  In Hypaipa, a little city of Lydia, dwelt a maiden of lowly birth named Arachne. Idmon, her father, was a dyer at Colophon and her mother, who died early, was born of poor parents. The name of Arachne was famous in Lydia, for she surpassed all human women in skill and industry in weaving. The nymphs of the vine-clad mountain of Tmolus and of the river Pactolus came to her poor cottage to watch her work. Never were skill and grace more closely united. Whether she was first preparing the coarse wool, or drawing the threads finer and finer, or revolving the spindle with nimble thumbs, or stitching with the needle, it always seemed as if Pallas Athene herself must have instructed her. Arachne knew nothing about it, but she often declared in an offended tone: “I did not get my skill from the goddess. Let her come and try her skill with me. If she defeats me I will bear any penalty.” Athene was very angry when she heard this boast, assumed the form of a little old woman, covered her brow with gray hair, and leaning for support upon a staff, came to Arachne’s cottage and thus began: “The years bring experience to gray old age. Therefore despise not my advice. Seek for the glory of surpassing all mortals with your skill, but meekly submit to the gods. Implore pardon for your haughty words and all will be forgiven you.” Arachne’s countenance darkened, and she angrily replied: “Thou art foolish, old one. The burden of the years has weakened thy senses. It is not good to live long. Preach such silliness to thy daughter. I need none of thy advice and spurn thy admonitions. Why does not Pallas herself come? Why does she avoid the trial with me?” The goddess could not longer restrain herself. “She is here now,” she cried, as she threw off her disguise and stood before her in her own image. The nymphs and the Lydian women who were present fell humbly at her feet, but Arachne did not tremble. A fleeting blush reddened her face and she resolutely adhered to her purpose. Urged on by her foolish vanity, she exposed herself to the penalty of which she had been warned. The daughter of Zeus lost no time in further attempts to dissuade her, but undertook the trial. Seating themselves, the weaving began. Purple and a thousand other colors, distracting to eyes not used to them, were skilfully woven together. Threads of gold ran through the webs, and wonderful pictures astonished the eyes of the spectators. Athene fashioned the cliffs of the Athenian mount and their contest with the sea god for possession of the land. Twelve gods with Zeus in the centre sat there, serious and dignified. Here stood Poseidon as he struck the rocks with his trident. There appeared the goddess herself, the divine artist, armed with shield and lance, her helmet on her head, the terrible Ægis on her breast, teaching men for the first time the culture of the olive tree, and causing it to spring from the unfruitful earth with the point of her spear. Thus Athene wove her own victory in the web. In the four corners she worked four examples of human pride which have tragic results from the vengeance of the gods. In the first corner were the Thracian king, Harnus, and his wife Rhodope, who called themselves Zeus and Hera and were changed into mountain peaks. In another corner was the unhappy mother of the PygmÆi, who, overcome by Hera, was changed to a crane, and fought her own children. In the third corner was Antigone, the charming daughter of Laomedon, who was so proud of her beauty and her tresses that she likened herself to Hera. The goddess changed her tresses to snakes which bit and tormented her until Zeus, pitying her, turned her into a stork. In the last Pallas pictured Einyras, weeping over the fate of his daughter, who because of her pride was changed by Hera to a stone step before one of her temples. All these pictures Athene wove and surrounded them with a wreath of olive leaves. Arachne wove in her web many pictures illustrating the disreputable actions of Zeus and surrounded them with a wreath of ivy and blossoms. When she had finished her work Athene could not find fault with the skill of the maiden, but she was enraged with the sacrilege of the weaver. She suddenly tore the web to pieces and struck the maiden three times on the forehead with the spindle which she held in her hand. The unfortunate one could not endure this. Madness seized her and she hanged herself with a rope. As she was suspended in the air, the goddess had compassion upon her and said: “Live, but hang there, thou audacious one. And so shall thy whole race to the latest generation be punished.” With these words she sprinkled Arachne with a few magic drops and went away. The hair, nose, and ears of the maiden disappeared and she shrank into a small and noxious insect. And the spider to-day still weaves its web—the old art. |
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