PERSEUS and Andromeda had two sons, Alcæus, King of Thebes, and Electryon, King of Argos and Mycenæ. Alcæus had a son named Amphitryon, and Electryon had a daughter named Alcmena. These two cousins—Amphitryon and Alcmena—married; and Jupiter resolved that they should have a son who should be the greatest and most famous of men.
But Juno was in one of her jealous moods; and she was especially jealous that such favor should be shown to Alcmena. Having considered how she should spoil his plan, she came to Jupiter in seeming good-humor, and said:—
“I have a question to ask you. Of two first cousins, which shall rule the other, and which shall serve—the elder or the younger?”
“Why, of course, the elder must rule the younger,” answered Jupiter.
“You swear that—by the Styx?” asked Juno.
“By the Styx,” Jupiter answered, wondering what she could mean by what seemed so trifling a question, and then thinking no more of the matter. But Juno knew what she meant very well. Alcmena had a brother, Sthenelus, who had married the Princess Nicippe of Phrygia. And Juno said to herself, “They also may have a son as well as Alcmena. Then the two boys would be first cousins; and Jupiter has sworn that the first-born shall rule the other. So if Nicippe has a son first, Alcmena’s son will have to serve him and obey him: and then, O Jupiter, there will be a greater man than Alcmena’s son; for he who rules must be greater than he who obeys.”
Now it is Juno herself who settles when children shall come into the world. It was easy, therefore, for her to manage so that Nicippe’s son should be born two whole months before Alcmena’s. Jupiter was enraged when, too late, he found what a trick had been played upon him; but he had sworn by the Styx—the oath which could not be broken. Thus it became the will of heaven that the son of Alcmena should be the servant of the son of Nicippe.
The son of Nicippe was named Eurystheus: the son of Alcmena was named Hercules.
About the childhood of Eurystheus there was nothing remarkable. But when Hercules and his twin-brother, Iphicles, were only eight months old, the whole palace of Amphitryon was alarmed by the screams of Iphicles, which brought Alcmena and the whole household running into the room where the two children had been left alone. They saw a strange sight indeed. Poor Iphicles was found half dead with fright in a corner; and no wonder, for Hercules was being attacked by two huge serpents which were trying to crush him to death in their coils. But so far from being frightened, Hercules had got one of his baby hands round the neck of each serpent right and left; and so he quietly throttled them till they lay dead upon the floor. And this at only eight months old!
His strength grew with him till it became a marvel like that of Samson among the children of Israel, and in bulk and stature also he towered over all other men. Like many who are large and strong, he was grave and somewhat silent, using, when he spoke, but few words, not easily moved either to action or to anger, but, when once roused, then roused indeed. One seems to think of him as of some great lion. As for training, he had the best that could be given him. Castor taught him how to use the sword; Pollux, how to use his fists; Eurytus, the finest archer in the world, taught him to shoot; Autolycus, to ride and drive. Nor were accomplishments forgotten; for Linus, the brother and pupil of Orpheus, taught him to play the lyre, and Eumolpus to sing. Finally, he was sent to finish his education under Chiron, the Centaur, who had taught Jason, and indeed nearly all the heroes of that age.
At eighteen he was already famous for his strength, his accomplishments, and his promise of a great career. But he was far from perfect in other ways. One finds nothing of the knightliness of his great-grandfather Perseus, or of Theseus, in this strong young giant full of pride and passion, feeling himself already greater than the best of his fellow-creatures, and looking upon the world as if it were made for him alone. He would allow of no opposition to his least desire; he did not desire glory so much as power. Good-tempered as he mostly was, it was not safe to provoke him, as Linus, his music-master, found, who had his own lyre broken upon his head for presuming to correct his pupil a little too sharply.
Hercules now began to think of adventures worthy of his strength, and presently, as if to give him one, a lion came forth from the forests of Mount Cithæron, and ravaged the lands of Thespius, a neighboring king. To hunt and kill it unaided was child’s-play to Hercules. And other services he did to the country, of small account in his own eyes but great in those of others; so that Creon, who was then King of Thebes, gave him his daughter in marriage, and made him his viceroy.
But Nicippe’s son, Eurystheus, now king of Argos and Mycenæ, remembered that he had a right to his younger cousin’s services by the oath of Jupiter. So Eurystheus sent a message to Hercules, commanding him to come forthwith to Mycenæ, and become the king’s servant there.
Hercules, as may well be supposed, haughtily refused to obey this insolent order. Why should he, the ruler of Thebes, already the most famous man in all Greece, as well as the strongest, make a sort of slave of himself to a kinsman whom he scorned? For Eurystheus was just a commonplace person, with even less than common courage, who only wanted to feed his own vanity by having in his service such a man as Hercules to do whatever he bade. “Hercules may be master of Greece; but I am master of Hercules,” was the sort of boast that ran in his mind.
I have said it was not strange that Hercules flatly refused to go to Mycenæ at his cousin’s bidding. But it was more than strange that, from this moment, he began to fall into so strange a state of mind that any one would think he was being haunted by the Furies, until he, the pride of Thebes and the hope of Greece, became a dangerous madman, whom none dared approach for fear of being slain. And all the time his strength still increased; so that it seemed as if he had come into the world to be a terror and a curse to mankind.
Many dreadful things he did in his madness. And when at length the frenzy passed from him, he was left in a more dreadful condition still. He was in an agony of remorse for all the violence he had done, and believed himself to be accursed and an outcast from his fellow-men. Melancholy and despairing, he fled from Thebes, and wandered out alone among the forests and the mountains. And thus he lived like a savage, hiding himself away from the sight of men.
The time came when he thought he could bear life no longer. He felt as if he were hunted by demons, and with the scourges of Hades. In his last despair he wandered to Delphi, in whose temple Apollo’s oracle, or living voice, was heard; and implored the gods to tell him what he should do.
And the voice of Apollo answered him and said:—
“O Hercules! those things were not sins which you did in your madness. Your madness is not sin, but the punishment for your real sin—the sin of pride, and self-love, and defiance of the will of Heaven. In rebelling against Eurystheus, you have rebelled against the gods, who decreed even before your birth that he should rule and you should serve. Is it not so, always? are not oftentimes the good made subject to the wicked, the wise to the foolish, the strong and valiant to the weak and craven? This is the oracle—the gods give each man his own different place and work: to you they have appointed service—therefore Obey. Seek not to know why this should be, nor question the justice of the gods. Know your duty, and do it with your might; and so you will be great enough; for no man can do more than serve the gods with such strength as they have given him.”
For long Hercules stood before the altar, doing battle with his pride. Then, at last, he took the road to Mycenæ. And as he went, each step became quicker, his heart grew lighter, the shadow left his soul, and his peace of mind returned.
PART II.—HIS FIRST LABOR: THE LION.
HERCULES, being arrived at Mycenæ, submitted himself to Eurystheus, who, to tell the truth, was a little alarmed at the sight of his cousin, and suspicious of what such sudden submission might mean. And he was all the more bewildered when he saw the humility with which his kinsman approached him. Hercules could not do anything by halves; and in Eurystheus he saw, not a mere insignificant, timid, mean-minded man, but only the master whom the gods had appointed to him.
“And now,” asked Hercules, in his impatience to prove his obedience, “what do you order me to do?”
One would think that Eurystheus would have acted generously. So far from that, however, he thought to himself, “I had better send him on the most dangerous adventure I can think of. If he succeeds, it will be the more glory for me to have such a man under my power; and besides, it will prove whether this submission is real or sham. And if he perishes—well, I shall be safe from danger at his hands.” So he said:—
“You have proved yourself a good lion-hunter. Bring me the carcass of the Nemean lion.”
Now the lion of the forest of Nemea was far more terrible than the lion of Mount Cithæron. However, Hercules set out at once for the forest, glad that his first service was one of honor.
Eurystheus was quite relieved when he was gone; and, sending for skilled workmen, bade them make for him a large brazen pot, big enough to hold him comfortably, and with an opening just large enough for him to get in and out by. For he thought to himself, “If Hercules ever gets angry or rebellious, I can creep into my brazen pot, and be safe there.”
Hercules was not long in finding the lion—the largest, strongest, and fiercest ever seen in the world. He let fly an arrow, but it scarcely pricked the beast’s tough hide; then another, and another; but the lion minded them no more than if they had been shot by a child from a toy bow. At last one, however, pricked him sharply enough to enrage him, and he came on with a rush and a roar. All Hercules had time to do was to pull up a young oak-tree by the roots, for a weapon to meet the charge. The next moment the lion sprang. But Hercules stood his ground, and so belabored the lion with his club that he fairly beat it back into its den, into which he followed it. Then was there a fearful wrestle between Hercules and the lion. But Hercules prevailed, by getting his arms round the lion and crushing its breath out of its body.
Throwing the corpse over his shoulders, and holding it by bringing the fore-legs round his neck, he returned to Mycenæ. Thus equipped, he himself looked like some monstrous lion; and so terrified was Eurystheus at the news that he crept into his brass pot, and in this manner received Hercules, to whom he talked through a speaking-tube in the side.
“Go and kill the Hydra!” he called out.
So Hercules set out on his second labor: and Eurystheus crept out of his pot again.
PART III.—HIS SECOND LABOR: THE HYDRA.
NOW the Hydra was more formidable than the lion—nobody in his senses would dream of attacking it with the least hope of succeeding. It was a huge water-snake which lived in Lake Lerna, whence it used to issue to seek for human food. It had a hundred heads, and from each of its hundred mouths darted a forked tongue of flame, dripping with deadly poison.
I said that nobody in his senses would attack the Hydra. But I was not quite right. There was just one sense which would lead a man to attack any evil, even without hope—of course I mean the sense of Duty. And it was in that sense that Hercules set forth for Lake Lerna. But he did not go to work without ample forethought, and taking all the precautions he could think of. He remembered the thickness and toughness of the Nemean lion’s skin; so he had it made into a sort of cloak, which served him for armor better than brass or steel. He also made the young oak-tree into a regular club, which thenceforth became his favorite weapon. And instead of going alone, he took with him his friend and kinsman Iolas, to act as his squire. You may always know Hercules in pictures and statues by his knotted club and his lion-skin.
It was easy enough to find the Hydra—only too easy. It had its nest in a foul stagnant swamp, the air of which its breath turned to poison. Giving Iolas his other arms to hold, Hercules attacked the Hydra with his club alone, trusting to his lion-skin to receive the strokes of the creature’s fangs. With a tremendous blow he crushed one of the Hydra’s hundred heads, leaving ninety-nine more to destroy if he could hold out so long. That was bad enough to think of—but, to his dismay, out of the crushed head sprang two new living heads: and out of each of these, when he beat them to pieces, sprang forth two more. And so it was with every head the Hydra had: so that, in truth, the more Hercules destroyed it, the stronger it grew—its hundred heads were rapidly becoming a thousand; and the thousand would become ten thousand; and so on, forever.
Just as Hercules realized the hopelessness of the labor, and was finding it work enough to ward off the innumerable fangs, a wretched crab crawled out of the ooze and seized him by the foot, so that he almost fainted with the sudden pain. It was too cruel, in the midst of such a battle as that, to feel himself at the mercy of the miserable vermin of the slime.
However, he crushed the crab under his heel, and, ceasing to multiply his enemies by killing them, contented himself with defense, while he thought what could possibly be done.
“No doubt those first hundred heads must all have come from some one head,” thought he. “They could not grow like that without a root; so that if I could only destroy the root they would cease to grow. This is my mistake: I am fighting only with what I see, instead of going to the root of things, and attacking the evil there.”
So he called out to Iolas to heat a piece of iron red-hot; and when this was ready, to stand by, and to scorch with it the place of every head which the club shattered. The plan answered wonderfully. Hercules crushed head after head; Iolas applied the red-hot iron; and so root after root was burned up and perished. And at last they came to the root of all the heads; and when this was reached and burned, the monster sputtered and died, just when Hercules felt that he, strong as he was, could scarce have struck another blow.
Hercules cut open the Hydra, and dipped his arrows in its gall, so that they should give deadly wounds. Wearily he returned to Mycenæ, hoping for a little rest. But Eurystheus had hidden himself in his brazen pot again, whence he cried out:—
“Be off at once; and catch the stag of Œnoe alive!”
PART IV.—HIS THIRD LABOR: THE STAG.
THE stag of Œnoe was sacred to Diana; and no wonder, for besides being so swift that no horse or hound could follow it, it had brazen feet and horns of pure gold. Of course this labor was not so dangerous as the others, but apparently more utterly impossible.
Impossible as it was, however, Hercules had to try. Had he been ordered to bring the stag to Mycenæ dead, he might perhaps hope to catch it with an arrow; but his orders were to bring it alive. So, having started it from its lair, he followed it with his utmost speed and skill. At first he tried to run it down; but the stag was not only the swifter, but had as much endurance as he. Then he tried to drive it to bay, but it always managed to escape out of the seemingly most hopeless corners. He tried to catch it asleep; but his slightest and most distant movement startled it, and off it raced again. All the arts of the deer-stalker he put in practice, but all in vain. And thus he hunted the stag of Œnoe, scarce resting day and night for a whole year. It looked as if he were to spend the rest of his life in pursuing what was not to be caught by mortal man; and the worst of it was that, while there was real use in destroying wild beasts and monsters, like the lion and the Hydra, his present labor, even if it succeeded, would be of no use at all.
Still it had to be attempted; and I suppose you have guessed that he succeeded, and that it was in some wonderful way. Well—he did succeed at last, but it was not in a wonderful way at all. It was just by not giving in. One of the two had to give in, and it was not Hercules. One day he managed to drive the stag into a trap and to seize it by the horns.
As he was returning to Mycenæ, dragging the stag, he met a tall and beautiful woman, dressed for the chase, and carrying a bow and quiver. As soon as her eyes fell upon the struggling stag she frowned terribly.
“What mortal are you,” she asked, “who have dared to lay hands on my own stag, the stag sacred to me, who am Diana? Loose it, and let it go.”
Hercules sighed. “I would do so gladly, great goddess,” he answered; “but it is not in my power.”
“Not in your power to open your hand?” she asked, in angry surprise. “We will soon see that,” and she seized her stag by the other horn to pull it away.
“It goes against me,” said Hercules, “to oppose a goddess; but I have got to bring this stag to Mycenæ, and neither gods nor men shall prevent me, so long as I am alive.”
“I am Diana,” she said again, “and I command you to let the stag go.”
“And I,” said he, “am only Hercules, the servant of Eurystheus, and therefore I cannot let it go.”
“Then I wish,” said Diana, “that any of the gods had so faithful a servant as Eurystheus has! So you are Hercules?” she said, her frown changing to a smile. “Then I give you the stag, for the sake of the oracle of my brother Apollo. I am only a goddess; you are a man who has conquered himself, and whom therefore even the gods must obey.”
So saying, she vanished. And the stag no longer struggled for freedom, but followed Hercules to Mycenæ as gently and lovingly as a tame fawn.
PART V.—HIS FOURTH LABOR: THE BOAR.
THE chase of the stag with the golden horns had taken so long that Eurystheus was beginning to give Hercules up for lost: and he was not sorry, for he was becoming more and more afraid of the man who only lived to do his bidding. He could not but think that his cousin must be playing some deep and underhand game. So when Hercules came back, with the stag following tamely at heel, he hid himself again, and by way of welcome bade Hercules capture and bring him, alive, a very different sort of wild beast—not a harmless stag, but the great and fierce wild boar which had its den in the mountains of Erymanthus, and ravaged the country round.
Hercules was getting weary of these labors, to which he saw no end. Not for a moment did he think of disobeying, but he set out with a heavy heart, and with some rising bitterness against his taskmaster. His way to the mountains of Erymanthus lay through the country of the Centaurs, and of his old teacher, Chiron.
Here he halted at the dwelling of one of the Centaurs, Pholus, who received him kindly. But Hercules was feeling fairly worn out in spirit, and Pholus failed to cheer him.
“What is the use of it all?” he complained. “No doubt the gods are just, and ought to be obeyed; but they are not kind. Why did they send me into the world, and give me strength, only to go about after wild beasts at the bidding of a coward? Why did they give me passions, only to have the trouble of keeping them down? If I had been like other men—as weak and as cold-blooded as they are—I should have been happy, and perhaps done some real good, and at any rate lived my own life in my own way. It isn’t as if I cared for glory, but I do want a little peace and pleasure. Come, Pholus, let me have some wine: I want it, and let it be in plenty!”
“I am very sorry,” said Pholus. “I have no wine.”
“Why, what is that, then?” asked Hercules, pointing to a big barrel in the corner.
“That is wine,” said Pholus; “but I can’t give you any of it, because it is not my own. It belongs to all the Centaurs; and, as it is public property, nobody may take any of it without the leave of the whole tribe.”
“Nonsense!” said Hercules. “Wine I want, and wine I’ll have.”
So saying, he stove in the head of the cask with a single blow of his fist, and, dipping and filling a goblet, began to drink eagerly.
The wine soon began to warm his blood and raise his heart. After the first cup or two, the cloud which had been falling over him rolled away, and life again seemed worth living for its own sake, and not only for duty’s. But he did not stop at two cups, nor at three; nor even when it began to mount into his brain, and to bring back those wild instincts which he thought he had left behind him in the Temple of Apollo.
Meanwhile the news had spread among the Centaurs that Hercules was among them, and making free with the public wine. The odor of the broken cask brought a crowd of them at full gallop, and disturbed Hercules in the midst of his carouse.
“Do you call this hospitality, you savages?” he shouted, stumbling out of the house, and laying about him with his club freely among the crowd, while Pholus vainly tried to prevent mischief. Down went Centaur after Centaur, till those who were uninjured galloped away panic-stricken, Pholus himself being among the slain.
“To Chiron!” cried the Centaurs; “he will know how to deal with this madman.”
They rode as hard as they could to Chiron’s dwelling, Hercules, furious with wine and anger, still pursuing. As they were outstripping him, he let fly his arrows among them; and, as evil luck would have it, at that very moment Chiron rode out from his gate to see what was happening, and to quiet the disorder, and one of the arrows struck him in the knee, and he fell.
Hercules became sober enough when he came up and found his old friend and teacher writhing in terrible agony; for the arrow was one which he had dipped in the deadly poison of the Hydra. He could only look on with remorse. Chiron knew him, and, when the agony passed away into death, gave him a look of forgiveness. What the wise Centaur’s last word to his favorite pupil was, I know not; but I think it must have been something like: “Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.”
I will not try to think of what Hercules felt when he watched the burial of the friends whom he had slain in a fit of drunken passion, for no cause. However, his duty lay still before him, and it had become more clear. Never again would he complain of his fate, or question the justice of the gods, or think of the life which had been lent to him as if it were his own.
In due time, after a long and dangerous journey among the mountains, he came upon the den of the great wild boar which he was to capture alive. There was nothing to be done but to follow it as he had followed the stag, watching for a chance of trapping it unawares: and in the pursuit another whole year passed away. Then, in the middle of winter, there fell such a snow that the boar was unable to leave its den. Hercules forced his way through the snowed-up entrance, and tried to seize the brute as he had seized the Nemean lion. The boar, however, rushed past him, and would have escaped again had not the snow hindered his running, and at last exhausted him. Hercules, though nearly exhausted himself, chose the right moment for closing with him, and, after a long struggle, bound him with a halter in such a manner that, in spite of its efforts, he could drag it by main strength down the mountain.
Once more Eurystheus had given Hercules up for lost: and the snow prevented him from hearing any news beforehand. So when, while he was standing at the city gate, there suddenly appeared before him, not only Hercules—all grim and rough from his year’s hunting—but the largest and most savage wild boar in the world, looking ready to devour him, he was so terrified that he whisked like a frightened mouse into his pot, and did not dare come out again for seven days.
As for Chiron the Centaur, he became a constellation in heaven, where he is still to be seen. He was the teacher of nearly all the heroes and demi-gods: and after his death there seems to have been an end of them. There have been plenty of brave men since; but not like Castor and Pollux, Perseus, Theseus, and Hercules. Nor, since that fatal day, does one hear of the Centaurs any more. Thus did one passing fit of causeless anger, instantly repented of, destroy these wisest and most valiant creatures, and deprive the whole world of more than it has ever regained during thousands of years.
Hercules solemnly sacrificed the boar, and then took a little rest, meditating on all that had befallen. But his rest was not to be for long. For there was Eurystheus in his pot, trying to think of something that should keep him occupied forever.
And—“I have it!” he exclaimed at last, summoning Hercules by a stroke on his pot’s brazen side.
PART VI.—HIS FIFTH LABOR: THE AUGEAN STABLE.
THE next labor which Eurystheus laid upon Hercules was to clean out a stable.
That does not sound very much after the others. But then the stable was that of Augeas, King of Elis, which was at once the largest and the dirtiest in the whole world.
Augeas had a prodigious number of oxen and goats, and the stable in which they were all kept had never been cleaned. The result was a mountain of filth and litter, which not even Hercules could clear away in a lifetime—not, of course, from want of strength, but from want of time. Hercules beheld with disgust and dismay the loathsome and degrading toil in which he was to spend the rest of his days. The other labors had at least been honorable, and befitting a prince: this would have appalled a scavenger.
“It is very good of such a hero as you,” said Augeas, “to undertake to clean my stable. It really does want cleaning, as you see: and it was very kind of Eurystheus to think of it. You shall not find me ungrateful. I will give you one ox and one goat in every ten—when the job is done.”
He could very safely promise this, because he knew that the job could never be done.
“I am not serving for hire,” said Hercules. “Nevertheless it is only right that you should not let your stable get into such a state as this, and then get it put right for nothing. You want a lesson: and you shall have it, too.”
Seeing that mere strength would be wasted in such toil, Hercules went to work with his brain as well. Through the land of Elis ran the river Alpheus, that same Alpheus which had told Ceres what had become of Proserpine. Hercules carefully studied the country; and having laid his plans, dug a channel from near the source of the river to one of the entrances of the stable. Then, damming up the old channel, he let the stream run into the new. The new course was purposely made narrow, so that the current might be exceedingly strong. When all was ready, he opened the sluice at one entrance of the stable, so that the water poured in a flood through the whole building, and out at a gate on the other side. And it had all been so managed that when the river had poured through, and was shut off again, all the filth and litter had been carried away by the Alpheus underground, and the stable had been washed clean, without a scrap of refuse to be found anywhere. For the Alpheus, you must know, did not run into the sea, like other rivers. It disappeared down a deep chasm, then ran through a natural tunnel under the sea, and rose again, far away, in the island of Sicily, where it had brought to Ceres the news from underground. Thus everything thrown into it in Elis came up again in Sicily—and the Sicilians must have been considerably astonished at that extraordinary eruption of stable litter. Perhaps it is that which, acting as manure, has helped to make Sicily so fertile.
Hercules made a point of claiming his price. But Augeas said:—
“Nonsense! A bargain is a bargain. You undertook to clean my stable: and you have done nothing of the kind. No work, no pay.”
“What can you mean?” asked Hercules. “Surely I have cleaned your stable—you will not find in it a broken straw.”
“No,” said Augeas. “It was the Alpheus did that: not you.”
“But it was I who used the Alpheus—”
“Yes; no doubt. But the impudence of expecting me to pay a tenth of all my flocks and herds for an idea so simple that I should have thought of it myself, if you hadn’t, just by chance, happened to think of it before me! You have not earned your wages. You cleaned the stable by an unfair trick: and it was the river cleaned it—not you.”
“Very well,” said Hercules, grimly. “If you had paid me honestly, I would have given you your goats and your oxen back again; for, as I told you, I do not serve for reward. But now I perceive that I have not quite cleaned your stable. There is still one piece of dirt left in it—and that is a cheating knave, Augeas by name. So, as I cannot go back to Mycenæ till my work is done—”
He was about to throw Augeas into the river, to follow the rest of the litter: and about what afterwards happened, different people tell different things. I very strongly agree, however, with those who tell that Hercules spared the life of Augeas after having given him a lesson: for certainly he was not worth the killing. And I am the more sure of this because, after his death, Augeas was honored as hero—which surely would not have happened if he had not learned to keep both his stables and his promises clean before he died.
PART VII.—MORE LABORS: AND THE CATTLE OF GERYON.
EURYSTHEUS was getting to his wits’ end for work which should keep his cousin employed. He sent him to kill the man-eating birds of Lake Stymphalus; to catch, and bring to Mycenæ alive, a wild bull which was devastating Crete; to obtain for Eurystheus the famous mares which fed on human flesh, and belonged to the Thracian King Diomedes, who used to throw men and women alive into their manger. In three years’ time Hercules destroyed all the birds, and brought to Mycenæ both the