Phaëthon

Part 1

Finally, Io gave birth to a son, called Épaphus, thought to be sprung from mighty Jupiter’s seed; and throughout the cities his temple is linked with his mother’s. One of his peers and rivals was Pháëthon, child of the sun god. On one occasion, Epaphus took exception to Phaëthon’s boastful talking, his failure to show him respect and his arrogant pride in his father, Phoebus.

‘Ridiculous booby,’ he sneered, ‘to believe every word that your mother tells you. The picture you have of your father is false and inflated!’

Phaëthon’s face grew red, but shame put a brake on his anger; he went and reported Epaphus’ gibes to his mother, Clýmene. ‘To distress you further, dear mother,’ he added, ‘I, Phaëthon, known as so open and savage-tempered, said nothing. I’m deeply ashamed that these scandalous taunts should be thrown at our heads and I couldn’t refute them. Mother, if I am truly the son of a god, please give me a sign of my glorious birth and establish my title in heaven!’

After he’d spoken, he threw his arms round his mother’s neck, imploring her, if she valued the life of himself and her husband Mérops, and if she hoped that his sisters would happily marry, to offer him positive proof that his father was really the sun god.

We cannot be sure whether Phaëthon’s prayers or Clymene’s anger at what was imputed against herself affected her more; but she raised both arms to the sky and her eyes to the sun’s bright beams, to protest: ‘By yonder resplendent orb with his glistening rays, who hears and surveys us all, my child, I swear to you now that the sun you gaze on in wonder, the sun which governs the whole world, is truly your father. If I speak false, may he ever refuse me his light, and may this day be the last when my eyes shall behold him! Small effort is needed to find your way to your father’s hearth. The domain from where he arises begins where our own land ends. If your spirit impels you, be off on your way and question the sun god himself!’

As soon as his mother had finished speaking, Phaëthon darted out in excitement. The sky was already his own! Crossing his native Ethiopia and India, nearing the land of the sun, he hastened east to discover his father.

Part 2

Picture the Sun’s royal seat, an imposing building with towering columns, resplendent in glittering gold and blazing bronze; its pediment proudly surmounted by figures in burnished ivory; the double doors at the entrance a sheen of shimmering silver. More wonderful yet is the workmanship which Vulcan displayed on the portals’ reliefs: the ocean encircling the central earth on a detailed map of the world, with the Sun’s great canopy over it. There in the waves are the sea-gods: Triton holding his conch-horn, Próteus who constantly changes his shape, and the giant Aegaéon, gripping the monstrous backs of the whales with his hundred arms; Doris along with her daughters, some of them shown to be swimming, while others are resting upon the rocks and drying their green hair or riding along on a fish. The nymphs have different features, but show the family likeness that might be expected in sisters.

Embossed on earth are the men in their cities and beasts in their forests; the water-nymphs next to their streams and the other rural divinities. Crowning these pictures the heavens, brightly portrayed, with the signs of the zodiac, six on the right-hand door and six on the left. Pháëthon quickly mounted the steep approach to the palace, and entered the house of the god whom he wished to be sure was his father. Marching boldly towards the face of his sire, he halted a little way off, as it hurt his eyes to come any closer. Garbed in a robe of royal purple, radiant Phoebus was sitting there on a throne which was glowing with brilliant emeralds. Standing close on his right and his left were the Spirits of Day, of Month and of Year, the Centuries and Hours at their equal intervals. Also in waiting were youthful Spring with her wreath of flowers, Summer naked but for her garland of ripening corn ears, Autumn stained with the juice of trodden clusters of grapes, and icy Winter, whose aged locks were hoary and tangled. Then from his place in the centre the Sun, with his all-seeing eyes, caught sight of the young man trembling in awe of his strange surroundings.

‘Why have you come?’ he enquired. ‘And what do you seek in this stronghold, Phaëthon, offspring of mine, whom his father could never disown?’

‘O Phoebus, my father, light that illumines the infinite universe,’ answered the youth, ‘if you will allow me to call you my father, if Clýmene is not trying to cloak some guilty secret, grant me a sign, my father, whereby all men must believe that I am truly your son, and banish this doubt from my own mind.’

Then, in response, his father removed the circlet of sparkling rays which adorned his head, commanded the youth to come nearer, and folded him close in his arms.

‘You are truly mine,’ he assured him. ‘Denial would do you injustice, and Clymene did not deceive you. Away with your doubts! Now ask me whatever favour you will, and I shall bestow it. To witness my promise, I call on the Stygian marsh which the gods must swear by, though I have never set eyes on it.’

Phaëthon answered at once. He asked for his father’s chariot, with leave to control the wing-footed horses, for just one day. His father at once regretted his oath. Repeatedly shaking his lustrous head, he exclaimed: ‘Your request has proved my promise too rash. How I wish I could break it! Dear son, I confess to you freely, this is the only wish I could ever be moved to refuse you. Still, I can argue against it. Believe me, you’re looking for danger! The favour you ask is great, my Phaëthon, far too great for the strength that you have. You are only a boy, too young to attempt it. Your destiny’s mortal; your wishes transcend your mortal limits. Indeed your ignorant heart is pursuing what even immortals can never attain. We all may flatter ourselves as we will, yet none save I has the strength to stand in the fiery chariot and hold his footing. Even the ruler of vast Olympus, who hurls the deadly thunderbolts forth from his awesome hand, shall never control this car; and what have we greater than Jove? The start of the journey is steep; though the horses are fresh in the morning, the climb is a mighty haul. The highest stretch is mid-heaven, where even I am often afraid to look down on the lands and the sea below, and my heart is aflutter with quivering terror. The end is a downward path and calls for impeccable steering; then even Tethys, the goddess who welcomes me into the waves as I set, can tremble with fear that my fall will be over-precipitous. Recognize too that the sky spins round in a constant vortex, drawing the stars on high as they whirl in their swift revolutions. My impetus thrusts against it, unswayed by the forces which master all else, and in driving my steeds I oppose the sphere’s swift motion. Suppose that I lend you my car, what then? Can you really encounter the poles without being swept away by their rapid rotation? Perhaps you imagine you’ll find the groves of the gods up there, with their beautiful cities and sanctuaries richly laden with offerings. No! Your path is beset with beasts that are lying in ambush. Even supposing you hold your course and are not diverted, your journey will take you straight to the horns of the charging Bull, straight to the centaur Archer and straight to the jaws of the raging Lion; then on to the Scorpion, whose menacing arms are bent in a long wide sweep, and the Crab with his claws of a smaller range. Moreover, it’s far from easy to govern those spirited horses, strong with the fire in their breasts which they breathe from their mouths and nostrils, and little inclined to obey even my firm hands when their mettle is hotly aroused and their necks are resisting the pull of the reins. Oh listen, my son! Don’t force me to make you a gift that can only prove fatal. Be warned and amend your prayer before it’s too late. I can understand that you need some indisputable proof that my own blood runs in your veins. So here you have it: my fatherly fears and misgivings prove me to be your father. Look, boy, look at my face. How I wish your eyes were able to pierce deep down to my heart and catch a glimpse of your father’s anxiety. Finally, look all round you: survey whatever the wealthy cosmos contains, and make your choice of the bountiful riches of earth and sea and sky. Be sure I’ll refuse you nothing. This one thing only I beg you not to demand. It’s a sentence, not honour you’re asking for; punishment, Phaëthon, never a present. Why are your fingers caressing my neck, you ignorant boy? Never fear, I have sworn by the Stygian marsh, and I’ll surely give you whatever you choose to ask for. But choose more wisely, I beg you!’

His warnings were finished, but Phaëthon still resisted the sun god’s pleas and pressed his request in his burning desire for the chariot. And so, delaying as long as he could, his father conducted the young man down to the lofty conveyance which Vulcan had made him. The axle and pole were constructed of gold, and golden too was the rim encircling the wheels, which were fitted with spokes of silver. Chrysolites, jewels arranged in a pattern along the yoke, reflected their brilliant splendour on shining Phoebus himself. And while self-confident Phaëthon studied the car in amazement at such fine workmanship, Dawn was awake to open her purple gates in the glimmering east and bathe her forecourt in roseate glory; the stars were routed, and Lucifer brought up the rear, as last of all he abandoned his watch in the brightening sky. When Titan saw that the morning star was inclining earthward, the sky growing pink and the horns of the waning moon disappearing, he gave the command to the fleet-footed Hours to harness his steeds. The goddesses quickly performed his bidding. Forth from the lofty stables they led the fire-breathing stallions, fully refreshed with ambrosia juice, and carefully fastened the jingling bridles.

Next the father anointed the face of his son with a holy balsam, to offer protection against the scorching flames, and placed his radiant crown on the young man’s head. Then heaving sighs from his troubled heart in gloomy foreboding, he said: ‘If you are still able to take one piece of advice from your father, spare the goad, my son, and put more strength in the reins. My horses will speed unencouraged; the task is to curb their impatience. Don’t follow a route directly across the sky’s five zones: the path is cut at a slanting angle and runs in a wide arc, well inside the three middle zones and carefully avoiding the southern pole and the zone to the north with its biting winds. You must keep to that road – the ruts from my wheels will be clearly visible; then, to give earth and sky an equal share of your warmth, don’t drive the chariot down or scale the top of the ether. Venture to climb too high, and you’ll burn the ceiling of heaven, the earth if you sink too low; for safety remain in the middle. Swerving too far to the right, you’ll be caught in the coils of the Serpent; too far to the left, you’ll collide with the Altar near the horizon. Hold to a course in between. The rest I resign to Fortune; I pray her to help and take care of you better than you take care of yourself. As I speak, the dewy night has reached its appointed goal on the shores of the west. The time for delaying is over. The summons has come, for the darkness has fled and Auróra is glowing. Now grasp the reins in your hands – or if your ambitious purpose can yet be altered, take my advice and not my chariot. Allow me to give my light to the earth, and watch me in safety while still you can, while still you are standing on solid earth, Before you have blindly mounted the car you so foolishly asked for.’

Phaëthon nimbly jumped into place on the light-framed chariot. Standing aloft, he excitedly seized the featherweight reins and shouted his thanks from the car to his worried and anxious father. Meanwhile the sun god’s team of winged horses – Fiery, Dawnsteed, Scorcher and Blaze – were impatiently filling the air with their whinnies, snorting out flames and kicking the bolted gates with their hooves. As soon as Tethys, blind to the fate which awaited her grandson, had shot the bolts back and the limitless sky was open before them, at once they were off; and galloping forward into the air, they cut through the mists which stood in their way; then rose on their wings and quickly outdistanced the winds which had sprung up too in the east.

But the load that they carried was light, not one that the Sun’s strong horses could easily feel, and the yoke seemed far less heavy than usual. As ships with inadequate ballast will toss and roll on the billows, swept along through the ocean, too light to be firmly stable, so Phoebus’ chariot, robbed of its normal weight, leapt high in the air, tossed up from below, as though it were empty. As soon as they sensed this, the four-horse team ran wild, and leaving the well-worn track, they continued galloping helter-skelter.

Phaëthon panicked. He lacked both the skill to manage the reins entrusted to him and all idea of the line of his route; and if he had known it, the horses would still have been out of control. It was then that the stars of the Northern Plough, which are known as the Oxen, lost their chill in the rays and, growing too hot, for the first time vainly attempted to bathe in the sea which had always been barred to them.

Likewise the Serpent, whose home is close to the polar icecaps, sluggishly cold before and dangerous to none, for the first time started to swelter and sweat and seethed with a new-found fury. Even Boötes who guards the Bear is said to have fled in confusion, slow though he was and heavily tied to his wain. But when the unhappy Phaëthon looked from the top of the firmament down on the earth and saw it lying so far, far deep beneath him, terror suddenly struck him: his face turned pale and his knees shook; his vision grew darkly blurred in the dazzling, glaring brightness. He dearly wished that he’d never set hands on his father’s steeds; he regretted the quest for his birthright and winning the favour he’d asked for. Longing now to be known as Merops’ son, he was swept along like a ship at the north wind’s mercy, whose pilot abandons the tiller as useless and trusts the craft to the gods and to prayers.

But what could he do? Long miles of sky lay behind him, more were ahead. He measured his route both ways, as he first looked forward out to the west, which fate never meant him to reach, and then looked back to the east. Bewildered and dazed, he could neither let go of the reins nor cling on; and he couldn’t remember the names of the horses. To add to his terror, dispersed all over the patterned sky, he spied some phenomenal shapes in the likeness of huge wild beasts. Right there, a creature was curving its pincers out into two great arcs – the Scorpion, with menacing tail and its claws flexed round each way to encompass the space of two whole signs of the zodiac. When youthful Phaëthon sighted it, soaked in a sweat of black venom, curving its spear-point tail towards him and threatening to sting, he was frozen with fear and, completely unnerved, let go of the reins.

When the steeds were aware of the reins lying loosely over their backs, they broke from their course and, with no one to check them, they wildly bolted through unknown regions of air, wherever their instinct led them. They galloped at random, charging the stars in their fixed positions high in the heavenly vault, and forcing the chariot along through the trackless sky, now scaling the topmost heights, now hurtling down in a headlong dive through space more close to the earth. The moon was astonished to see her brother’s horses careering below her own; and smoke rose up from the smouldering clouds.

The earth now burst into flames on all of the hills and the mountains, split into huge wide cracks, and dried as it lost its moisture. The corn turned white and the trees were charred into leafless skeletons; parched grain offered the perfect fuel for self-ruination. These losses were trifling. Destruction fell upon great walled cities; mighty nations with all their peoples the conflagration turned into ashes.

Fire swept over the forest-clad mountains: Athos, Cilícian Taurus, Tmolus and Oeta were blazing; Ida, once the home of innumerable springs, now waterless; Hélicon, haunt of the Muses, and Haemus before it was known to Órpheus; Etna ablaze to the heavens, its flames now doubled; twin-summited Mount Parnássus with Eryx, Cynthus and Othrys; Rhódope, forced at last to be free of its snows; then Mimas, Díndyma, Mýcale, even the haven of worship, Cithaéron; Scythia’s frosts were of no avail; fire blazed on the Caúcasus, Ossa with Pindus, and Mount Olympus, taller than both; the Alps which soar to the sky and the cloud-capped Ápennine range.

Phaëthon now looked down on a world in flames; not a region remained unscorched. He couldn’t endure the force of the heat; the blasts of the air which he breathed seemed to come from the depths of a seething furnace; his feet could feel his chariot growing red-hot. The ashes and showers of flying sparks were more than the boy was able to stand, while all around he was shrouded in hot smoke. Wrapped in the pitchy darkness, he didn’t know where he was going nor where he might be, as the winged steeds swept him along at their mercy.

It was then, as mortals believe, that the Ethiopian peoples acquired dark skins as their blood was drawn to the body’s surface; Libya then was turned to a desert when all of her moisture was lost in the heat. And then the nymphs, with their hair spread loose, wept over their fountains and pools. Boeótia lamented for Dirce, Argos Amýmone, Éphyre sighed for the springs of Piréne.

Even the waters whose rivers flow in commodious channels suffered some evil effects: steam rose from the waves of the Tánais, old Penéüs, Caïcus in Mýsia, swift Isménus, Arcádia’s broad Erymánthus, the yellow Lycórmas and Xanthus, fated to burn again when it fought with Achílles; the playfully winding Maeánder, Mygdónian Melas and Spartan Eurótas. The Babylonian Euphrátes was all aflame; likewise Oróntes, rapid Thermódon, Ganges, Phasis and Hister. The coursing Alphéüs boiled; Sperchéüs’ banks were on fire; and the gold in the sands of the Tagus was melted and flowed like its waters.

The Lydian swans, whose singing has made the banks of Caÿster famous, succumbed to the sweltering heat as they floated mid-river. Stricken with terror, the Nile took flight to the ends of the earth, and covered its head where it still lies hidden; its seven-mouthed delta was emptied of water and filled with dust, seven riverless valleys. A similar fate dried up the Thracian Hebrus and Strymon; the western rivers as well, the Rhine and the Rhone and the Padus; lastly the Tiber, destined one day to be lord of the world. The whole of the earth-face split and the light penetrated the cracks to the underworld, filling the King of the Shades and his consort with terror.

The sea contracted; a broad expanse of dry sand replaced what had lately been ocean. Mountains hidden below the surface emerged from the deep to increase the score of the scattered Cýclades. Fish dived down to the seabed and dolphins dared no longer to arch their bodies and jump the billows into the breezes. Seals were lying with upturned bellies on top of the water, lifelessly floating. They say that even Nereus and Doris along with their daughters took refuge in caves which were far from cool; and a grim-faced Neptune thrice attempted to heave his shoulders above the water, but could not endure the scorching air.

The great Earth Mother, however, still girdled round by the ocean, could sense its waters, although her springs were thinned to a trickle and hidden away in the dark of her own bowels. Parched as she was, she succeeded in raising her head and neck from the smothering ashes, and shielded her brow from the heat with her hand. With a violent tremor she shook the world in a mighty quake, then subsided a little, below the height of her normal level, and uttered in cracked tones: ‘King of the Gods, if this is your wish and I have deserved it, why is your lightning idle? If I must perish by fire, let the fire be yours! The blow would be lighter if you had dealt it. I hardly can open my lips to voice these very petitions –’ the smoke was choking her. ‘Look at my singed hair, look at the ashes coating my eyes and face! Is this the respect that you show me? Is this the reward for the crops that I yield and the service I render, bearing the wounds of the plough and harrow, harshly exploited and worked from one year’s end to the next, supplying the grazing cattle with wholesome verdure, the grain to nourish the human race, and frankincense for you gods to receive on your altars? Let’s say that I have deserved my destruction; but what has your brother, what have the waves done wrong? Why have the waters allotted to Neptune by fate gone down and are farther away from the sky? But if your brother’s favours and mine to you count for nothing, at least you can pity your own domain. Look round at the two poles: smoke is pouring from each. If they suffer damage from fire, the halls of the gods will collapse. See, Atlas himself is in trouble: his shoulders can barely sustain the weight of the white-hot vault. If the seas and the lands must perish and even the realms of the sky, we are back to confusion and primal chaos. I beg you to rescue whatever is left from the flames. Take thought for the good of the universe!’

Earth had ended her speech; she couldn’t endure the smoke and the heat any longer or say any more. She lowered her head back into herself and sank to the caves adjoining the underworld. Now the Father omnipotent called on the gods to witness, especially Phoebus who’d lent his chariot: failing his own help, all of the world would be doomed, he said. Then he made for the heights from where he normally veils the earth in a mantle of cloud and also awakens the thunder and launches his lightning bolts. But now the clouds that he needed to cover the whole wide earth and the rain to pour from the sky were lacking. So what was the answer? A thunderclap! Next a bolt was carefully poised by his right ear. Jupiter hurled it at Phaëthon, flinging both driver from chariot and life from body at once.

He quenched one fire with another. The horses stampeded. Rearing up in different directions, they slipped the yoke from their necks and tore the reins as they broke loose. Here the bridle was tossed, and there the pole with the ripped-off axle, there the spokes of the shattered wheels and, scattered all over the ether, the fragments of metal which once were a chariot.

Phaëthon’s corpse spun down head first, with the fire of the thunderbolt scorching his flame-red hair. He fell through the sky in a long trail, blazing away like a comet which sometimes appears in a clear sky, never to land upon earth, but looking as if it is falling.

Far from his home, in a distant part of the world, the Erídanus, longest of rivers, received him and washed the smoke from his charred face. The Hespérian naiads found his body, perceptibly showing the three-forked lightning’s effects, and buried it there in a tomb. They also inscribed the stone of his grave with the following epitaph:

HERE LIES PHAËTHON, CHARIOTEER OF HIS FATHER’S HORSES. THEY BOLTED AND BROUGHT HIM LOW; BUT HIGH WERE HIS SPIRIT AND DARING.

What of his father? Wretchedly stricken and sick with grief, he had covered his face with his robe. If we can believe what is said, the Sun went into eclipse for a day. Such light as was there was due to the fire – some good, at least, had come out of evil. Clymene, for her part, gave voice to all the laments which the terrible tragedy called for; and then, distraught in her sorrow, she travelled the whole world, beating her breast and tearing her garments. Her quest was firstly for Phaëthon’s lifeless limbs, and later his bones, which she found interred on the bank of an alien river. Prostrating her body to read the name inscribed in the marble, she steeped it in tears and warmed the words with her naked breasts.

Phaëthon’s sisters, the Heliades, mourned no less bitterly, weeping in useless tribute to death and beating their bosoms. Sprawled all over the grave, by night and by day they loudly called on their brother, whose ears their wailing could never reach. Four crescent moons had already waxed and come to their fullness; the sisters had done their lamenting as usual (constant practice had turned it into a habit), when Phaëthúsa, the eldest, wishing to sink to the ground, complained that her feet had gone cold and rigid.

When lovely Lampátië tried to come and assist her, her limbs were suddenly rooted fast to the place where she stood. A third who was making ready to tear her innocent tresses, found she was plucking off leaves. Then one of her sisters moaned that her legs were caught in the grip of a tree trunk, just as the other woefully cried that her arms were changing to lengthy branches. To crown their amazement, bark began to enclose their loins, and gradually covered their bellies, their bosoms, their shoulders and arms, till all that appeared was their pleading mouths calling out for their mother.

What was their mother to do but scurry about back and forth, wherever her impulse led her, and kiss their lips while she could? It wasn’t enough. She attempted to strip the bark from their bodies and break the young branches off with her hands, but all that emerged was a trickle of human blood, like drops from an open wound. ‘Stop hurting me, mother, please!’ whoever was bleeding entreated, ‘I beg you to stop! It’s me you are tearing inside the tree! And now, farewell’ – on these final words, the bark closed over.

However, the tears flowed on; as they dripped from the new-formed poplars, the sun’s rays set them to beads of amber, which fell in the gleaming river, who sent them on to be worn by the brides of Látium. There to witness this wondrous event was the son of Sthénelus, Cycnus. He was related to Phaëthon through his mother, but feelings of friendship between them were stronger than kinship. Distraught, he abandoned his kingdom (he ruled the Ligúrian people and governed their mighty cities) and chanted his sorrow along the Erídanus’ grassy banks and through the woods that the sisters had now joined.

Suddenly Cycnus’ voice grew thin and his hair was disguised in pure white feathers; his neck stretched out well away from his shoulders; his toes grew red and were bound together in weblike feet; his sides were covered with wings; and his face jutted out in a blunt bill.

Cycnus became a new bird, the swan; but he wouldn’t entrust himself to the sky and to Jove; he remembered the fire so unjustly launched by the god. His haunts were the ponds and the open lakes; abhorring all fire, he preferred to inhabit its opposite, water.

Meanwhile Phaëthon’s father, unkempt in his mourning, had lost his accustomed splendour, as though there had been a solar eclipse. Detesting the daylight and so himself, he surrendered his spirit to grief. He was angry into the bargain, and therefore refused to work for the world any longer. ‘Enough is enough!’ he protested. ‘I’ve not been given a break since time began, and I’m tired of endlessly toiling away without some small recognition. Somebody else for a change can drive the chariot bringing the light. If nobody volunteers and all of the gods admit that the task is beyond them, let Jupiter have a try. If he takes over those reins of mine, at least he’ll be forced to dispense for a while with the lightning which steals young sons from their fathers. Once he has tested the power of my fire-footed horses, he’ll learn that failure to keep them under control doesn’t merit destruction!’

Such were the Sun’s complaints till the rest of the gods stood round him, humbly imploring him not to plunge the whole of the world into darkness. Jupiter also defended his hurling the thunderbolt, dropping a regal threat or two to support the entreaties. So Phoebus rounded his horses up, still out of their minds and quaking with terror; then once they were harnessed, he vented his grief by applying the goad and the lash with all of the rage that was boiling inside him, cursing and blaming them for his son’s misfortune.