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Arachne

Olivia E. Coolidge

Arachne [ß rak» nè] was a maiden who became famous

throughout Greece, though she was neither wellborn nor

beautiful and came from no great city. She lived in an

obscure little village, and her father was a humble dyer of

wool. In this he was very skillful, producing many varied

shades, while above all he was famous for the clear, bright

scarlet which is made from shellfish, and which was the

most glorious of all the colors used in ancient Greece. Even

more skillful than her father was Arachne. It was her task

to spin the fleecy wool into a fine, soft thread and to weave

it into cloth on the high, standing loom within the cottage.

Arachne was small and pale from much working. Her eyes

were light and her hair was a dusty brown, yet she was

quick and graceful, and her fingers, roughened as they

were, went so fast that it was hard to follow their flickering

movements. So soft and even was her thread, so fine her

cloth, so gorgeous her embroidery, that soon her products

were known all over Greece. No one had ever seen the like

of them before.

At last Arachne’s fame became so great that people used

to come from far and wide to watch her working. Even the

graceful nymphs1 would steal in from stream or forest and

peep shyly through the dark doorway, watching in wonder

the white arms of Arachne as she stood at the loom

and threw the shuttle from hand to hand between

the hanging threads, or drew out the long wool,

fine as a hair, from the distaff 2 as she sat spinning.

“Surely Athene3 herself must have

taught her,” people would murmur to one

another. “Who else could know the secret of

such marvelous skill?”

Arachne was used to being wondered at,

and she was immensely proud of the skill that

had brought so many to look on her. Praise

was all she lived for, and it displeased her

greatly that people should think anyone, even

a goddess, could teach her anything. Therefore

when she heard them murmur, she

would stop her work and turn round indignantly

to say, “With my own ten fingers I

gained this skill, and by hard practice from

early morning till night. I never had time to

stand looking as you people do while another maiden

worked. Nor if I had, would I give Athene credit because the

girl was more skillful than I. As for Athene’s weaving, how

could there be finer cloth or more beautiful embroidery

than mine? If Athene herself were to come down and compete

with me, she could do no better than I.”

One day when Arachne turned round with such words,

an old woman answered her, a gray old woman, bent and

very poor, who stood leaning on a staff and peering at

Arachne amid the crowd of onlookers. “Reckless girl,” she

said, “how dare you claim to be equal to the immortal gods

themselves? I am an old woman and have seen much. Take

my advice and ask pardon of Athene for your words. Rest

content with your fame of being the best spinner and

weaver that mortal eyes have ever beheld.”

“Stupid old woman,” said Arachne indignantly, “who gave

you a right to speak in this way to me? It is easy to see that

you were never good for anything in your day, or you would

not come here in poverty and rags to gaze at my skill. If

Athene resents my words, let her answer them herself. I

have challenged her to a contest, but she, of course, will

not come. It is easy for the gods to avoid matching their

skill with that of men.”

At these words the old woman threw down her

staff and stood erect. The wondering onlookers

saw her grow tall and fair and stand clad in long

robes of dazzling white. They were terribly afraid

as they realized that they stood in the presence

of Athene. Arachne herself flushed red for a

moment, for she had never really believed that

the goddess would hear her. Before the group

that was gathered there she would not give in; so

pressing her pale lips together in obstinacy and

pride, she led the goddess to one of the great

looms and set herself before the other. Without a

word both began to thread the long woolen

strands that hang from the rollers, and between

which the shuttle4 moves back and forth. Many

skeins lay heaped beside them to use, bleached

white, and gold, and scarlet, and other shades,

varied as the rainbow. Arachne had never

thought of giving credit for her success to her

father’s skill in dyeing, though in actual truth

the colors were as remarkable as the cloth itself.

Soon there was no sound in the room but the

breathing of the onlookers, the whirring of the

shuttles, and the creaking of the wooden frames

as each pressed the thread up into place or tightened

the pegs by which the whole was held

straight. The excited crowd in the doorway began

to see that the skill of both in truth

was very nearly equal, but that, however

the cloth might turn out, the

goddess was the quicker of the two. A

pattern of many pictures was growing

on her loom. There was a border

of twined branches of the olive,

Athene’s favorite tree, while in the

middle, figures began to appear. As

they looked at the glowing colors, the

spectators realized that Athene was

weaving into her pattern a last

warning to Arachne. The central figure was the goddess

herself competing with Poseidon for possession of the city

of Athens; but in the four corners were mortals who had

tried to strive with gods and pictures of the awful fate that

had overtaken them. The goddess ended a little before

Arachne and stood back from her marvelous work to see

what the maiden was doing.

Never before had Arachne been matched against anyone

whose skill was equal, or even nearly equal to her own. As

she stole glances from time to time at Athene and saw the

goddess working swiftly, calmly, and always a little faster

than herself, she became angry instead of frightened, and

an evil thought came into her head. Thus as Athene

stepped back a pace to watch Arachne finishing her work,

she saw that the maiden had taken for her design a pattern

of scenes which showed evil or unworthy actions of the

gods, how they had deceived fair maidens, resorted to trickery,

and appeared on earth from time to time in the form of

poor and humble people. When the goddess saw this insult

glowing in bright colors on Arachne’s loom, she did not wait

while the cloth was judged, but stepped forward, her gray

eyes blazing with anger, and tore Arachne’s work across.

Then she struck Arachne across the face. Arachne stood

there a moment, struggling with anger, fear, and pride. “I

will not live under this insult,” she cried, and seizing a

rope from the wall, she made a noose and would have

hanged herself.

The goddess touched the rope and touched the maiden.

“Live on, wicked girl,” she said. “Live on and spin, both you

and your descendants. When men look at you they may

remember that it is not wise to strive with Athene.” At that

the body of Arachne shriveled up, and her legs grew tiny,

spindly, and distorted. There before the eyes of the spectators

hung a little dusty brown spider on a slender thread.

All spiders descend from Arachne, and as the Greeks

watched them spinning their thread wonderfully fine, they

remembered the contest with Athene and thought that it

was not right for even the best of men to claim equality with

the gods.