Sončeva palača

Besedilo

Sončeva palača

The palace of the Sun rose high on towering columns, bright with glittering gold and bronze that glowed like flame; gleaming ivory crowned its lofty gables, and its double doors shone with the radiance of silver. The workmanship surpassed the material: for there Mulciber had engraved the seas encircling the lands, the circle of the earth, and the sky that hangs above it.

The waters held the sea-blue gods: Triton with his sounding horn, Proteus of the shifting forms, and Aegaeon, his arms gripping the enormous backs of whales; Doris and her daughters, some of whom seemed to swim, while others sat upon a rock drying their green hair, and others rode on fish. Their faces were not all alike, yet not unlike: such as sisters’ faces ought to be.

The earth bore people and cities, forests and wild beasts, rivers and nymphs and all the other spirits of the countryside. Above these was set the image of the shining sky, with six signs on the right-hand door and as many on the left. When Clymene’s son had climbed the rising path and entered the home of the father whose claim he doubted, he went straight toward his father’s presence, but halted at a distance: his eyes could not endure the light any nearer. Robed in purple, Phoebus sat on a throne that gleamed with brilliant emeralds.

To his right and left stood Day and Month and Year, the Ages, and the Hours ranged at equal intervals. There stood young Spring, wreathed in a crown of flowers; there stood naked Summer, wearing a garland of grain; there too stood Autumn, stained with trodden grapes, and icy Winter, his white hair wild and bristling. From his place among them, the Sun saw the youth, awed by these unfamiliar sights, with the eyes that see all things.

“What has brought you on this journey?” he said. “What do you seek in this citadel, Phaethon, my child, whom no father could disown?” He answered, “O light shared by all the boundless world, Phoebus, my father—if you allow me to use that name, and Clymene is not hiding her shame beneath a false claim— give me proof, Father, that I may be believed your true offspring, and free my heart from this uncertainty.”

He spoke; and his father laid aside the rays that flashed about his head and bade him draw nearer. Then, embracing him, he said, “You do not deserve to be denied as mine, and Clymene has told your true parentage. And so that you may doubt no longer, ask whatever gift you wish, and I will grant it. Let the marsh by which the gods must swear, unknown to my eyes, bear witness to my promise.”

He had scarcely finished when the boy asked for his father’s chariot and, for a single day, the right to drive his wing-footed horses. The father regretted his oath. Three times and four he shook his radiant head, then said, “Your request has made my promise reckless. If only I could withhold what I have pledged! I confess, my son, this alone I would refuse you. I may still try to dissuade you. Your wish is not a safe one.

You ask too much, Phaethon, a gift unsuited either to your strength or to your tender years. Your lot is mortal; what you wish for is not mortal. Unknowing, you aspire to more than even the gods above can attain. Let each think as highly of himself as he likes: still, none but I can stand in the fiery chariot. Even the ruler of vast Olympus, who hurls fierce thunderbolts with his dreadful right hand, could not drive these horses—and whom have we greater than Jove?

The first stretch of the road is steep, and even in the morning, fresh, the horses scarcely struggle up it. Midway, it towers in the highest heaven, and often I myself am frightened to look down from there upon the sea and land; my heart trembles with alarm. The last stretch slopes sharply down and needs a steady hand: then even Tethys, who receives me in the waters below, is often afraid that I may plunge headlong.

Remember, too, that the sky is swept round in an endless whirl, drawing the lofty stars and spinning them in its swift course. I struggle against it, and its force, which masters everything else, does not master me: I ride against the rushing sphere. Imagine you have been given the chariot: what will you do? Can you confront the turning heavens, so their swift rotation does not sweep you away?

Perhaps you imagine there are groves up there, cities of the gods, and temples rich with offerings? The road leads through hidden dangers and the shapes of beasts. Even if you keep the road and are not drawn astray, you must still pass between the horns of the Bull facing you, past the Thessalian Archer’s bow and the raging Lion’s jaws, past the Scorpion curving his cruel claws in a wide sweep, and the Crab, whose claws curve the other way.

Nor will you find it easy to govern the horses, fierce with the fires they carry in their breasts and breathe from mouth and nostrils. They scarcely submit to me when their wild spirits grow heated and their necks strain against the reins. But you, my son, beware, lest I become the giver of a fatal gift: change your wish while there is still time. Surely you ask for certain proof that you were born of my blood? My fear gives certain proof: my fatherly dread proves me your father. Look at my face! If only your eyes could penetrate my breast and find a father’s anguish there!

Look about you at all the riches of the world, and from the countless treasures of heaven, earth, and sea ask something: you shall not be refused. This one thing I beg you not to ask, for its true name is punishment, not honor: Phaethon, you ask for punishment as a gift. Why clasp my neck with coaxing arms, unthinking boy? Have no doubt: whatever you wish will be granted—I have sworn by the waters of Styx—but choose more wisely.”

His warnings ended, but the boy resisted all he said, held fast to his purpose, and burned to drive the chariot. So the father, delaying as long as he could, led the youth to the lofty chariot, Vulcan’s gift. Its axle was gold, its pole was gold, and golden the curving rims of its wheels; the spokes were set in silver. Across the yoke, chrysolites and gems arranged in rows reflected Phoebus and gave back a brilliant light.

While bold Phaethon marveled at these things and studied their workmanship, watchful Aurora opened her purple doors in the shining east, revealing halls filled with roses. The stars fled, their ranks marshaled by Lucifer, who left his station in heaven last of all. When Titan saw him heading toward the earth, the world reddening, and the waning moon’s horns fading away, he ordered the swift Hours to harness the horses.

The nimble goddesses obeyed, and from their lofty stalls led out the fire-breathing steeds, well fed on the juice of ambrosia, and fitted their jingling bridles. Then the father touched his son’s face with a sacred ointment, making it able to endure the fierce flames, and set the rays upon his hair. Foreseeing grief, he sighed again and again from his troubled heart, and said: “If you can at least obey this counsel from your father, spare the whip, my boy, and use the reins with all your strength.

They hurry of their own accord; the task is to restrain their eagerness. Do not choose a straight course across the five zones: the road cuts slantwise through them in a broad curve, keeping within the bounds of three zones and avoiding the southern pole and the Bear beside the northern winds. Take this road: you will see the wheel tracks clearly. And so that heaven and earth receive an equal share of heat, neither drive the chariot too low nor urge it to the highest air.

If you rise too high, you will burn the dwellings of heaven; too low, the earth: in the middle lies your safest course. Do not stray too far right toward the coiling Serpent, nor let your left wheel lead you down toward the Altar: keep between the two. The rest I leave to Fortune, who, I pray, may help you and take better care of you than you yourself. While I speak, moist Night has reached the turning point set on the western shore. We are not free to linger: we are called for; dawn shines out, and the darkness has fled.

Take the reins in your hand—or, if your heart can still be changed, take my counsel, not my chariot, while you can, while you still stand on solid ground, before, unknowing, you mount the chariot you so unwisely wished for. Let me give light to the earth, and you watch in safety!”