When Phaeton's Chariot Ran Away

“You are only boasting, Phaeton. I don't believe for a moment that your father is Apollo, the god of light,” Cycnus, one of his schoolmates, said to the lad who had just made this proud statement.

“It is true,” Phaeton replied. “You won't believe me because I am alone here in Greece, cared for by one of the nymphs and learning the lessons that all Greek boys do. I shall show you, though. I will take my way to the home of the gods and present myself to my father.”

That was indeed a bold plan for a youth who had never been beyond the shores of his native land. But Phaeton set out at once for India, since that was where the sun that lit Greece seemed to rise. He felt sure he would find Apollo at the palace of the Sun, so he did not stop until he had climbed mountains and then beyond, higher through the steep clouds. Suddenly he was forced to stop, covering his eyes with his hands to shut out the brilliant light that dazzled him. There, in front of Phaeton, reared aloft on shining columns, stood the palace of the Sun.

It glittered with gold and precious stones, and Phaeton made his way inside through heavy doors of solid silver. He had heard of the beautiful workmanship of Vulcan, who had designed Apollo's palace, but when he stood beneath the polished ivory ceilings of the throne room, it was more wonderful than anything he had ever imagined.

Apollo, in a royal purple robe, sat on a throne as bright as if it had been cut from a solid diamond. Around him stood his attendants, who helped him make the earth a pleasant, fruitful home for mankind. On Apollo's right and left stood the Days, the Months, and the Years, and at regular intervals the Hours. Spring was there, her head crowned with flowers, and Summer, who wore a garland formed of spears of ripened grain. Autumn stood beside Apollo, his feet stained with grape juice, and there was icy Winter, his hair stiffened with hoarfrost. Nothing was hidden from Apollo in the whole world, and he saw Phaeton the instant he entered the hall.

“What is your errand here, rash lad?” he asked sternly.

Phaeton went closer and knelt at the foot of the throne. “Oh, my father, light of the boundless world!” he said. “I want to be known as your son. Give me proof so I can show mortals and gods that I am not of the earth, but have a place with you on Mount Olympus!”

Apollo was pleased by the youth's plea. He laid aside the crown of bright beams that he wore and stretched out his arms to embrace Phaeton. “My son, you do not deserve to be disowned,” he said. “To end your doubts, ask whatever favor you like of me, and the gift shall be yours.”

It was wonderful; Phaeton had never, even in his dreams, expected so great a boon. But he was as reckless and ambitious as many a boy today who fancies himself able to carry on his father's work without the skill and experience that earned his success. He knew at once the desire closest to his heart.

“For one day only, father, let me drive your chariot,” Phaeton begged.

Apollo drew back in dismay. “I spoke rashly,” he said. “That is the one request I ought to refuse you. It is not a safe adventure or suited to your youth and strength, Phaeton. Your arms are mortal, and you ask what is beyond mortal power. You aspire to do what even the gods cannot accomplish. No one but myself, not even Jupiter whose terrible right arm hurls thunderbolts and lightning, may drive the flaming chariot of day.”

“Why is it so difficult a task?” Phaeton asked, determined not to give up.

Apollo explained patiently. “It is a difficult track through the skies. The beginning is so steep that the horses, even fresh in the morning, can hardly be urged to climb it. Then comes the middle of the course, so high in the heavens and so narrow that I myself can scarcely look below without dizziness at the earth and its waters. The last part descends rapidly and calls for expert driving. Add the constant, dizzy turning of the sky with its sea of stars. I must always be on guard lest their movement, which sweeps everything along, should hurry me or throw me off course. If I lend you my chariot, what can you, a boy, do? Can you keep the road with all the spheres revolving around you?”

“I am sure I can, father,” Phaeton replied boldly. “What you say does not deter me. I have a strong arm and a steady eye for driving. There is no other danger on the way, is there?”

“There are greater dangers,” Apollo said. “Do you expect to pass cool forests and white cities, the homes of gods, palaces, and temples on the way? The road goes through the domain of frightful monsters. You must run the gauntlet of the Archer's arrows and pass the horns of the Bull. The Lion's jaws will be open to devour you, the Scorpion will stretch out its tentacles, and the great Crab its claws. And you will find it no easy feat to manage the horses, whose breasts are so full of fire that they breathe flame through their nostrils. I can scarcely hold them myself when they are unruly.”

“I have driven a chariot at the games of Athens,” Phaeton boasted, “when wild beasts were close to the arena and my steeds were most unmanageable.”

Apollo made one last plea. “Look over the universe, my son,” he entreated, “and choose whatever is most precious on earth or sea. This I will give you as proof that you are my son, but take back your other rash request.”

“I have only one wish: to drive the chariot of the Sun,” Phaeton answered stubbornly.

There was only one course left for Apollo, because a god could never break his promise. Without a word, he led Phaeton to the great stable where he kept his lofty chariot.

The chariot was a gift of Vulcan to Apollo, made of gold. The axle was gold, the pole and wheels also gold, and the spokes of the brightest silver. Rows of chrysolites and diamonds lined the seat, reflecting the rays of the sun. Apollo ordered the Hours to harness the horses, and they led the steeds, full fed with ambrosia, from the stalls and attached the reins. As Phaeton, full of pride, watched, he saw that Dawn had thrown open the purple gates of the east, and his path, strewn with roses, stretched before him. He seated himself in the chariot and took the reins.

Apollo anointed his son's face with a powerful unguent to help him endure the flaming heat of the sun. He set the rays of light on his head and said sorrowfully, “If you will be so rash, I beg you to hold the reins more tightly than ever before and spare the whip. The horses go fast enough on their own; the difficulty is holding them in. You are not to take the direct road, but turn to the left. You will see the marks of my wheels, and these will guide you. Go not too high, or you will set the heavenly dwellings on fire, nor too low, as to burn the earth, but keep to the middle course, which is best. Night is just passing out of the western gates, so you can delay no longer. Start the chariot, and may your chance work better for you than you have planned.”

Phaeton stood up in the gilded chariot, lifted the reins, and was off like a dart.

In an instant, the snorting, fiery horses discovered they were carrying a lighter load than usual and dashed through the clouds as if the chariot were empty. It reeled and tossed about like a ship at sea without ballast. The bars of the sky were let down, and the limitless plain of the universe lay before the horses. They left Apollo's traveled course, and Phaeton was powerless to guide them. He looked down at the earth far below and grew pale; his knees shook with terror. He turned his eyes on the trackless heavens and was even more terrified to see the huge forms among which he rode as if driven by a tempest: the Archer, the Great Bear, the Lion, and the Crab. All those monsters Apollo had warned him about were there, and others as well.

Phaeton wished he had never left the earth, never made so bold a request. He lost his self-command and could not tell whether to draw the reins tightly or let them loose. He forgot the names of the steeds. At last, as he saw the Scorpion directly in his path, its two great arms extended and its fangs reeking with poison, he lost all courage and the reins dropped from his hands. As the horses felt the loosened harness, they dashed headlong into unknown regions of the sky, now up in high heaven among the stars, then hurling the chariot down almost to the earth.

The mountain tops took fire, and the clouds began to smoke. Plants withered, leafy branches burned, harvests blazed, and fields were parched with heat. The whole world was on fire. Great cities perished with their beautiful towers and high walls, and entire nations with all their people were reduced to ashes. It is said that the river Nile fled away and hid its head in the desert, where it still lies concealed. The earth cracked, and the sea shrank. Dry plains lay where oceans had been, and mountains that had been covered by the sea lifted their heads and became islands. Even Neptune, the god of the sea, was driven back by the heat when he tried to lift his head above the waters, and the Earth looked up to Mount Olympus and called to Jupiter for help.

It was indeed time for the gods to act. Jupiter mounted to the tall tower where he kept his forked lightnings and from which he spread rain clouds over the earth. He tossed thunderbolts right and left, and brandishing a dart of lightning in his right hand, he aimed it at Phaeton and threw it, tossing him from his chariot down, down through space. The charioteer fell in a trail of fire like a shooting star. One of the great rivers of the earth received him and tried to cool his burning frame, but he was never again to see the palace of the Sun. His recklessness had brought him, not honor, but destruction.

Phaeton's friend, Cycnus, stood beside the bank of the river mourning for him and even plunged beneath the surface to see if he could bring him back. But this angered the gods, and they changed Cycnus into a swan, who floats always on the water, continually thrusting its head down as if still looking for the fated charioteer of the skies.

Even the sea shell tells the story of Phaeton. Hold it to your ear and listen to its plaintive singing of the lad who lost a place in the palace of the Sun because he drove the chariot of light for his own pride and without thought of others.