzy he had struck down an old man and his followers at a place where three roads meet. When he questioned her further, the time and the place and the company all tallied, save only that rumor had it that Laius had been slain by robber bands, while he had been single-handed against many.
“Was there none left,” he asked, “who saw the deed and lived to tell the tale?”
“Yea, one faithful follower returned to bear the news, but so soon as the Sphinx was slain and the people had made thee king he went into distant pastures with his flocks, for he could not brook to see a stranger in his master’s place, albeit he had saved the land from woe.”
“Go, summon him,” said Œdipus. “If the murderers were many, as rumor saith, with his aid we may track them out; but if he was one man single-handed—yea, though that man were myself—of a truth he shall be an outcast from the land, that the plague may be stayed from the people. Verily, my queen, my heart misgives me when I remember my wrath and the deed that I wrought at the cross-roads.”
In vain she tried to comfort him, for a nameless fear had laid hold of his heart.
Now, while they were waiting for the herdsman to come, a messenger arrived in haste from Corinthto say that Polybus was dead, and that Œdipus was chosen king of the land, for his fame had gone out far and wide as the slayer of the Sphinx and the wisest of the kings of Hellas.
When Œdipus heard the news, he bowed his head in sorrow to hear of the death of the father he had loved, and turning to the messenger, he said, “For many a long year my heart hath yearned toward him who is dead, and verily my soul is grieved that I shall see him no more in the pleasant light of the sun. But for the oracle’s sake I stayed in exile, that my hand might not be red with a father’s blood. And now I thank the gods that he has passed away in a green old age, in the fullness of years and of honor.” But the messenger wondered at his words. “Knewest thou not, then, that Polybus was no father to thee in the flesh, but that for thy beauty and thy strength he chose thee out of all the land to be a son to him and heir to the kingdom of Corinth?”
“What sayest thou, bearer of ill news that thou art?” cried Œdipus. “To prove that same tale of thine a slanderous lie I went to Delphi, and there the priestess prophesied that I should slay mine own sire. Wherefore I went not back to my native land, but have lived in exile all my days.”
“Then in darkness of soul hast thou lived, O king. For with mine own hands I received thee as a babe from a shepherd on dim Cithæron, from one of the herdsmen of Laius, who was king before thee in this land.”
“Woe is me, then! The curse of the gods is over me yet. I know not my sire, and unwittingly I mayslay him and rue the evil day. And a cloud of darkness hangeth over me for the slaying of King Laius. But lo! they bring the herdsman who saw the deed done, and pray Heaven he may clear me from all guilt. Bring him forward that I may question him.”
Then they brought the man forward before the king, though he shrank back and tried to hide himself. When the messenger from Corinth saw him he started back in surprise, for it was the very man from whose hands he had taken Œdipus on the mountainside. And he said to the king, “Behold the man who will tell thee the secret of thy birth. From his hands did I take thee as a babe on dim Cithæron.”
Then Œdipus questioned the man, and at first he denied it from fear, but at last he was fain to confess. “And who gave me to thee to slay on the barren mountainside?”
“I pray thee, my king, ask no more. Some things there are that are better unsaid.”
“Nay, tell me, and fear not. I care not if I am a child of shame and slavery stains my birth. A son of Fortune the gods have made me, and have given me good days with evil. Speak out, I pray thee. Though I be the son of a slave, I can bear it.”
“No son of a slave art thou, but seed of a royal house. Ask no more, my king.”
“Speak, speak, man. Thou drivest me to anger, and I will make thee tell, though it be by force.”
“Ah! lay not cruel hands upon me. For thine own sake I would hide it. From the queen thy mother I had thee, and thy father was—Laius theking. At the cross-roads from Delphi didst thou meet him in his chariot, and slew him unwittingly in thy wrath. Ah, woe is me! For the gods have chosen me out to be an unwilling witness to the truth of their oracles.”
Then a great hush fell upon all the people like the lull before a storm. For the words of the herdsman were so strange and terrible that at first they could scarce take in their meaning. But when they understood that Œdipus was Laius’s own son, and that he had fulfilled the dreadful prophecy and slain his sire, a great tumult arose, some saying one thing and some another; but the voice of Œdipus was heard above the uproar, “Ah, woe is me, woe is me! The curse of the gods is upon me, and none can escape their wrath. Blindly have I done this evil, and when I was striving to escape Fate caught me in her hidden meshes. Oh, foolish hearts of men, to think that ye can flee from the doom of the gods; for lo! ye strive in the dark, and your very struggles bind you but closer in the snare of your fate. Cast me from the land, ye people; do with me what ye will. For the gods have made me a curse and a pollution, and by my death alone will the land have rest from pestilence.”
And the people would have taken him at his word; for fickle is the heart of the multitude, and swayed this way and that by every breath of calamity.
They were sore stricken, too, by the pestilence, and in their wrath against the cause of it they forgot the slaying of the Sphinx and the long days of peace and prosperity. But the blindseer Teiresias rose up in their midst, and at his voice the people were silent.
“Citizens of Cadmus, foolish and blind of heart! Will ye slay the savior of your city? Have ye forgotten the man-devouring Sphinx and the days of darkness? Verily prosperity blunteth the edge of gratitude. And thou, Œdipus, curse not the gods for thine evil fate. He that putteth his finger in the fire is burnt, whether he do it knowingly or not. As to thy sire, him indeed didst thou slay in ignorance but the shedding of man’s blood be upon thine own head, for that was the fruit of thy wrathful spirit, which, through lack of curbing, broke forth like an angry beast. Hadst thou never slain a man, never wouldst thou have slain thy sire. But now thou art a pollution to the land of thy birth, and by long exile and wandering must thou expiate thy sin and die a stranger in a strange land. Yet methinks that in the dark mirror of prophecy I see thy form, as it were, a guardian to the land of thy last resting-place, and in a grove of sacred trees thy spirit’s lasting habitation, when thy feet have accomplished the ways of expiation and the days of thy wandering are done.”
So the people were silenced. But Œdipus would not be comforted, and in his shame and misery he put out his own eyes because they had looked on unspeakable things. Then he clothed himself in rags and took a pilgrim’s staff, to go forth alone upon his wanderings. And the people were glad at his going, because the plague had hardened their hearts, and they cared nothing for his gray hairs and sightless eyes, nor remembered all he had donefor them, but thought only how the plague might be stayed. Even Eteocles and Polynices, his own sons, showed no pity, but would have let him go forth alone, that they might live on the fatness of the land. For their hardness of heart they were punished long after, when they quarreled as to which should be king, and brought down the flood of war upon Thebes, and fell each by the other’s hand in deadly strife. Of all his children, Antigone alone refused to let him go forth a solitary wanderer, and would listen to none of his entreaties when he spoke of the hardness of the way that would lie before them.
“Nay, father,” she cried; “thinkest thou that I could suffer thee to wander sightless and blind in thine old age with none to stay thy feeble steps or lend thee the light of their eyes?”