Apollo the Musician (Audiobook)

VI APOLLO THE MUSICIAN When Apollo left King Admetus, and returned to the halls of Olympus, he had not rested there long before he found that there was further service for him to render on the earth. Among the many noted deeds that he performed, the most famous was his slaying of a monstrous serpent called the Python, which was born of the slime that remained on the surface of the earth after the deluge. Apollo killed the creature with his golden arrows, and then went to the help of Neptune, who, though a powerful deity in his own realm, was often obliged to ask help of the other gods when he wished to accomplish anything on land. Hearing that Neptune wished to build a great wall around the city of Troy, and remembering the aid that the sea-god had given his mother, Latona, in her great need, Apollo went down to the sea and offered his services to Neptune. Of course, no son of Jupiter could be expected to do the work of a slave, but this was not necessary, even in the building of a wall, for Apollo sat down on a grassy bank nearby, and, with his lyre in his hand, began to play such exquisite music that the very stones were bewitched, and, rising from the ground of their own accord, took their places in the wall. Still under the spell of Apollo's music, others followed in quick succession, and the wall rose higher and higher, until before nightfall the whole work was finished. When the last stone had dropped into place, Apollo stopped his playing and returned to the bright halls of Olympus, while Neptune, shaking the salt spray from his shaggy eyebrows, stared hard at the walls that had risen by magic before his wandering eyes. The story of Arachne's sad fate should have been warning enough to all mortals not to compare themselves with the gods, but such was the pride of a certain youth named Marcius that he boasted openly of his skill in flute-playing, and dared to proclaim himself the equal of Apollo. Now Marcius had not always been a musician, for he was by birth a shepherd, some even say a satyr, and never had seen a flute or heard it played, until one day, as he sat tending his flock on the bank of a stream, he heard sounds of music coming from some spot nearby. He was very curious to see who the musician might be, but he dared not move lest he startle the player and make the beautiful melody cease. So he sat still and waited, and presently there came floating down the stream a flute, something that Marcius had never seen before. He hurriedly snatched it out of the water, and, no longer hearing the wonderful music, he guessed that it had come from the strange thing he held in his hand. He put the flute to his lips, and lo! the same sweet melody greeted his ears, for the flute was not a common thing such as any man might use. It was a beautiful instrument that belonged to no lesser person than Minerva. The goddess had hidden herself on the bank of the stream, and had been trying her skill as a flute-player. But, chancing to look down into the water, she saw her puffed-out cheeks and distorted features, and angrily threw the flute into the stream. Thus it had come into Marcius' possession, and the shepherd, having found such a treasure, never let it leave his hands. He neglected his work, and left his flocks unguarded, while he spent all his days in the delight of flute-playing. It was not long before he believed himself to be the greatest musician of all Greece, and then it was only a step further to declare that even Apollo could not equal him in the sweetness of his playing. The god of music allowed this boasting to go for some time unpunished, but at last he grew angry at the presumption of the shepherd-boy, and summoned Marcius to a contest in which the nine muses were to be judges. Nothing daunted, Marcius accepted the challenge, and on the morning when the contest took place, a great silence fell all over the earth, as if every living thing had stopped to listen. The playing of Marcius was wonderfully sweet, and as the soft tones of his flute greeted the listeners' ears, they sat as if under a spell, until the last sound died away. Then Apollo took up his golden lyre, and when he struck the first chords, the air was filled with music far sweeter than any melody that had fallen from the lips of Marcius. The judges, however, found it hard to give a verdict in favour of either musician. So a second time Marcius began to play, and his music was so strangely wild and sweet that even Apollo listened in delight. But, charmed as he was by the youth's playing, the god of music had no intention of being outdone by a shepherd, so when he took up his golden lyre again, he began to sing, and added the wonder of his voice to the sweetness of his playing. When the singing ended, there was no longer any doubt to whom the victory belonged, and Marcius was forced to admit his defeat. As the price of failure was to be the terrible penalty of being flayed alive, the wretched Marcius had to submit to this cruel death. Apollo bound him to a tree, and slew him with his own hands. When the news of Marcius's dreadful fate spread abroad, people were careful for many years not to anger any of the deities by presuming to rival them. But in time the memory of that tragic event faded away, and the horror of it was forgotten. In the halls of King Midas was the noise of great mirth and feasting, and the sound of music filled the spacious room from where the king and his court sat at the banquet-table. Beside the king stood Pan, his favourite flute-player, who was no other than the famous sylvan god of shepherds. And as the wine went round, and the king grew boastful of his possessions, he exclaimed loudly that not even Apollo himself could produce such exquisite music as fell from the flute of Pan. The guests, remembering the fate of Marcius, grew pale, and begged the king not to let his boast be heard. But Midas laughed scornfully, and raising his drinking-cup above his head, called upon Apollo to appear. To the surprise and dismay of all, the god of music suddenly stood before them, beautiful as the dawn, and glowing with divine wrath. Though Pan was himself a deity, he had no desire to challenge Apollo, and looked fearfully at the sun-god's angry frown. But the king, drunk with pride, commanded him to play, and bade the god of music surpass the playing if he could. There was, of course, no question as to which was the better musician, and the guests loudly proclaimed Apollo the victor. One story tells that to prove further the superiority of Apollo's playing, the company went to the old mountain-god, Tomolis, and let him make the final decision. Tomolis had to clear the trees from his ears to listen, and having done this he bent his head, and all his trees leaned with him. He heard with delight both musicians play, and when the last soft notes fell from Apollo's lyre, the mountain-god awarded him the victory. But Midas, at the beginning of the contest, had demanded the right to decide on the merits of the players, and he would not accept this verdict. In his mad perversity and fondness for his favourite, he cried out that Pan was the better player, and would therefore be awarded the prize. Angered at this unfair decision, Apollo left the banquet-hall, but not before he had assured Midas that the injustice would be punished. These words came true in a most unexpected way, for when the king looked into his mirror the next morning, he found a pair of large, fuzzy, ass's ears growing in the place of his own natural ones. Horrified at this absurd appearance, Midas did not dare show himself to his people, but sent in haste for a barber, and bade him make a wig large enough to cover the monstrous ears. For many hours the barber was closeted with the king, and when the wig was finished he was allowed to leave the palace, after having sworn never to reveal the king's misfortune on the pain of death. For some time the secret was safely kept, but the poor barber found life unbearable, since he lived in constant fear of letting out the truth about the king's ears, in spite of his frantic efforts to be silent. Whenever Midas appeared in the city streets, the barber had to rush home and shut himself up, lest he should scream out the story of the wig. One day he thought of a happy solution of his difficulty, and one that broke his long seal of silence without endangering his life. He went out into the fields, dug a deep hole, and putting his head down as far as he could, he shouted, King Midas has ass's ears! King Midas has ass's ears! Then he went home again, much happier for having told someone of his secret, even though it was only Mother Earth. But the truth once told did not stay hidden even in the earth, for in time the hole was filled again, and reeds grew over the spot, and as the wind swayed them back and forth, they murmured, King Midas has ass's ears! King Midas has ass's ears! It was not long before all the people in the countryside had gathered to hear the strange whispering of the reeds, and then the secret could be kept no longer. But though everyone knew the truth, King Midas continued to wear his wig, and no one ever saw the real size of his ears. End of chapter 6