How King Midas Lost His Ears

The country of Phrygia in Asia needed a new king, and there was an old saying at court that one day they would have a ruler who arrived at the palace in a farm wagon.

No one had thought much about this prophecy, but to everyone's surprise, a peasant and his wife drove into the public square one day in an ox cart, bringing their son Midas on the seat between them.

The peasant's name was Gordius, and he dismounted, tying his wagon in such a hard knot that it looked as if he intended the team to stay there. In fact it was called the Gordian knot, and it was so hard that whoever could untie it would rule all of Asia.

The wagon remained there, just outside the palace gates, securely fastened, and Gordius and his wife walked home, leaving Midas. It was exactly like the prophecy, so Midas was made king and put upon the throne of Phrygia.

He had every chance to be a good ruler, for his humble birth would not have interfered, but from the very beginning of his reign, Midas used his power to satisfy his own wishes instead of carrying out the will of the people.

Bacchus, with vine leaves twisted around his curling hair and a goblet of purple grape juice always in his hand, was the god of vineyards. King Midas became friends with Bacchus, who was a friendly, peaceful god and fond of human company. And Bacchus unexpectedly offered Midas his choice of any wish.

What did King Midas ask for but that everything he touched might turn to gold! He hardly believed Bacchus could grant such greedy power, and Bacchus wished Midas had made a better choice. Still, the god consented, and King Midas hurried off to test his gift alone so he wouldn't have to share it. He couldn't believe his eyes when he found that an oak twig he pulled turned into a bar of solid gold. He picked up a stone; it turned to a gold nugget. He touched a piece of sod; it became a mass of gold dust. He snatched an apple; it was like a golden apple from the garden of the Hesperides. King Midas' joy knew no bounds. He hurried home and ordered his servants to prepare a costly feast to celebrate his new gift.

He was hungry and could barely wait to eat; he almost snatched a piece of white bread. But to his surprise, the bread hardened into a slab of yellow metal in his hands. He lifted a goblet of creamy milk to his lips, and it congealed into molten gold. Whatever he tried to eat—fowl, fruit, cakes—all turned to gold before he could even touch the food to his lips. Surrounded by all his wealth, he faced death by starvation.

Raising his gold-shining arms in prayer to Bacchus, Midas begged to be saved from his own power of glittering destruction.

Although the gods could grant gifts, Bacchus could not relieve a man from the dangers of his own use of a godly gift unless he helped himself. Bacchus was too kind-hearted, however, to leave the foolish king to his fate, so he agreed to show him a way out of his dilemma.

"Go," he told Midas, "to the River Pactolus. Follow its winding course to the source, then plunge your body and head into its waters to wash away your greed and its punishment."

It was a long, difficult journey for King Midas, whose joints creaked and stiffened with the golden metal they had become, and who could find no food or bed that didn't turn to gold at his touch. He had to flee from robbers who pursued this fugitive form of gold. But at last he reached the river, immersed himself, and felt his stiff, glittering body soften back to natural flesh.

"I have had enough of the power of gold," Midas said when he returned to court. "From now on I will avoid all riches and live in the country."

So King Midas bought a farm and moved his court there, becoming a worshipper of Pan, the goat-footed god of the fields.

Pan was the merriest and almost the best-loved of all the gods, for his domain was the beautiful, wide outdoors. He wandered through mountains and valleys all seasons, peering into shepherds' grottoes, amusing himself by chasing nymphs, and bringing laughter wherever he went. A tree stump with shaggy roots was his pillow, and dusky leaves his only shelter.

No one on earth was safe from Pan's tricks. One summer day, Diana the huntress was roaming through a forest when she heard leaves rustle behind her. Turning, she saw the dark, mocking face of Pan with his horned head and hairy body. Diana fled, and Pan followed.

Pan must have known he was chasing a goddess, for Diana's hunting horn and bow were silver like the moon she represented, but that didn't stop him. He kept going as Diana ran in terror until they came to a riverbank. There Pan overtook her, and Diana had only time to call to her friends the water nymphs for help as Pan clasped her in his arms.

But it wasn't Diana he had caught. He held a tuft of dripping water reeds through which the nymphs had let the goddess escape.

Pan held up the reeds and breathed a sigh through them because of his failed prank. The reeds gave out a lovely melody. Pan was charmed by the new, sweet music. He took some reeds of unequal lengths, placed them side by side, and bound them together, making his pipes. On them he learned to play tunes like birds singing and streams babbling.

King Midas enjoyed his country life and became friends with Pan, just as he had with Bacchus. He encouraged Pan in his tricks and flattered him by praising his piping.

"If you think I'm skilled, King Midas, I might challenge Apollo to a musical contest," Pan boasted.

"An excellent idea," King Midas replied.

Midas should have known better, and so should the reckless Pan. Apollo's lyre made the music of the heavens, while Pan's pipes could only play earthly tunes. But Pan sent for Apollo, and the god of light and song descended to a green field where the contest would be held. Tmolus, the mountain god, was chosen as judge. At a signal, Pan played his rustic melody on his pipes, which greatly pleased King Midas, who sat nearby listening.

Then Apollo rose, crowned with laurel and wearing a robe of Tyrian purple that swept the ground. He struck the strings of his lyre, and earth filled with the music of the gods. The mountain god swept away the trees around him so he could listen better, and the trees themselves leaned toward Apollo in wonder and homage. When the music stopped, the strings still vibrated, making the hills carry the harmony to the skies. The mountain god awarded victory to Apollo, but King Midas objected.

"I like Pan's pipes better," he said. "I question Tmolus's judgment."

Poor old Midas, still self-centered and earthly! Apollo could not let such depraved ears remain in human form any longer. He touched Midas's ears, and they began to lengthen, move where they joined his head, and grow heavy inside and outside. Midas had the ears of a donkey!

What a humiliation for a king to bear! King Midas couldn't stand it alone; he told the secret to the court hairdresser to get help hiding them.

"But on pain of death, don't tell anyone about my ears!" Midas commanded.

The hairdresser cut the king's hair to cover the floppy donkey ears and even made a large turban to hide them further. But he couldn't keep such a secret. He went out to a meadow, dug a hole in the ground, stooped down, and whispered the secret into it. Then he carefully covered it up.

Soon a thick bed of reeds sprang up in the meadow right where the hairdresser had buried the secret of King Midas's disgrace. When the reeds grew high enough for the breezes to play on them, they began to whisper the story of the king who finished his reign with donkey's ears instead of his own, because of his selfish will. And it is said that the meadow reeds, blown by the wind, tell the story of King Midas to this day.