IN olden time, when gods were many and men far fewer than at present, there dwelt upon Zacynthus, an islet near Ithaca, the fisherman Dolius, his wife Chloris, and their little son, Amphion.
The child was named after a famous hero born of Antiope to Zeus — that Amphion who, with his brother Zethus, founded and fenced great, seven-gated Thebes. But little Amphion of Zacynthus promised in his parents’ eyes to be no more important than themselves. Because of their inexperience, they thought him much like other youngsters, though in truth he was not. Amphion developed a nature that differed in kind from that of most human boys, for the reason that he possessed a strange friend who secretly led his mind upon subjects and ideas which youth for choice avoids. The child was of a sweet fairness, with curly hair the colour of pale amber. He had dark eyes, beautiful to see in that blond face; and a laugh was wont to sit in them, for he found life to be a pleasant and interesting thing. He inquired about much that happened; his heart was brave, his courage high, his spirit innocent of guile. He thought no evil, planned no wickedness, and loved both the day and night, moving under sun and moon alike in ignorance of any fear.
In Amphion’s tenth year it happened that Dolius, digging bait for his fishing-lines at the brink of the sea, where the sand-eels lie, lifted from the silver sand a serpent’s egg; and knowing that this was a good thing to find for mortal man, he carried it home and set it near the hearth, that it might hatch in due season.
Two days later a snake emerged into the world, and proved a very beautiful little reptile. Its skin was golden bright, and upon it, as the creature grew, there appeared a mystic design in ebony — words of secret wisdom, which Dolius was too ignorant to decipher. The serpent drank nothing but goat’s milk for the first month of existence; but henceforth ate heartily of fennel, the proper food of serpent-kind. They called him “Simo,” and when he heard his name the snake looked up out of ruby-red eyes and understood.
Simo became the plaything and companion of Amphion; and since to a serpent time is nothing, because they are never young and never old, but live in a fourth dimension apart, Simo enjoyed the privileges of his race and was born full fledged in wisdom and craft, knowing all that serpents know. He claimed, moreover, his own special character won of the gods alone, and he took deep interest in human-kind, while well aware that he possessed qualities of comprehension and a gift of serpent vision denied to them. A meaner snake might have deplored his fate, judging that such a wondrous creature had better graced a palace and the knee of a king, than this fisherman’s hovel and the friendship of a child. But Simo was content. He saw far more promise in Amphion than his parents were able to perceive; while as for the boy, he loved his jewelly little companion, and they dwelt and slept together.
It may sound strange in your ears that a lad should thus adore a snake, since there exists a not unreasonable antipathy between mankind and these animals. So many men and women have they stung to death that there is implanted in our hearts hereditary dread of them and their swift poisons. But Amphion and Simo rejoiced in one another. The snake would presently only eat and drink when the boy was by, and liked not a fennel leaf plucked by any other hand. And when he had completed his meal, he would wriggle into the child’s warm bosom, lift his head and dazzling eyes, kiss his benefactor’s face with little, ice-cold lips, then curl up and sleep soundly.
But as yet he had never touched Amphion’s ear, for the ear that is serpent-licked wins to such judgment that the individual thus caressed must henceforth rise above the norm of human fatuity and see and understand much that is for ever hidden from his fellows.
If you still doubt the attraction between the boy and snake, remember that history is fertile of such friendships — authentical and set down by the honest historians of the past. Nor can they be justly called unnatural, since if a thing happens at all, it must lie within nature’s vast and unexplored ambit. Assyria, for example, provides a story of a lynx who loved so dearly the servant of his master, that he liked not the man out of sight, and flattered and fawned upon him with embraces almost human; while if this person made to go away, the beast would lift delicate paws and put on a plaintive expression to detain him. And when the servant departed to attend his master in a far country this great cat sighed and wept, and presently perished of pure grief that his friend was gone. There is, also, that story of King Porus, who, in battle with Alexander the Great, was hurled from his war elephant, and must have suffered death had not the mighty beast entered the conflict furiously, slain half a hundred men; then, with his trunk, lifted the King to his back again and borne him out of the battle. By which majestic devotion Porus was saved, though the elephant perished of his wounds. There is not forgotten, either, the horse of Antiochus, who was mounted by the slayer of his master, and, knowing instantly that an enemy bestrode him, leapt to a precipice and flung himself therefrom, thus dying that his true rider’s foe might also die. Androclus and the lion need only to be cited; but there is a famous history of a dolphin, who loved a youngster so dearly that he would take the lad to sea with him and let him ride among the billows upon his back. There came a day, however, when the child in rough weather was swept from his protector and drowned; whereupon the dolphin brought his corpse ashore, and, disdaining his own element for its cruelty, flung himself upon the beach by his vanished companion and broke his heart there. From Pliny the story comes, and he has another, as worthy to be trusted, of a virgin from Sestos, who brought up a young eagle for her faithful friend and servant, so that it hawked hard for her and brought her hares, partridges, and even venison, when it had grown to its full strength. But the maiden perished untimely of a fever, and the great bird, flying upon her funeral pyre, was burned with her to ashes. Whereupon the inhabitants of that land marvelled, and lifted a stately monument to “The Virgin and Zeus,” because all eagles are consecrated to the King of Gods.
Let these facts convince you of the friendship between Amphion and Simo, and having accepted it, listen concerning the day on which, for the first time, snake and boy came into the communion of speech. Sad were the words that passed between them, for, from his knowledge of things hidden, the serpent now warned his friend of tragedy, and bade him return to his mother and support her in a great affliction. Amphion strolled upon the seashore under a bright sun at the moment, and his eyes were bent upon the ocean, that he might welcome home his father’s boat.
Dolius had put out overnight to the fishing-grounds under the rim of the sea, but the usual time was past for his return. Now, dark upon the golden glare of the waves, the boy saw a drab, familiar sail, and was descending to the landing-place, when suddenly he heard the small, clear voice of Simo. The snake had curled about his companion’s throat as a necklace, and raising his head swiftly, he licked the boy’s right ear and licked the boy’s left ear; and then he spoke to him.
“Go home to your mother, Amphion, and break to Chloris that an evil thing has befallen Dolius,” said he; and for a moment the listener forgot his wonder in his grief.
He answered, as though it were an everyday matter for him to listen while Simo talked.
“He is dead!” he cried.
“He is not dead; but there are worse things than death, and a very fearful fate has overtaken Dolius.”
Amphion, holding back his tears for his mother’s sake, because she was a woman quick to take the darkest view of all things, stood before Chloris presently, and explained to her that Simo was now skilled in conversation and had revealed a fearful thing.
“Evil has overtaken my father,” said the boy. “Seeing our boat upon her way I rejoiced and made haste, but Simo knows that, though Dolius is not dead, dark fate has fallen upon him.”
Chloris instantly threw dust upon her bright hair and cried in woe, while Amphion strove to console her; and then there came to them a worn and haggard figure, for the boat had reached the shore and the fisher companion of Dolius appeared alone.
He was an old, bent man, and never to be regarded as a comfortable object at the best of times, for life had used him hardly, and, being of a complaining spirit — one who must have felt unhappy even in generous circumstances — he usually rivalled Chloris herself in his mournful denial of existence. But now, indeed, Archidamus had something to grumble about, and albeit himself none the worse, his story revealed great woe for his fellow-fisherman.
“The gods have smote you hip and thigh,” said he, “and Dolius is taken from you for ever. A very fearful tragedy to tell, and though I am spared to return to my native land, I have endured an experience so tremendous that I shall never be the same man again.”
While he talked, Amphion brought him food and drink, whereof he partook greedily.
“Upon the fishing-ground,” said Archidamus, “my companion, inspired doubtless by some cruel-minded god, determined that we should angle for great fish rather than little ones. Therefore, in hope to catch a tunny, or some other valuable monster of the deep, we cast forth our stoutest line and hook. Scarcely had the cunning bait sunk into the sea when a huge fish, the like of which was never seen, leapt upon it, and finding the sharp barb gore its gullet, became furiously enraged. The line, by some dark trick of deity, became foul beneath our vessel beyond reach, and before we understood the awful thing that had happened, we were being drawn with the speed of a hurricane through the deep waters. Terrific unseen powers drove us forward, and once only did we catch a glimpse of the leviathan responsible for our miseries. For a moment it flashed a mighty tail, as it had been lightning, leaping out of the waves, and bore us onward with speed so tremendous that the flying birds were left behind. Before our bows leapt a glass-green billow; in our wake streamed a line of foam. Happily we had struck the sail before fishing. Otherwise mast and gear must all have been torn away. But the stout, hollow boat survived, and skimmed the hungry seas like a flying-fish, while day faded, the stars looked down upon our terror, and the moon rose indifferent to the tragedy she lighted.
“All night we rushed over the black sea, and at dawn, when the first chill grey shuddered along the naked waters, there rose from it, like a cloud, the sight of land. Straight for this we sped, and anon Dolius, who has travelled afar in his earlier days and laboured in great ships of war and peace, marked the growing outlines of solid earth, while I took heart and hoped the untiring monster below would drive upon that shore and give us chance to escape.
“Dolius knew not whither we were come, but presently the place stood cleanly out upon the ivory sky of morning, and we perceived that it was an island girt with a girdle of yellow sand, whereon the sea broke in little waves. And scarcely had we noted this when Dolius recognised the place for Aea, the Isle of Circé, the Enchantress!
“He had hardly made this tremendous discovery when the furious fish drew us into the shallows, and then, perceiving its own danger, turned again, revealing its side, like a wall of gold, and wrenched our little vessel back to the deep waters. But the sudden shock threw my companion into the surf, and, as I was drawn violently away, I saw him strike out, and a moment later stand up shining and dripping upon the haunted shore.
“For me Aea swiftly vanished, and the hours went by until I found myself again in our own seas; and then came blue nereids out of the depths and busied themselves with the huge fish and released him from the barb. There was a flutter in the deep, and unearthly music of the sea-maidens’ voices. After that all grew still, the surface of the sea became calm and, far more dead than alive, I found myself in safety, and thanked the gods.
“With return of strength and hope I pulled up my sail, set a course for Zacynthus, and so return. But Dolius has departed for ever. We shall never see him more.”
Archidamus, who was easily moved to tears in his old age, now wept freely, and Chloris tore her hair and pierced the growing twilight with her lamentations.
Then the serpent spoke.
“What happened is this,” said Simo. “By a most unfortunate accident, one of Poseidon’s own peerless dolphins took the hook destined for a tunny fish, and the finned servant of the sea-god suffered loss of temper from an indignity so profound. In the extremity of wrath it swam furiously through the ocean, ignorant of its captors, and only concerned to free its mighty jaws from the cruel steel. Had the creature possessed wit or understanding it had behaved differently; but even Poseidon’s dolphins display no more sense than any others. Hence the disaster. Dolius is now upon Aea, where reigns in awful might goddess Circé of the braided tresses; and Archidamus has been spared to return to this, our more comfortable and commonplace isle, with the tragic news.”
“My father is not dead!” cried Amphion. “Until a man be dead there is always hope of better things for him. Perhaps Circé has a gentle heart, and all may yet be well.”
“She has a very large heart,” declared Simo, “though your good father is not the type of man to win it, I fear; and even if he did — I will tell you,” continued the snake, “all that you need to know concerning this amazing enchantress. She is a being immeasurably fair to see — a right glorious goddess, for her father was Helios, the Light Bringer. Circé shares her family’s great gifts, and her enchantments are among the wonders of the world. The height and depth of them are not known, for she holds the secret of all herbs and precious minerals; she can build and unbuild men; and it is her fearful duty to create them again in the likeness of the brutes.
“Thus, when a wanderer is cast upon her islet, she makes him welcome, entreats him as the way-worn traveller should be treated, heals his wounds, ministers to his needs, and offers him dreamless sleep for his weary body, rare foods and wines for his empty stomach, gracious words and fairy music for his soul’s peace. If he please her, he wakes in his own likeness and presently loves her and shares the joys of the island and the delight of her arms; but if he prove not good in her eyes — and few can hope to be, for she is as fastidious as any other goddess — then, with his honeyed cake or purple wine she mingles a fell potion and the wretch sleeps — to waken a wild beast, or a fountain, a bird, or a green tree. The end is always the same, and even those who enjoy for a season her embraces live to weary her, become transformed, and put off the likeness of men for ever.”
“Dolius will never please Circé for an hour!” wailed the stricken wife. “He is a homely soul, ignorant and slow-witted in all save knowledge of catching fish. His face is beaten by many storms, and his ears are too large for his head. Gentle, patient, and long enduring he has ever been, but a man in no wise comely save to me.”
And then Chloris, in her great suffering, took leave of wisdom, tore her hair harder than ever, and cursed the watching gods with foolish and frenzied words, while Amphion strove to comfort her.
Meantime Simo ate fennel, then he climbed up to his favourite place, about the boy’s neck, and addressed Chloris with winged words.
For a time, however, the bereaved woman screamed louder than the serpent’s voice.
“Alas and alas!” she cried. “My man is worse than dead, my child and I worse than orphaned and widowed. Had Dolius passed through Erebus to Hades, we should at least know where he was, and share a human hope to join his shadow in the time to come. But now we know he lives — lives and lingers and longs for Chloris and Amphion — transformed to the vile likeness of some routing swine or baleful leopard. It is too much. I cannot bear it.”
“When an unhappy person proves equal to saying they cannot bear a misfortune, one knows that they will bear it,” replied Simo. “All is never lost, Chloris, while a woman can keep her temper. Accept causes and, if we are sane, we face the effects in a reasonable spirit. At present you are no better than Poseidon’s dolphin. The outraged fish did exactly what an outraged fish might be expected to do. Therefore we are not angry with him. The lightning smote your fig-tree last year; you were too sensible to waste anger on the lightning. Are we clever people angry with the workman who flings down his tools for more money, or the master who determines he will have to be content with less? To be angry with anything whatever is to waste good energy, whether you be man or master, wife or widow. Spend no time in anger, therefore, but strive to dry your natural tears and give over pulling your hair out by the roots and scattering mud on your vesture. If this great evil can be repaired, it is well; if it cannot, then still endeavour to be self-possessed about it. The gods never quarrel with anybody for being self-possessed. Emulate, therefore, the perfect self-possession of the serpents, good Chloris, and remember that your husband, though probably now reduced to the likeness of a beast, will not be angry. For the animal is ever patient and enduring, and men who suffer the metamorphosis of Circé, even if they retain their own wits, will partake of other qualities, and swiftly learn, in the hard and tonic school of nature, to keep their tempers and reserve their energy to win their living.
“To-morrow,” concluded Simo, “I shall venture to advise a course of action. For the present put your faith before your fears and call upon your guardian deity, Helios, the Lord of Light, who also happens to be Circé’s father. He, of all the gods, may prove most potent to save the situation if he will. We can but do our best and so deserve our reward; and the consciousness that we have earned a generous recognition is in itself not a little comforting, even though we seldom get it.”
Then did Chloris begin to feel that hope was not dead. She possessed a measure of intelligence, and perceived that a strong and subtle counsellor had risen to hearten her sorrow.
“He is but a little serpent,” she said to Amphion, when Simo had curled up and gone to sleep for the night; “but it would seem that he knows what he is talking about.”
Chloris then sank upon her knees and prayed to Helios without ceasing until it was time to feed the chickens.