How King Midas Lost His Ears

Phrygia, a country in Asia, needed a new king. An old saying at the court foretold that one day their ruler would arrive in a farm wagon. Few took this prophecy seriously until, to everyone's surprise, a peasant named Gordius and his wife drove into the public square in an ox cart. Their son, Midas, sat between them. Gordius dismounted and tied the wagon with such a complex knot that it seemed he meant the oxen to stay there forever. This knot became known as the Gordian knot, and it was said that whoever could untie it would rule all of Asia. The wagon remained fastened outside the palace gates. Gordius and his wife walked home, leaving Midas behind. Because this fulfilled the prophecy exactly, Midas was made king and placed on the throne of Phrygia.

Midas had every chance to be a great ruler, for his humble birth need not have hindered him. But from the very beginning of his reign, he used his power to satisfy his own wishes instead of fulfilling the will of the people. He made the acquaintance of Bacchus, the god of vineyards, who wore vine leaves in his curling hair and always carried a goblet of purple grape juice. Bacchus was friendly and peaceful and enjoyed human company. Unexpectedly, he offered Midas his choice of any wish he desired. What did King Midas ask but that everything he touched should turn to gold! He hardly believed Bacchus could grant such greedy power, and Bacchus wished Midas had made a better choice. Nevertheless, the god consented.

King Midas hurried off to test his gift alone, so he would not have to share it. He could hardly believe his eyes when an oak twig he pulled from a branch turned into a solid gold bar in his fingers. He picked up a stone; it became a gold nugget. He touched a piece of sod; it turned into a mass of thick, heavy gold dust. He snatched an apple from a tree; it was as if he had stolen a golden apple from the gardens of the Hesperides. King Midas's joy knew no bounds. He rushed home and ordered his servants to prepare a costly and elaborate feast to celebrate his newfound gift of gold.

He was hungry and could scarcely wait to eat. He almost snatched a piece of white bread to begin his meal. To his astonishment, 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 a thick, molten liquid of gold. Whatever Midas tried to eat—fowls, fruit, cakes—all turned to gold before he could even touch the food to his lips. Surrounded by wealth, he faced death by starvation. Raising his arms, which were shining with gold, he begged Bacchus to save him from his own glittering destruction.

Although the gods could grant gifts, Bacchus could not relieve a man from the dangers of misusing a divine gift unless the man helped himself. But Bacchus was too kind-hearted to abandon the foolish king. He consented to show Midas a way out of his dilemma. "Go," Bacchus told him, "to the River Pactolus. Follow its winding course to the fountainhead, then plunge your body and head into its waters to wash away your greed and its punishment."

It was a long and difficult journey for King Midas. His joints creaked and were stiff with the golden metal they had become. He could find no food or any bed that did not instantly turn to gold at his touch. He had to flee from robbers who pursued this fugitive form of gold. At last, he reached the river, immersed himself, and felt relief as his stiff, glittering body softened back to natural flesh. "I have had enough of the power of gold," Midas said upon returning to his court. "From now on, I will avoid all riches and live in the country."

So King Midas acquired 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 beloved of all the gods, for his domain was the beautiful, wide outdoors. He wandered the mountains and valleys through all seasons, peering into grottos where shepherds lived, amusing himself by chasing nymphs, and bringing laughter and merriment 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 wiles. One summer day, Diana, the huntress, was roaming through a forest when she heard a rustle of leaves behind her. Turning, she saw the dark, mocking face of Pan, his horned head and hairy body. Diana fled, and Pan followed. He must have known she was a goddess, for her hunting horn and bow were of silver like the moon whose deity she was, but that did not stop him. He pursued her as she ran in terror until they came to a riverbank. There, Pan overtook her. Diana had only time to call to her friends, the water nymphs, for aid when Pan clasped her in his arms. But it was not Diana he held. He grasped only a tuft of dripping water reeds, through which the nymphs had let the goddess escape. Pan raised the reeds and breathed a sigh through them because of his failed prank. The reeds produced a lovely melody.

Charmed by the novelty and sweetness of the music, Pan took some reeds of unequal lengths, placed them side by side, and bound them together. Thus he made his pipes, on which he learned to play tunes like birds singing and brooks babbling.

King Midas enjoyed his country life and made the acquaintance of Pan, as he had of Bacchus. He encouraged Pan in his tricks and flattered him by praising his pipe playing. "If you think me skillful, King Midas," Pan boasted, "I might challenge Apollo to a musical contest." "An excellent idea," replied Midas. Midas should have known better, and so should the reckless Pan. Apollo's lute was the musical instrument of the heavens, while Pan's pipes could only play earthly tunes. Nevertheless, Pan summoned 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 the rustic melody on his pipes, which greatly pleased King Midas, who sat nearby to listen.

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 the earth was filled with the music of the gods. The mountain god swept away the trees surrounding him to 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 and echo the harmony to the skies. The mountain god awarded victory to Apollo, but King Midas objected. "I prefer the music of Pan's pipes," he said. "I question Tmolus's judgment."

Poor old Midas, still self-centered and earthly! Apollo could not allow such depraved ears to remain in human form any longer. He touched Midas's ears, and they began to lengthen and shift where they joined his head, growing heavy inside and out. Midas now had the ears of an ass! Such mortification for a king to bear! He could not bear it alone and confided the secret of his odd ears to the court hairdresser, seeking help to disguise them. "But on pain of death, do not tell anyone about my ears!" Midas commanded.

The hairdresser cut the king's hair to cover the floppy ass's ears and even fashioned a large turban to conceal them further. But he could not keep such a good secret. He went into a meadow, dug a hole in the ground, stooped down, whispered the secret into it, and then carefully covered it up. In a very short time, a thick bed of reeds sprang up in that exact spot. As soon as the reeds grew high enough for the breezes to play upon them, they began to whisper the story of the king who had to finish his reign with a pair of ass's ears because of his self-will. And it is said that the meadow reeds, blown by the wind, tell the story of King Midas to this day.