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APOLLO AND CORONIS
Apollodorus 3.10.3
But some affirm that Aesculapius was not
a son of Arsinoe, daughter of Leucippus, but that he was a son of Coronis,
daughter of Phlegyas in Thessaly.8 [p. 15] And they say
that Apollo loved her and at once consorted with her, but that she, against
her father's judgment, preferred and cohabited with Ischys,
brother of Caeneus. Apollo cursed the raven that brought the tidings and
made him black instead of white, as he had been before; but he killed Coronis.
As she was burning, he snatched the babe from the pyre and
brought it to Chiron, the centaur,9 by [p. 17] whom he was brought up and
taught the arts of healing and hunting. And having become a
surgeon, and carried the art to a great pitch, he not only prevented some
from dying, but even raised up the dead; for he had received from Athena
the blood that flowed from the veins of the Gorgon, and while
he used the blood that flowed from the veins on the left side for the bane
of mankind, he used the blood that flowed from the right side
for salvation, and by that means he raised the dead.
From Bullfinch's Mythology:
Apollo was passionately fond of a youth
named Hyacinthus. He. accompanied him in his sports, carried the nets when
he went fishing, led the dogs when he went to hunt, followed him
in his excursions in the mountains, and neglected for him his lyre and
his arrows. One day they played a game of quoits together, and Apollo,
heaving aloft the discus, with strength mingled with skill, sent it high
and far. Hyacinthus watched it as it flew, and excited with the sport ran
forward to seize it, eager to make his throw, when the quoit bounded
from the earth and struck him in the forehead. He fainted and fell. The
god, as pale as himself, raised him and tried all his art to stanch
the wound and retain the flitting life, but all in vain; the hurt was past
the power of medicine. As when one has broken the stem of a lily in
the garden it hangs its head and turns its flowers to the earth, so the
head of the dying boy, as if too heavy for his neck, fell over on his shoulder.
"Thou diest, Hyacinth," so spoke Phoebus, "robbed of thy youth by
me. Thine is the suffering, mine the crime. Would that I could die for
thee! But since that may not be, thou shalt live with me in memory
and in song. My lyre shall celebrate thee, my song shall tell thy fate,
and thou shalt become a flower inscribed with my regrets." While
Apollo spoke, behold the blood which had flowed on the ground and stained
the herbage ceased to be blood; but a flower of hue more beautiful than
the Tyrian sprang up, resembling the lily, if it were not that this
is purple and that silvery white.* And this was not enough for Phoebus;
but to confer still greater honour, he marked the petals with his
sorrow, and inscribed "Ah! ah!" upon them, as we see to this day. The flower
bears the name of Hyacinthus, and with every returning spring revives
the memory of his fate.
* It is evidently not our modern hyacinth
that is here described. It is perhaps some species of iris, or perhaps
of larkspur or pansy. It was said that Zephyrus (the
West wind), who was also fond of Hyacinthus and jealous of his preference
of Apollo, blew the quoit out of its course to make it strike Hyacinthus.
Keats alludes to this in his "Endymion," where he describes the lookers-on
at the game of quoits:
APOLLO AND DAPHNE (FROM BULLFINCH)
Daphne was Apollo's first love. It was
not brought about by accident, but by the malice of Cupid (Eros). Apollo
saw the boy playing with his bow and arrows; and being himself elated with
his recent victory over Python, he said to him, "What have you to do with
warlike weapons, saucy boy? Leave them for hands worthy of them, Behold
the conquest I have won by means of them over the vast serpent who stretched
his poisonous body over acres of the plain! Be content with your torch,
child, and kindle up your flames, as you call them, where you will, but
presume not to meddle with my weapons." Venus's boy heard these words,
and rejoined, "Your arrows may strike all things else, Apollo, but mine
shall strike you." So saying, he took his stand on a rock of Parnassus,
and drew from his quiver two arrows of different workmanship, one to excite
love, the other to repel it. The former was of gold and ship pointed, the
latter blunt and tipped with lead. With the leaden shaft he struck the
nymph Daphne, the daughter of the river god Peneus [river in Thessaly],
and with the golden one Apollo, through the heart. Forthwith the god was
seized with love for the maiden, and she abhorred the thought of loving.
Her delight was in woodland sports and in the spoils of the chase. lovers
sought her, but she spurned them all, ranging the woods, and taking no
thought of Cupid nor of Hymen. Her father often said to her, "Daughter,
you owe me a son-in-law; you owe me grandchildren." She, hating the thought
of marriage as a crime, with her beautiful face tinged all over with blushes,
threw her arms around her father's neck, and said, "Dearest father, grant
me this favour, that I may always remain unmarried, like Diana (Artemis)."
He consented, but at the same time said, "Your own face will forbid it."
Apollo loved her, and longed to obtain
her; and he who gives oracles to all the world was not wise enough to look
into his own fortunes. He saw her hair flung loose over her shoulders,
and said, "If so charming, in disorder, what would it be if arranged?"
He saw her eyes bright as stars; he saw her lips, and was not satisfied
with only seeing them. He admired her hands and arms, naked to the shoulder,
and whatever was hidden from view he imagined more beautiful still. He
followed her; she fled, swifter than the wind, and delayed not a moment
at his entreaties. "Stay," said he, "daughter of Peneus; I am not a foe.
Do not fly me as a lamb flies the wolf, or a dove the hawk. It is for love
I pursue you. You make me miserable, for fear you should fall and hurt
yourself on these stones, and I should be the cause. Pray run slower, and
I will follow slower. I am no clown, no rude peasant. Jupiter (Zeus) is
my father, and I am lord of Delphos and Tenedos, and know all things, present
and future. I am the god of song and the lyre . My arrows fly true to the
mark; but, alas! an arrow more fatal than mine has pierced my heart! I
am the god of medicine, and know the virtues of all healing plants. Alas!
I suffer a malady that no balm can cure!" [see source: Ovid's Metamorphoses,
Book I, Daphne, lines 577 - 687]
The nymph continued her flight, and left his plea half uttered. And even as she fled she charmed him. The wind blew her garments, and her unbound hair streamed loose behind her. The god grew impatient to find his wooings thrown away, and, sped by Cupid, gained upon her in the race. It was like a hound pursuing a hare, with open jaws ready to seize, while the feebler animal darts forward, slipping from the very grasp. So flew the god and the virgin- he on the wings of love, and she on those of fear. The pursuer is the more rapid, however, and gains upon her, and his panting breath blows upon her hair. Her strength begins to fail, and, ready to sink, she calls upon her father, the river god: "Help me, Peneus! open the earth to enclose me, or change my form, which has brought me into this danger!" Scarcely had she spoken, when a stiffness seized all her limbs; her bosom began to be enclosed in a tender bark; her hair became leaves; her arms became branches; her foot stuck fast in the ground, as a root; her face became a tree-top, retaining nothing of its former self but its beauty, Apollo stood amazed. He touched the stem, and felt the flesh tremble under the new bark. He embraced the branches, and lavished kisses on the wood. The branches shrank from his lips. "Since you cannot be my wife," said he, "you shall assuredly be my tree. I will wear you for my crown; I will decorate with you my harp and my quiver; and when the great Roman conquerors lead up the triumphal pomp to the Capitol, you shall be woven into wreaths for their brows. And, as eternal youth is mine, you also shall be always green, and your leaf know no decay." The nymph, now changed into a Laurel tree, bowed its head in grateful acknowledgment. [see source: Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book I, Daphne, lines 688 - 748] [see image 44K: Apollo and Daphne (1625) - sculpture by Gianlorenzo Bernini (1598-1680)]
That Apollo should be the god both of music and poetry will not appear strange, but that medicine should also be assigned to his province, may. The poet Armstrong, himself a physician, thus accounts for it:
HERA (JUNO) AND HER RIVALS: IO
JUNO (Hera) one day perceived it suddenly grow dark, and immediately suspected that her husband had raised a cloud to hide some of his doings that would not bear the light. She brushed away the cloud, and saw her husband on the banks of a glassy river, with a beautiful heifer standing near him. Juno suspected the heifer's form concealed some fair nymph of mortal mould - as was, indeed, the case; for it was Io, the daughter of the river god Inachus, whom Jupiter (Zeus) had been flirting with, and, when he became aware of the approach of his wife, had changed into that form.
Juno joined her husband, and noticing the heifer praised its beauty, and asked whose it was, and of what herd. Jupiter, to stop questions, replied that it was a fresh creation from the earth. Juno asked to have it as a gift. What could Jupiter do? He was loath to give his mistress to his wife; yet how refuse so trifling a present as a simple heifer? He could not, without exciting suspicion; so he consented. The goddess was not yet relieved of her suspicions; so she delivered the heifer to Argus, to be strictly watched.
Now Argus had a hundred eyes in his head, and never went to sleep with more than two at a time, so that he kept watch of Io constantly He suffered her to feed through the day, and at night tied her up with a vile rope round her neck. She would have stretched out her arms to implore freedom of Argus, but she had no arms to stretch out, and her voice was a bellow that frightened even herself. She saw her father and her sisters, went near them, and suffered them to pat her back, and heard them admire her beauty. Her father reached her a tuft of grass, and she licked the outstretched hand. She longed to make herself known to him and would have uttered her wish; but, alas! words were wanting At length she bethought herself of writing, and inscribed her name - it was a short one - with her hoof on the sand. Inachus recognized it, and discovering that his daughter, whom he had long sought in vain, was hidden under this disguise, mourned over her, and, embracing her white neck, exclaimed, "Alas! my daughter, it would have been a less grief to have lost you altogether!" While he thus lamented, Argus, observing, came and drove her away, and took his seat on a high bank, from whence he could see all round in every direction. [see source: Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book I, Io/Argus/Syrinx, lines 749 - 885]
Jupiter was troubled at beholding the sufferings of his mistress, and calling, Mercury (Hermes) told him to go and despatch Argus. Mercury made haste, put his winged slippers on his feet, and cap on his head, took his sleep-producing wand, and leaped down from the heavenly towers to the earth. There he laid aside his wings, and kept only his wand, with which he presented himself as a shepherd driving his flock. As he strolled on he blew upon his pipes. These were what are called the Syrinx or Pandean pipes. Argus listened with delight, for he had never seen the instrument before. "Young man," said he, "come and take a seat by me on this stone. There is no better place for your flocks to graze in than hereabouts, and here is a pleasant shade such as shepherds love." Mercury sat down, talked, and told stories till it grew late, and played upon his pipes his most soothing strains, hoping to lull the watchful eyes to sleep, but all in vain; for Argus still contrived to keep some of his eyes open though he shut the rest.
Before Mercury had finished his story he saw Argus's eyes all asleep. As his head nodded forward on his breast, Mercury with one stroke cut his neck through, and tumbled his head down the rocks. O hapless Argus! the light of your hundred eyes is quenched at once! Juno took them and put them as ornaments on the tail of her peacock, where they remain to this day. [see source: Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book I, Io/Argus/Syrinx (continued), lines 886 - 968] [see image 159K: Mercury and Argus (1659) - painting by Diego Velázquez (1599-1660)] [see also: Pavo - peacock constellation]
But the vengeance of Juno was not yet satiated. She sent a gadfly to torment Io, who fled over the whole world from its pursuit. She swam through the Ionian sea, which derived its name from her, then roamed over the plains of Illyria, ascended Mount Haemus, and crossed the Thracian strait, thence named the Bosphorus (cowford) [map], rambled on through Scythia, and the country of the Cimmerians, and arrived at last on the banks of the Nile. At length Jupiter interceded for her, and upon his promising not to pay her any more attentions Juno consented to restore her to her form. It was curious to see her gradually recover her former self. The coarse hairs fell from her body, her horns shrank up, her eyes grew narrower, her mouth shorter; hands and fingers came instead of hoofs to her forefeet; in fine there was nothing left of the heifer, except her beauty. At first she was afraid to speak, for fear she should low, but gradually she recovered her confidence and was restored to her father and sisters.
Thus in two instances we have seen Juno's
severity to her rivals; now let us learn how a virgin goddess punished
an invader of her privacy.
It was midday, and the sun stood
equally distant from either goal, when young Actaeon, son of King Cadmus,
thus addressed the youths who with him were hunting the stag in the mountains:
"Friends, our nets and our weapons are wet with the blood of our victims; we have had sport enough for one day, and to-morrow we can renew our labours. Now, while Phoebus parches the earth, let us put by our implements and indulge ourselves with rest."
There was a valley thick enclosed with cypresses and pines, sacred to the huntress queen, Diana (Artemis). In the extremity of the valley was a cave, not adorned with art, but nature had counterfeited art in its construction, for she had turned the arch of its roof with stones, as delicately fitted as if by the hand of man. A fountain burst out from one side, whose open basin was bounded by a grassy rim. Here the goddess of the woods used to come when weary with hunting and lave her virgin limbs in the sparkling water [see image 150K: Diana with her Hunting Dogs beside Kill - painting by Jan Fyt (1611-1661)]
One day, having repaired thither with her nymphs, she handed her javelin, her quiver, and her bow to one, her robe to another, while a third unbound thesandals from her feet. Then Crocale, the most skilful of them, arranged her hair, and Nephele, Hyale, and the rest drew water in capacious urns. While the goddess was thus employed in the labours of the toilet, behold Actaeon, having quitted his companions, and rambling without any especial object, came to the place, led thither by his destiny. As he presented himself at the entrance of the cave, the nymphs, seeing a man, screamed and rushed towards the goddess to hide her with their bodies, but she was taller than the rest and overtopped them all by a head. Such a colour as tinges the clouds at sunset or at dawn came over the countenance of Diana thus taken by surprise. Surrounded as she was by her nymphs, she yet turned half away, and sought with a sudden impulse for her arrows.
As they were not at hand, she dashed the water into the face of the intruder, adding these words: "Now go and tell, if you can, that you have seen Diana unapparelled." Immediately a pair of branching stag's horns grew out of his head, his neck gained in length, his ears grew sharp-pointed, his hands became feet, his arms long legs, his body was covered with a hairy spotted hide. Fear took the place of his former boldness, and the hero fled. He could not but admire his own speed; but when he saw his horns in the water, "Ah, wretched me!" he would have said, but no sound followed the effort. He groaned, and tears flowed down the face which had taken the place of his own. Yet his consciousness remained. What shall he do?- go home to seek the palace, or lie hid in the woods? The latter he was afraid, the former he was ashamed to do. While he hesitated the dogs saw him.
First Melampus, a Spartan dog, gave the
signal with his bark, then Pamphagus, Dorceus, Lelaps, Theron, Nape, Tigris,
and all the rest, rushed after him swifter than the wind. Over rocks cliffs,
through mountain gorges seemed impracticable, he fled and they followed.
Where he had often chased the stag and cheered on his pack, his pack now
chased him, cheered on by his huntsmen. He longed
to cry out, "I am Actaeon; recognize your master!" but the words came not
at his will. The air resounded with the bark of the dogs. Presently one
fastened on his back, another seized his shoulder. While they held their
master, the rest of the pack came up and buried their teeth in his flesh.
He groaned,- not in a human voice, yet certainly not in a stag's,- and
falling on his knees, raised his eyes, and would have raised his
arms in supplication, if he had had them. His friends and fellow-huntsmen
cheered on the dogs, and looked everywhere for Actaeon calling on him to
join the sport. At the sound of his name he turned his head, and heard
them regret that he should be away. He earnestly wished he was. He would
have been well pleased to see the exploits of his dogs, but to feel them
was too much. They were all around him, rending and tearing; and it was
not till they had torn his life out that the anger of Diana was satisfied.