  Clymene bore a son, named PhaËthon, who grew up a handsome and stately youth. His father was Phoebus (Apollo), the Sun-god. Once, when he boasted of his heavenly descent, his companions laughed at him. Shame and anger filled the youth’s heart and he resolved, upon the advice of his mother, to ask the Sun-god himself if he were not his father. After wandering through Ethiopia and India, he at last reached Apollo’s palace. Lofty columns, some made of solid gold, others of fire-colored rubies, dazzled him. Their splendid pediments were made of polished ivory and the folding door of lustrous silver, the work of the artistic divinity, Hephaestus. There too were to be seen upon the billows of the sea the horn-blowing Triton, near him gray Proteus, whose office it is to protect the sea god’s seals, and Doris, with her daughters, the Nereids. PhaËthon approached the palace, but for a spell remained in the hall at a distance, for the brilliancy which emanated from the sparkling crown of his progenitor blinded him. Apollo, with a purple robe flowing from his shoulders, sat upon a golden throne gleaming with jewels. To the right and left of him stood the year, the month, the day, and the hours. Golden-tressed Spring was adorned with a wreath, and Summer, with sheaves of corn. Autumn carried a red basket with golden grape clusters on her head, and Winter could be recognized by his icy beard and silver hair. Apollo, delighted with the sight of his blooming son, said: “What is it, PhaËthon, that has brought you here?” “Divine father,” replied the son, “they mock at me when I call you father. Give me some proof that I am your son.” Thereupon Apollo took his sparkling crown from his brow, called his son to him, and embracing him said: “What your mother has told you is true. I am Apollo, your father. That you may know it beyond all question, ask anything of me. Whatever it may be, it shall be granted. I promise you this by the Stygian Lake, the dark waters of the underworld; and such a vow, as you well know, is inviolate for us deities.” Hardly had his father finished speaking before PhaËthon, with sparkling eyes, replied: “I pray you let me drive your sun-chariot and winged steeds for one day.” How Apollo regretted his vow! With mournful visage he shook his head and spoke. “Woe is me that I must keep my promise. Had I not made it, your wish would not have been granted. But now I can do no more than warn you. The fulfilment of your wish will result in dreadful dangers. What you desire is so great a task that your youth and strength are not equal to it. You, a mortal, wish to be immortal. None of the Olympian gods themselves would undertake such a task. It is known to them as to mortals that I alone can drive the sun-chariot. Zeus himself, mightiest of the gods, who holds the thunderbolts in his hand and rules over heaven and earth, would not dare to drive it. Learn now the dangers which threaten you. Only with the greatest exertion can the freshly harnessed steeds climb the upward morning-path. It is a fearful sight to gaze down from the summit of the sun-course. My own heart trembles when I reach that spot. Then the path descends, growing more and more steep. To accomplish it needs a sure hand. Thetis herself, who awaits me in the waves, looks up anxiously, fearing I may not be able to make the downward plunge. And this is not all you must learn. The heavens revolve around you constantly, and the high stars weave in circles. The goal must be firmly kept in sight in spite of the furious oscillation and you must not deviate from the course. Oh son, ask yourself seriously if you can do this. Think of this, too. Far otherwise will the sky appear to you than it does from the earth. You will not journey to cities nor to groves with lofty temples, but you will encounter apparitions of wild animals, at sight of which the blood of a mortal will turn to ice. How can you manage these ungovernable fire steeds which I can hardly bridle, so great is their strength? Therefore, oh son, abandon your wish. There are so many things in heaven and earth better worth the asking which I can give you. The granting of your wish means your destruction.” The deity’s warnings were useless. PhaËthon repeated his request. As Apollo was bound by his vow, he led the youth to the sun-chariot, which was a gift from Hephaestus. The axles were golden, as well as the shafts and the rims of the wheels, but the spokes were of solid silver. The shafts and the harness glittered with chrysolite and other precious stones. While PhaËthon was gazing at the chariot in astonishment, Eos opened the purple door leading to the halls in which the flowers of heaven at all times bloom. The stars disappeared, the morning star, last of the gleaming choir, faded and finally was lost to view. When Selene (Luna) had sunk beneath the sea, Apollo summoned the blessing-giving Hours whose duty it was to harness the steeds to the sun-chariot. With light step the rosy divinities betook themselves to the hall, loosed the white steeds from their marble cribs, filled with ambrosia, led them to the chariot, and placed their trappings on them while Apollo besmeared his son’s face with a sacred ointment so that he should not be blinded. Then he placed the sparkling crown upon his beautiful tresses and said with a sigh: “Since I cannot dissuade you, at least take this advice to heart. Do not urge the horses with the goad, for they go swiftly enough, but hold the reins securely, try to restrain their fiery snorting and govern them safely. Avoid the South as well as the North Pole and keep to the course indicated by the ruts of the wheels. Observe further that it is necessary sky and earth should be equally warm. Go neither too high nor too low, lest you burn either the heavenly mansions or the dwellings on earth. May Fortune help you in all other things, so now take the reins and think of my advice. It would be vastly better for you to desist from your ruinous folly that I to-day, as usual, may furnish light for men and gods.” During these last words the headstrong youth mounted the chariot and took the reins from the hands of his sorrowful father. The neighing of the steeds filled the atmosphere. They champed their bits and stamped. When PhaËthon pulled the reins they flew with the chariot. They soon outran the swift winds, clove asunder the morning clouds, and the vast, immeasurable universe lay before PhaËthon’s gaze. The chariot swung from side to side as the load was too light. When the steeds noticed this, they took to wild flight and left the usual course. The youth was overcome by fear. How could he find the course again? Not once but many times he sought to free the tangled reins. Upward went the chariot. When PhaËthon looked upon the height of the sky, a panic seized him, his knees trembled, and all grew dark before his eye. Now he repented that he had not heeded his father’s warnings, but it was too late. He was hurled about like a dismasted vessel in raging waters. He knew not what to do. He had already traversed a great part of the sky, but endless was the expanse which still lay before him. In despair he looked ahead and behind. He still held the reins, but he no longer made any effort to direct the steeds. A great terror awaited him as he suddenly beheld frightful apparitions above him. Terrified by them, the steeds ran still farther from the course, dragging the swaying, cracking chariot after them. The elevated plains of earth took fire. Broad fissures appeared in the ground, the forest disappeared in a furious sea of flame, and a luminous dust arose from the meadows and harvest fields. Cities and their people were destroyed. Fiery clouds swept over places teeming with life shortly before. The mountains were masses of seething fire. PhaËthon, gazing about, saw nothing but flames. Higher and higher they rose, and at last the sun-chariot was surrounded by clouds of hot moisture. PhaËthon no longer knew where he was. Then, so says the myth, the terrified nymphs fled, mourning over their fountains and waters destroyed by fire. The earth became such a vast chasm that the glare of the fire was reflected in Tartarus and the gods of the underworld were terrified. The sea itself retreated from its shores, its bed rose, islands appeared where there had been none, fishes and seals lay dead upon the banks. The sea nymphs fled with Doris and Nereus to a cool grotto, where the air was so glowing that Poseidon had to plunge in water the arm with which he raised his trident to try and hurl PhaËthon down. When Zeus beheld what was happening he pitied the dying world. With a thunderbolt he killed the audacious charioteer. A lock of his hair, taking fire, floated down like a falling star. The terrible bolt frightened the steeds. The chariot broke and axles, spokes, and fragments of the wheels flew in all directions. PhaËthon fell into the river Eridanus and the naiads of the stream came to bury his body. Apollo, who had seen all that happened to his son, sorrowfully veiled his face. |
|
