Tanglewood Tales (8 page)

"Antaeus was our brother, born of that same beloved parent to whom we
owe the thews and sinews, as well as the courageous hearts, which
made him proud of our relationship. He was our faithful ally, and fell
fighting as much for our national rights and immunities as for his own
personal ones. We and our forefathers have dwelt in friendship with
him, and held affectionate intercourse as man to man, through immemorial
generations. You remember how often our entire people have reposed in
his great shadow, and how our little ones have played at hide-and-seek
in the tangles of his hair, and how his mighty footsteps have familiarly
gone to and fro among us, and never trodden upon any of our toes. And
there lies this dear brother—this sweet and amiable friend—this brave
and faithful ally—this virtuous Giant—this blameless and excellent
Antaeus—dead! Dead! Silent! Powerless! A mere mountain of clay! Forgive
my tears! Nay, I behold your own. Were we to drown the world with them,
could the world blame us?

"But to resume: Shall we, my countrymen, suffer this wicked stranger to
depart unharmed, and triumph in his treacherous victory, among distant
communities of the earth? Shall we not rather compel him to leave his
bones here on our soil, by the side of our slain brother's bones? so
that, while one skeleton shall remain as the everlasting monument of our
sorrow, the other shall endure as long, exhibiting to the whole human
race a terrible example of Pygmy vengeance! Such is the question. I put
it to you in full confidence of a response that shall be worthy of our
national character, and calculated to increase, rather than diminish,
the glory which our ancestors have transmitted to us, and which we
ourselves have proudly vindicated in our warfare with the cranes."

The orator was here interrupted by a burst of irrepressible enthusiasm;
every individual Pygmy crying out that the national honor must be
preserved at all hazards. He bowed, and, making a gesture for silence,
wound up his harangue in the following admirable manner:

"It only remains for us, then, to decide whether we shall carry on
the war in our national capacity—one united people against a common
enemy—or whether some champion, famous in former fights, shall be
selected to defy the slayer of our brother Antaeus to single combat.
In the latter case, though not unconscious that there may be taller men
among you, I hereby offer myself for that enviable duty. And believe me,
dear countrymen, whether I live or die, the honor of this great country,
and the fame bequeathed us by our heroic progenitors, shall suffer no
diminution in my hands. Never, while I can wield this sword, of which
I now fling away the scabbard—never, never, never, even if the crimson
hand that slew the great Antaeus shall lay me prostrate, like him, on
the soil which I give my life to defend."

So saying, this valiant Pygmy drew out his weapon (which was terrible to
behold, being as long as the blade of a penknife), and sent the scabbard
whirling over the heads of the multitude. His speech was followed by an
uproar of applause, as its patriotism and self-devotion unquestionably
deserved; and the shouts and clapping of hands would have been greatly
prolonged, had they not been rendered quite inaudible by a deep
respiration, vulgarly called a snore, from the sleeping Hercules.

It was finally decided that the whole nation of Pygmies should set to
work to destroy Hercules; not, be it understood, from any doubt that
a single champion would be capable of putting him to the sword, but
because he was a public enemy, and all were desirous of sharing in the
glory of his defeat. There was a debate whether the national honor did
not demand that a herald should be sent with a trumpet, to stand over
the ear of Hercules, and after blowing a blast right into it, to defy
him to the combat by formal proclamation. But two or three venerable
and sagacious Pygmies, well versed in state affairs, gave it as their
opinion that war already existed, and that it was their rightful
privilege to take the enemy by surprise. Moreover, if awakened, and
allowed to get upon his feet, Hercules might happen to do them a
mischief before he could be beaten down again. For, as these sage
counselors remarked, the stranger's club was really very big, and had
rattled like a thunderbolt against the skull of Antaeus. So the
Pygmies resolved to set aside all foolish punctilios, and assail their
antagonist at once.

Accordingly, all the fighting men of the nation took their weapons, and
went boldly up to Hercules, who still lay fast asleep, little dreaming
of the harm which the Pygmies meant to do him. A body of twenty thousand
archers marched in front, with their little bows all ready, and the
arrows on the string. The same number were ordered to clamber upon
Hercules, some with spades to dig his eyes out, and others with bundles
of hay, and all manner of rubbish with which they intended to plug up
his mouth and nostrils, so that he might perish for lack of breath.
These last, however, could by no means perform their appointed duty;
inasmuch as the enemy's breath rushed out of his nose in an obstreperous
hurricane and whirlwind, which blew the Pygmies away as fast as they
came nigh. It was found necessary, therefore, to hit upon some other
method of carrying on the war.

After holding a council, the captains ordered their troops to collect
sticks, straws, dry weeds, and whatever combustible stuff they could
find, and make a pile of it, heaping it high around the head of
Hercules. As a great many thousand Pygmies were employed in this task,
they soon brought together several bushels of inflammatory matter, and
raised so tall a heap, that, mounting on its summit, they were quite
upon a level with the sleeper's face. The archers, meanwhile, were
stationed within bow shot, with orders to let fly at Hercules the
instant that he stirred. Everything being in readiness, a torch was
applied to the pile, which immediately burst into flames, and soon waxed
hot enough to roast the enemy, had he but chosen to lie still. A Pygmy,
you know, though so very small, might set the world on fire, just as
easily as a Giant could; so that this was certainly the very best way
of dealing with their foe, provided they could have kept him quiet while
the conflagration was going forward.

But no sooner did Hercules begin to be scorched, than up he started,
with his hair in a red blaze.

"What's all this?" he cried, bewildered with sleep, and staring about
him as if he expected to see another Giant.

At that moment the twenty thousand archers twanged their bowstrings, and
the arrows came whizzing, like so many winged mosquitoes, right into
the face of Hercules. But I doubt whether more than half a dozen of them
punctured the skin, which was remarkably tough, as you know the skin of
a hero has good need to be.

"Villain!" shouted all the Pygmies at once. "You have killed the Giant
Antaeus, our great brother, and the ally of our nation. We declare
bloody war against you, and will slay you on the spot."

Surprised at the shrill piping of so many little voices, Hercules, after
putting out the conflagration of his hair, gazed all round about, but
could see nothing. At last, however, looking narrowly on the ground,
he espied the innumerable assemblage of Pygmies at his feet. He stooped
down, and taking up the nearest one between his thumb and finger, set
him on the palm of his left hand, and held him at a proper distance for
examination. It chanced to be the very identical Pygmy who had spoken
from the top of the toadstool, and had offered himself as a champion to
meet Hercules in single combat.

"What in the world, my little fellow," ejaculated Hercules, "may you
be?"

"I am your enemy," answered the valiant Pygmy, in his mightiest squeak.
"You have slain the enormous Antaeus, our brother by the mother's
side, and for ages the faithful ally of our illustrious nation. We are
determined to put you to death; and for my own part, I challenge you to
instant battle, on equal ground."

Hercules was so tickled with the Pygmy's big words and warlike gestures,
that he burst into a great explosion of laughter, and almost dropped
the poor little mite of a creature off the palm of his hand, through the
ecstasy and convulsion of his merriment.

"Upon my word," cried he, "I thought I had seen wonders before
to-day—hydras with nine heads, stags with golden horns, six-legged men,
three-headed dogs, giants with furnaces in their stomachs, and nobody
knows what besides. But here, on the palm of my hand, stands a wonder
that outdoes them all! Your body, my little friend, is about the size of
an ordinary man's finger. Pray, how big may your soul be?"

"As big as your own!" said the Pygmy.

Hercules was touched with the little man's dauntless courage, and could
not help acknowledging such a brotherhood with him as one hero feels for
another.

"My good little people," said he, making a low obeisance to the grand
nation, "not for all the world would I do an intentional injury to such
brave fellows as you! Your hearts seem to me so exceedingly great, that,
upon my honor, I marvel how your small bodies can contain them. I sue
for peace, and, as a condition of it, will take five strides, and be out
of your kingdom at the sixth. Good-bye. I shall pick my steps carefully,
for fear of treading upon some fifty of you, without knowing it. Ha, ha,
ha! Ho, ho, ho! For once, Hercules acknowledges himself vanquished."

Some writers say, that Hercules gathered up the whole race of Pygmies
in his lion's skin, and carried them home to Greece, for the children of
King Eurystheus to play with. But this is a mistake. He left them, one
and all, within their own territory, where, for aught I can tell, their
descendants are alive to the present day, building their little houses,
cultivating their little fields, spanking their little children, waging
their little warfare with the cranes, doing their little business,
whatever it may be, and reading their little histories of ancient times.
In those histories, perhaps, it stands recorded, that, a great many
centuries ago, the valiant Pygmies avenged the death of the Giant
Antaeus by scaring away the mighty Hercules.

Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, the three sons of King Agenor, and their
little sister Europa (who was a very beautiful child), were at play
together near the seashore in their father's kingdom of Phoenicia. They
had rambled to some distance from the palace where their parents dwelt,
and were now in a verdant meadow, on one side of which lay the sea, all
sparkling and dimpling in the sunshine, and murmuring gently against the
beach. The three boys were very happy, gathering flowers, and twining
them into garlands, with which they adorned the little Europa. Seated
on the grass, the child was almost hidden under an abundance of buds and
blossoms, whence her rosy face peeped merrily out, and, as Cadmus said,
was the prettiest of all the flowers.

Just then, there came a splendid butterfly, fluttering along the meadow;
and Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix set off in pursuit of it, crying out
that it was a flower with wings. Europa, who was a little wearied with
playing all day long, did not chase the butterfly with her brothers, but
sat still where they had left her, and closed her eyes. For a while,
she listened to the pleasant murmur of the sea, which was like a voice
saying "Hush!" and bidding her go to sleep. But the pretty child, if she
slept at all, could not have slept more than a moment, when she heard
something trample on the grass, not far from her, and, peeping out from
the heap of flowers, beheld a snow-white bull.

And whence could this bull have com? Europa and her brothers had been
a long time playing in the meadow, and had seen no cattle, nor other
living thing, either there or on the neighboring hills.

"Brother Cadmus!" cried Europa, starting up out of the midst of the
roses and lilies. "Phoenix! Cilix! Where are you all? Help! Help! Come
and drive away this bull!"

But her brothers were too far off to hear; especially as the fright took
away Europa's voice, and hindered her from calling very loudly. So there
she stood, with her pretty mouth wide open, as pale as the white lilies
that were twisted among the other flowers in her garlands.

Nevertheless, it was the suddenness with which she had perceived the
bull, rather than anything frightful in his appearance, that caused
Europa so much alarm. On looking at him more attentively, she began
to see that he was a beautiful animal, and even fancied a particularly
amiable expression in his face. As for his breath—the breath of cattle,
you know, is always sweet—it was as fragrant as if he had been grazing
on no other food than rosebuds, or at least, the most delicate of clover
blossoms. Never before did a bull have such bright and tender eyes, and
such smooth horns of ivory, as this one. And the bull ran little races,
and capered sportively around the child; so that she quite forgot how
big and strong he was, and, from the gentleness and playfulness of his
actions, soon came to consider him as innocent a creature as a pet lamb.

Thus, frightened as she at first was, you might by and by have seen
Europa stroking the bull's forehead with her small white hand, and
taking the garlands off her own head to hang them on his neck and ivory
horns. Then she pulled up some blades of grass, and he ate them out of
her hand, not as if he were hungry, but because he wanted to be friends
with the child, and took pleasure in eating what she had touched. Well,
my stars! was there ever such a gentle, sweet, pretty, and amiable
creature as this bull, and ever such a nice playmate for a little girl?

When the animal saw (for the bull had so much intelligence that it is
really wonderful to think of), when he saw that Europa was no longer
afraid of him, he grew overjoyed, and could hardly contain himself
for delight. He frisked about the meadow, now here, now there, making
sprightly leaps, with as little effort as a bird expends in hopping
from twig to twig. Indeed, his motion was as light as if he were flying
through the air, and his hoofs seemed hardly to leave their print in the
grassy soil over which he trod. With his spotless hue, he resembled a
snow drift, wafted along by the wind. Once he galloped so far away that
Europa feared lest she might never see him again; so, setting up her
childish voice, called him back.