Phaethon, Son of Apollo
Olivia E. Coolidge
Though Apollo always honored the memory of Daphne, she was not his only love.
Another was a mortal, Clymene, by whom he had a
son named Phaëthon.
Phaëthon grew up with his mother, who, since
she was mortal, could not dwell in the halls of Olympus or in the palace
of
the sun. She lived not far from the East in the land of Ethiopia, and
as
her son grew up, she would point to the place where Eos,4 goddess
of
the dawn, lighted up the sky and tell him that there his father dwelt.
Phaëthon loved to boast of his divine father as he saw the golden chariotriding
high through the air. He would remind his comrades of othersons of gods and
mortal women who, by virtue of their great deeds, had themselves become gods at
last. He must always be first in everything, and in most things this was easy,
since he was in truth stronger, swifter, and more daring than the others. Even
if he were not victorious, Phaëthon always claimed to be first in honor. He
could never bear to be beaten, even if he must risk his life in some
rash
way to win.
Most of the princes of Ethiopia willingly paid Phaëthon honor, since they
admired him greatly for his fire and beauty. There was one boy, however,
Epaphos,
who was rumored to be a child of Zeus himself.
Since this was not certainly proved, Phaëthon chose
to disbelieve it and to demand from Epaphos the
deference
that he obtained from all others. Epaphos was proud too,
and one day he lost his temper with Phaëthon and turned on him, saying, “You are
a fool to believe all that your mother tells you. You are all swelled up with
false ideas about your father.”
Crimson with rage, the lad rushed home to his
mother and demanded that she prove to him the truth of the story that she had
often told. “Give me some proof,” he implored her, “with which I can answer this
insult of Epaphos. It is a matter of life and death to me, for if I cannot, I
shall die of shame.”
“I
swear to you,” replied his mother solemnly, “by the bright orb of the sun itself
that you are his son. If I swear falsely, may I never look on the sun again, but
die before the next time he mounts the heavens. More than this I cannot do, but
you, my child, can go to the eastern palace of Phoebus Apollo—it lies not far
away—and there speak with the god himself.”
The son of Clymene leaped up with joy at his mother’s words. The palace of
Apollo was indeed not far. It stood just below the eastern
horizon, its tall pillars glistening with bronze and gold. Above these it
was white with gleaming ivory, and the great doors were flashing silver,
embossed with pictures of earth, sky, and sea, and the gods that dwelt
therein. Up the steep hill and the bright steps climbed
Phaëthon, passing unafraid through the silver doors, and stood in the presence
of the sun.
Here at last he was forced to turn away his face, for
Phoebus sat in state on his golden throne. It gleamed with emeralds and precious
stones, while on the head of the god was a brilliant diamond crown upon which no
eye could look undazzled.
Phaëthon hid his face, but the god had recognized his son, and he spoke kindly,
asking him why he had come. Then Phaëthon plucked up courage and said, “I come
to ask you if you are indeed my father. If you are so, I beg you to give me some
proof of it so that all may recognize me as Phoebus’ son.”
The god smiled, being well pleased with his son’s beauty and daring. He took off
his crown so that Phaëthon could look at him, and coming down from his throne,
he put his arms around the boy, and said, “You are indeed my son and Clymene’s,
and worthy to be called so. Ask of me whatever thing you wish to prove your
origin to men, and you shall have it.”
f
Phaëthon swayed for a moment and was dizzy with excitement at the touch of the
god. His heart leaped; the blood rushed into his face. Now he felt that he was
truly divine, unlike other men, and he did not wish to be counted with men any
more. He looked up for a moment at his radiant father. “Let me drive the chariot
of the sun across the heavens for one day,” he said.
Apollo frowned and shook his head. “I cannot break my promise,
but I will
dissuade
you if I can,” he answered. “How can you drive my
chariot, whose horses need a strong hand on the reins? The climb is too steep
for you. The immense height will make you dizzy. The swift streams of air in the
upper heaven will sweep you off your course. Even the immortal gods could not
drive my chariot. How then can you? Be wise and make some other choice.”
The pride of Phaëthon was stubborn, for he thought the god was
merely trying to frighten him. Besides, if he could guide the sun’s chariot,
would he not have proved his right to be divine rather than mortal? For that he
would risk his life. Indeed, once he had seen Apollo’s splendor, he did not wish
to go back and live among men. Therefore, he insisted on his right until Apollo
had to give way.
g
When the father saw that nothing else would satisfy the boy, he bade the Hours6
bring forth his chariot and yoke the horses. The chariot was of gold and had two
gold-rimmed wheels with spokes of silver. In it there was room for one man to
stand and hold the reins. Around the front and sides of it ran a rail, but the
back was open. At the end of a long pole there were yokes for the four horses.
The pole was of gold and shone with precious jewels: the golden topaz, the
bright diamond, the green emerald, and the flashing ruby. While the Hours were
yoking the swift, pawing horses, rosy-fingered Dawn hastened to the gates of
heaven to draw them open. Meanwhile Apollo anointed his son’s face with a magic
ointment, that he might be able to bear the heat of the fire-breathing horses
and the golden chariot. At last Phaëthon mounted the chariot and grasped the
reins, the barriers were let down, and the horses shot up into the air.
At first the fiery horses sped forward up the accustomed trail, but behind them
the chariot was too light without the weight of the immortal god. It bounded
from side to side and was dashed up and down. Phaëthon was too frightened and
too dizzy to pull the reins, nor would he have known anyway whether he was on
the usual path. As soon as the horses felt that there was no hand controlling
them, they soared up, up with fiery speed into the heavens till the earth grew
pale and cold beneath them. Phaëthon shut his eyes, trembling at the dizzy,
precipitous
height. Then the horses dropped down, more swiftly than a
falling stone, flinging themselves madly from side to side in panic because they
were masterless. Phaëthon dropped the reins entirely and clung with all his
might to the chariot rail.
Meanwhile as they came near the earth, it dried up
and cracked apart.
Meadows were reduced to white ashes, cornfields
smoked and shriveled, cities perished in flame. Far and wide on the wooded
mountains the forests were ablaze, and even the snow-clad Alps were bare and
dry.
Rivers steamed and dried to dust. The great North African
plain was scorched until it became the desert that it is today. Even the sea
shrank back to pools and caves, until dried fishes were left baking upon the
white-hot sands. At last the great earth mother called upon Zeus to save her
from utter destruction, and Zeus hurled a mighty thunderbolt at the unhappy
Phaëthon, who was still crouched in the chariot, clinging desperately to the
rail. The dart cast him out, and he fell flaming in a long trail through the
air. The chariot broke in pieces at the mighty blow, and the maddened horses
rushed snorting back to the stable of their master, Apollo.
Unhappy Clymene and her daughters wandered over the whole earth seeking the body of the boy they loved so well. When they found him, they took him and buried him. Over his grave they wept and could not be comforted. At last the gods in pity for their grief changed them into poplar trees, which weep with tears of amber in memory of Phaëthon.