Book XI
Orpheus
SUCH WERE THE SONGS of Orpheus: with these the Thracian poet charmed the woodland trees and souls of savage beasts; even the stones were held in thrall by Orpheus’ tender tones. But now the Thracian women—all had cast the hides of beasts around their frenzied breasts— down from a high hilltop, spied Orpheus as he attuned his lyre and his sweet voice. And one of these—hair streaming loose beneath light winds—cried out: “He’s there! The man who dares to scorn us.” Through the air she hurled her staff against Apollo’s poet; it was meant to smash his singing mouth; but since its tip was wreathed with leaves, it left a glancing mark, a hit that did no deadly work. At that, another woman cast a stone; but as it cleaved the air, it yielded to the spell of his enchanting voice and lyre: it fell at Orpheus’ feet as if compelled to seek forgiveness for its mad audacity. But nothing now can check the wild attack; fanatic Fury whips their rage. In truth, the song of Orpheus could have subdued all of their weapons; but his lyre is drowned by shrieks and caterwauls, the raucous sounds of drums and twisted Berecynthian flutes, bacchantes pounding hands, and strident howls. And so, at last, the stones were stained with blood, the blood of one whose voice could not be heard. Then the bacchantes chose to slaughter first the countless birds, the serpents, and the throng of savage beasts—all who were still spellbound by Orpheus: the trophies he had won, the living proof of his triumphant song. Then, with their gory hands, those women turned Latin [1–23] to Orpheus himself. They circled him as birds will do when they catch sight—by day— of some nocturnal bird of prey. The poet was like the stag who, in a spectacle, is doomed to die by morning light, when dogs surround him in the bounds of the arena. Some women, rushing at him, hurled their staffs, their thyrsi wreathed with green leaves—hardly meant to serve this purpose. Others cast thick clods, and some flung branches ripped from trunks, while rocks served others. And to stock the armory of frenzy with true weapons, there—nearby— by chance yoked oxen plowed the soil; not far from these, well-muscled, sweating peasants toiled. And when those peasants saw the women rush, when they caught sight of the fanatic crowd, those peasants fled at once, and on the ground they left behind their tools. Deserted fields were strewn with mattocks, heavy shovels, hoes. The women—crazed—rushed off, picked up those tools; and having torn apart the oxen—who had menaced with their horns—they hurried back to kill the poet. He, with arms outstretched, for the first time spoke words without effect; for the first time his voice did not enchant. And they—in desecration—murdered him; and from that mouth whose speech had even held the stones and savage beasts beneath its spell— o Jupiter—the soul, with its last breath, was driven out. The birds, in mourning, wept, o Orpheus—the throngs of savage beasts, and rigid stones, and forests, too—all these had often followed as you sang; the trees now shed their leafy crowns—as sign of grief, their trunks were bare. They say that even streams were swollen; yes, the rivers, too, shed tears; Latin [23–48] Naiads and Dryads fringed their veils with black and left their hair disheveled. Orpheus’ limbs lay scattered, strewn about; but in your flow, you, Hebrus, gathered in his head and lyre; and (look! a thing of wonder) once your stream had caught and carried them, the lyre began to sound some mournful notes; the lifeless tongue, too, murmured mournfully; and the response that echoed from the shores was mournful, too. Borne by your seaward flow, they leave their own dear Thracian stream; they’re carried to the coast. And there, a savage snake attacked the head that had been cast onto that foreign shore— a head still drenched and dripping, damp with spray. But Phoebus intervened: just as that snake was set to bite, the god froze his spread jaws, converting him to stone just as he was: with open mouth. The Shade of Orpheus descends beneath the earth. The poet knows each place that he had visited before; and searching through the fields of pious souls, he finds Eurydice. And there they walk together now: at times they are side by side; at times she walks ahead with him behind; at other times it’s Orpheus who leads— but without any need to fear should he turn round to see his own Eurydice.
The Bacchantes
But Bacchus would not leave that crime unscourged. His grief was great; and to avenge the loss of Orpheus, the poet who had sung of Bacchus’ sacred mysteries, the god at once bound fast with twisting roots all those who’d shared in such a crime. And when their toes Latin [48–71] were lengthened, Bacchus thrust them tight and hard into the solid ground. Just as a bird whose claw is caught within the cunning trap a fowler set, can feel it’s gripped, and flaps and flutters but, while struggling, only draws the snare still tighter: so each woman was held fast within the soil; and when she sought, in fear, to free herself, the pliant root gripped even harder every time she shook. When any woman asked where were her toes, her nails, her feet, the tree bark simply rose: she watched it climb along her tender thighs; she tried to beat those thighs in sign of grief, but all she did was pound against a tree. Her breast and shoulders now were wooden, too; you could have taken—not mistakenly— her arms to be the boughs of an oak tree.
Midas (Metamorphoses XI)
Troy
Avenged in full, Latona’s son can leave the slopes of Tmolus. Now Apollo cleaves the limpid air; before his flight has reached the straits of Helle, daughter of Nephele, he comes to earth. Between two promontories— right of Sigeum, left of those deep seas that ring Rhoeteum—stands an ancient altar to Jove the Thunderer, author of all the oracles. From there Apollo saw Laomedon beginning to build walls for his new city, Troy. And he could tell how hard those labors were, what means—not small— were needed to complete those awesome walls. At that, together with the god who bears the trident, ruler of the swollen sea, he took on human form and, for the king of Phrygia, built those walls; it was agreed— before they had begun—that they’d receive the payment for their finished task in gold. The work was done. But false Laomedon defaulted on his debt: they did not get the gold he owed; with perjured words he swore that he had never promised a reward. The sea-god answered: “You will pay for this!” And he bent all his waters’ force against Latin [189–208] the shores of Troy the miserly; the flood made all of Troy seem like a sea; it seized the farmers’ crops and buried fields beneath the surge. And even that was not enough, for Neptune ordered them to offer up Hesione, the daughter of the king; they had to chain her fast to a hard reef as prey for some fierce monster of the deep. But she was saved by Hercules, who then asked for the horses they had promised him as payment. And again a task was left unrecompensed. And he waged war against twice-faithless Troy as punishment for that: he, Hercules, the victor, razed their walls.
Peleus & Thetis
His ally in that war was Telamon. He, too—when they had won—received a prize: Hesione—he gained a royal bride. Alongside Telamon there also fought his brother, Peleus; he, however, was already famous as the man who’d won a goddess as a wife: indeed, his father- in-law inspired no less pride in Peleus than his grandfather did: more than one mortal could boast of having Jove as his grandfather, but only Peleus had as wife a goddess. It was old Proteus who had prophesied to Thetis: “Goddess of the waves, conceive— for you will bear a boy; and when he’s reached his prime, he will outdo his father’s deeds; and men will celebrate his name and fame as one who puts his father’s might to shame.” That prophecy made Jove most cautious: thoug within his heart an ardent fire glowed for Thetis, goddess of the sea, he shunned Latin [208–26] her arms, her couch; if Thetis bore a son whom he had fathered, earth would harbor one more mighty than himself. And so he bid his grandson, Peleus, son of Aeacus, to take the place of lover in his stead, to seek and wed that virgin of the sea. There is a bay in Thessaly that curves much like a sickle; two protruding arms of land enclose a cove that could indeed serve as a harbor if it had more depth. Instead, the sea lies shallow on the sands. The shore is firm, and footsteps leave no trace; there is no seaweed there to slow one’s pace— one does not sink or slide. Beyond the beach there is a grove of myrtles that can boast bicolored berries thick upon the bough. There is a grotto in that grove, and though one cannot say with certainty that art or nature was its maker, what it shows seems more like artist’s work. It was this grotto that often served you, Thetis: naked, you would ride your bridled dolphin to that cave. There, overcome by sleep, you lay, when he surprised you, seized you; but—though he beseeched— you would not yield to him; and so he tried to force you, twisting both his arms around your neck. If you’d not been adept in all the arts of transformation, your honed skills, he would have had his way; but you were now a bird—and though he gripped a bird, he still held fast; and now a tree, whose trunk might well have crushed him—yet his clutch did not relent. And so, as your third change, you chose to take a spotted tigress’ shape. That was too much: afraid, the son of Aeacus let go. Latin [226–46] Then Peleus left that cave: he went to pray, to pour wine-offerings upon the waves, to bring entrails of sheep, to burn incense, to ask the sea-gods’ aid. At his behest, old Proteus, the seer of Carpathus, rose from the sea’s abyss to tell him this: “O son of Aeacus, you will possess the bride you so desire. There is but one thing that you must do: when she lies down in her cool cavern, while she is too numb with sleep to notice anything, you are to tie her with tenacious cords and knots. And when she wakes, don’t falter; though she takes a hundred lying shapes, hold fast, be firm until she has regained her own true form.” Now Proteus was done; he hid his face beneath the waters, and he let a wave— as it flowed back—enclose his final words. The Sun was sinking low; his chariot sloped down to the western sea; and now the fair sea-goddess sought her grotto; there she slept upon her customary couch. And when she woke, she found her virgin body gripped by Peleus—he’d attacked. At once she took shape after shape, until she felt her limbs were bound hard fast; her arms were pinioned, tied apart and wide, one to each side. At last, she moaned and said: “You never could have won, had you not had a god as your ally.” At that, she took on her own form; as Thetis, the goddess yielded to the hero. Peleus embraced her; he fulfilled his dream, and she was pregnant with the seed of great Achilles. Latin [247–65] []{##Top_of_c110_xhtml .anchor}
Ceyx
And Peleus was a happy father and a happy husband—one completely blessed if he had not, by fatal accident, killed Phocus, his half-brother. And for that bloodstain, his father’s house was barred to him; and he sought refuge in the land of Trachin. There, Ceyx, son of Lucifer, was king; there, not by force or acts of blood, he reigned with all his father’s radiance in his face. But at the time when Peleus reached his realm, the king was sad, unrecognizable, in mourning for the loss of his own brother. His journey had been long, his cares were many; when Peleus came to Trachin, he was weary. Outside the walls, within a shaded valley, he left the flocks and herds he’d taken with him: with but few men, he entered Ceyx’ city. As soon as he was given leave to see King Ceyx, he came forward; suppliant, he held an olive bough that had been wrapped in woolen bands whose borders veiled his hands, as he announced his name and lineage. The one thing that he hid was his own crime; and, to explain his flight, he told a lie. And then he pleaded for a chance to find some way, in town or country, to provide a new life for himself. The king was kind: “This realm is hardly inhospitable; its gods are open even to the humble, o Peleus. There’s not only our goodwill, there are your own rich merits: you can claim much fame—and are a grandson of great Jove. Don’t waste your time on pleas; you will receive all that you seek; and everything you see is yours to share and use. If only we Latin [266–88] could offer greater joy to meet your needs!” Here Ceyx wept. And Peleus and his men asked for the cause of his profound lament.
Daedalion
This tale was his reply. “Indeed you may believe that he, the bird who lives on prey and terrifies all other birds, was always a feathered thing—but he was once a man. The spirit’s bent and bias are so constant, that even then he was ferocious, set on battles, always keen for violence. His name—Daedalion; and he was born, like me, of Lucifer, the one who summons Aurora and is, too, the last to leave the sky. I care for peace: tranquillity and family have been most dear to me; but what my brother loved was savage war. “He had a daughter, Chione—most lovely; and though she had just reached her fourteenth year, the marriageable age, she was already sought by as many as a thousand men. Both Phoebus and the son of Maia chanced to set their eyes on her at the same time. While Phoebus was returning from his Delphi, and Mercury from his Cyllene’s peak, the two at once were struck by ardent love. “The first put off until nightfall his hope of having Chione; but Mercury could not endure delay, and with his wand that brings on sleep, he touched the virgin’s lips. That wand has too much force: the girl submits, in deep sleep, to his godly violence. Then, when night scattered stars across the sky, Phoebus approached in an old woman’s guise; Latin [288–310] and from fair Chione he gathered more of those delights that had been reaped before by Mercury. Nine months had come, had gone; from seed that had been planted by the son of Maia, shrewd Autolycus was born: a connoisseur of wiles and guiles, an heir who passed off black as white and white as black, he fully matched his father’s art and craft; whereas Apollo’s son (the birth was twin) was Phillamon, much famed for lyre and song. But though the lovely girl had borne two sons and pleased two mighty gods and could claim one so brave as father and a star so bright as her grandfather—did the girl derive delight or profit? For we often find that fame does not bring fortune. Certainly her glory spelled the end of Chione. The girl was rash enough to say that she surpassed Diana’s beauty: she found flaws, unpleasing features, in the goddess’ form. Incensed, the goddess cried ferociously: ‘If not my features, then my flawless deeds will please you!’ And, at once, she bent her bow, drew back the string, and sped the arrow off; it pierced the guilty tongue. The tongue fell still: the voice, the words she tried to utter found no exit. Even as she tried to speak, her life, together with her blood, took leave. What misery was mine—an uncle’s grief! How many words of comfort did I speak to my dear brother! But just as the reefs respond to the low murmur of the sea, so did my brother then respond to me: all he could do was mourn for Chione. And when her body burned upon the pyre, four times he tried to leap into the fire; four times they thrust him back. In frenzy, he rushed off headlong across the trackless fields, Latin [310–34] like a young bull whose neck is stung by wasps. And even then he seemed to me to run more swiftly than a human being can. No one could catch him; keen to kill himself, he raced up to Parnassus’ peak—and leaped down from a cliff. Apollo, pitying my brother, made of him a bird with wings that sprouted suddenly; and he received a hooked beak and curved claws; but he did keep the courage that he had before—and force that seemed more great than body can support. And now he is a hawk, befriending none; all birds endure his savage indignation— himself aggrieved, he makes all other mourn.”
The Wolf
While Ceyx, son of Lucifer, told this amazing story of his brother’s fate, Onetor, Peleus’ Phocian cowherd, dashed into the palace, panting. “Peleus, Peleus,” the cowherd cried, “I carry dreadful news!” And Peleus urges him to tell in full, whatever news he brings: so, too, the king of Trachin, terrified, waits anxiously for tidings from those trembling lips. Then he, the cowherd, tells his story: “I was driving the weary oxen to the curving beach. Just then, along his course, the Sun had reached his highest point, a point from which he saw behind him just as much as lay ahead. Some oxen stretched out on the yellow sands and watched the ample surface of the sea; and some roamed here and there—quite lazily; and others swam, their necks above the water. Close to the sea a shadowed temple stood; it did not gleam with marble and bright gold; it’s hidden by thick trunks, in ancient woods— Latin [334–60] a shrine for Nereus and his Nereids, the god and goddesses who guard that sea (a sailor was the one who told me this, while, on the sandy shore, he dried his nets). Nearby, backwaters of the sea had formed a marsh enclosed by thickset willows’ shade. And from that marsh a monstrous beast burst out, a wolf who crashed ahead, who trampled, loud, and filled with terror all the countryfolk; his jaws were deadly, flecked with foam, blood-soaked; his blazing eyes were fiery red. Though rage and hunger spurred him on, rage was foremost. Indeed, he did not stop to fill his maw, to quell his savage hunger and devour the cattle he had killed; but out of hate he mangled all the herd—yet did not feast. And some of us, in trying to defend the herd, fell, too, beneath his fatal jaws. The shore, the shallow water, and the swamp were loud with bellowings and red with blood. But now, do not delay! Don’t hesitate! Before we have lost everything, let’s rush to arms—to charge the monster—all of us!” So said the countryman. But Peleus’ loss seemed not to touch him deeply: what he brought to mind was this—his crime, his having killed the son of the sad Nereid: this wolf was sent by Psamathe; the slaughtered herd had served as sacrifice to Phocus’ Shade. The king of Trachin now commands his men to put on armor; all must take in hand their deadly lances; he himself prepares to hunt the wolf with them. But when his wife, Alcyone, is roused by loud outcries, she rushes from her room—her hair is still uncombed and so accents her disarray; Latin [361–85] she throws herself upon his neck, she prays with words and tears, imploring him to stay: there is no need for him to join the rest; it is enough for him to send out aid— and doing so, he can be sure to save himself and her: in sum, two lives in one. And Peleus, hearing this, says: “Queen, your fears move me; yes, they are seemly; but be sure, they can be set to rest. You have my thanks for offering your help; but I don’t wish strange monsters to be met by weaponry. There is, instead, a proper remedy: I must pray to the goddess of the sea.” Above the citadel a tall tower rose, a tower at whose top there always blazed a signal fire that offered welcome aid to weary ships. This was the spot they reached. From there, in sad dismay, they saw the beach strewn with dead cattle, and the savage beast, his muzzle and his shaggy hair blood-soaked; hands stretched out to the shore and open sea, the son of Aeacus prayed fervently to Psamathe, the sea-blue nymph, that she might set aside her wrath—might shower mercy. But Peleus’ prayer did not stir Psamathe. Instead, it was his wife, the goddess Thetis, who, interceding for him, led the nymph to pardon Peleus, son of Aeacus. But though he had been ordered to retreat, the wolf has found the taste of blood so sweet that, frenzied, he persists—until the nymph, as he held fast a heifer he had ripped, changed him to marble. But his body kept the shape and stance it had—in all respects, except its color: just its stony hue reveals that he’s no longer wolf but statue— Latin [386–406] that need be feared no more. And yet the fates did not wish exiled Peleus to remain in Trachin; so the nomad left—and came at last into Magnesia, the land of King Acastus, the Haemonian. And it was there that Peleus, at the hands of good Acastus, was completely cleansed of his bloodguilt.
Ceyx & Alcyone
Meanwhile, King Ceyx, still perturbed by these strange things—his brother’s fate and then the singular events of late— wants to consult a sacred oracle; for oracles can comfort men in trouble. He wants to leave for Clarus (on that isle Apollo has a shrine): the sanctuary in Delphi was—just then—impossible to reach, for under impious Phorbas, the Phlegyans had sacked the sacred city. But you, Alcyone, his trusted wife— it is to you that Ceyx first confides his plan. A sudden chill invades your bones; your face grows pale as boxwood; and your cheeks are wet with tears. Three times she tries to speak; three times her face is tear-streaked as she weeps. At last, though sobs still interrupt her plea, she utters her affectionate entreaty: “What fault of mine has turned your mind awry? Your care for me was once the first of things— where has that gone? My dearest one, are we so distant now that you can tranquilly leave your Alcyone alone? Long journeys— do those intrigue you now? When I am far, am I more dear to you? But I should hope that you will go by way of land. At least— Latin [406–25] although I grieve—I will not have such need to fear: I’ll suffer but without despair. It is the sea that haunts me: there is terror in the drear image of its endless waters. Lately, I saw some planks along the beach, the shattered remnants of a wreck at sea; and often I’ve seen tombs that bore a name, although, within those tombs, nobody lay. And do not let illusions cozen you: the father of your wife may be the son of Hippotas—yes, Aeolus is one who holds the winds as prisoner and may, whenever he so wills it, calm the waves. But once the winds, unleashed, have reached the deep, they can be curbed no more; there is no land, there is no tract of water to withstand their power: no thing then is safe from them. They can harass the highest clouds of heaven; and when contending winds collide, impact, wind batters wind, and then red lightnings flash. (As a child, I often saw those winds within my father’s house—I know them—and be sure the more I know of them, the more I fear.) But if no plea of mine can change your plan, if you in truth must leave, then take me, too, dear husband; let me journey out with you. The storms will batter both of us, and I will only have to fear what meets my eyes. As one, we shall endure whatever comes; as one, we’ll sail the sea’s immensity!” The words and tears of Aeolus’ dear daughter have deeply moved the son of Lucifer: he feels in full the fire of love for her. And yet he won’t renounce his voyage out by sea, nor would he have Alcyone share any of the dangers he might meet. He tries, with many suasive words, to ease Latin [425–48] her frightened heart. But she cannot agree. At that, he adds these words, the only pledge that calms his loving wife, wins her consent: “There’s no delay that won’t seem long to us; yet by my father’s radiant fires, I promise that if my fate permits me to return, you are to see me home again before the moon has twice filled all of her white orb.” Alcyone, on hearing Ceyx’ vow, is filled with hope that he’ll return; and now he tells his men to launch his ship at once, with proper gear to meet its every need. When she has seen that done, Alcyone— as if she could foresee what is to come— shudders anew, sheds tears, embraces him, and, desperate, at last with sad voice says farewell, then falls as a dead body falls. And now, though Ceyx would have liked to linger, his keen young men are quick to cleave the water; aligned in double rows, with measured strokes, back to their sturdy chests they draw their oars. Alcyone lifts tearful eyes: she sees her husband standing at the curving stem; he signals first; with waving hand he greets his wife, and she replies with other signs. And when the shore is long since left behind, and faces can’t be seen by loving eyes, she scans the sea as best she can, until the ship recedes from sight. And when it fades, her eyes, still watchful, seek the far-off sail that flutters at the summit of the mast. When even that is gone, she hurries back in desperation, to her room—and there she throws herself upon the empty bed. The room, the bed renew her drear lament; she thinks upon the part of her that left. Latin [448–73] The ship had left the harbor, and the wind was rattling through the rigging. They drew in their oars and let them dangle at shipside; they ran the yard high up the mast; to catch each breath of quickening breeze, all sails were spread. By now the ship had traveled slightly less or one might say, no more—then half her course: the land they’d left and land they headed toward were both far off. Night fell; the rough seas swelled with foaming whitecaps, Eurus’ gusting force grew ominous. “Haul down the yard at once,” the captain shouted; “tight reef all the sails!” He shouted, but his sharp command is drowned by blustering winds: the storm advances now— no human voice is heard; the surge is loud. But even so, some sailors, on their own, now stow the oars, some seal up the oar holes; some reef the sails while others now bail out the waters flooding in: they pour the sea into the sea—all this, confusedly. The storm redoubles force; the winds wage war ferociously; they chum the angry waters. The captain, too, is fearful; even he, despite his skill, is helpless in these seas. And there is uproar everywhere: the howls of men, the creaking rigging, and the roar of wave on wave, and thunder from the sky. The surge is mountainous; it seems to rise to heaven, where it sprays the clouds with spume; now, sweeping up the bottom of the sea, the waves take on the tawny hue of sand; and now they are as black as waves of Styx; and then, from time to time, as they spread out, the waves are white with the resounding foam. And like the surge, the ship of Ceyx, too, is in the grip of chance, of sudden shifts; now lifted high, as from a mountain peak, she seems to look below, into the deep Latin [474–504] of valleys, lowest Acheron’s abyss; now, driven down, hemmed in by surge that twists, from pools as deep as Styx—on distant skies so far above—she seems to set her sights. Huge combers often crash against her sides, as battering rams or catapults can strike a savaged citadel with massive thuds. And even as fierce lions gain new force just when they launch their final, frantic rush against poised spears, so, when contending gusts lash hard, the waters charge in wild assault against the hull and tower over it. The wedges now give way; the hull springs leaks; the surge has stripped the covering of pitch, and gaping seams let fatal waves pour in. The clouds have burst; great torrents now cascade; one would have thought that all the skies had fallen into the sea, while swollen waves had risen into the sky. The downpour soaks the sails, and all the waters—sea’s and heaven’s—mingle. Not one star shines. The night is doubly dark— with its own shades and shadows of the storm; and yet, from time to time, the dark is torn by flashing lightning bolts; and one can watch the waves glow red beneath the lightning’s glare— and see just how those waves invade the hull (by now, they don’t sweep through the seams but leap directly). As an eager soldier seeks to scale the walls of a beleaguered city and, after failing many times, succeeds at last and, all aflame with love of fame, leaps over that great wall and finds himself the only one among a thousand men: just so, when some nine waves have tried to leap across the hull’s high sides, it is the tenth that, surging even more ferociously, assaults the weary hull without a let until its overwhelming fury lifts Latin [504–32] that wave across the sides on to the deck— the wave has won; the hull is overcome. And thus, in this invasion of the ship, while one part of the sea is still without, the other part already is within— a time of terror, such as grips a town when some assail the ramparts from without, while other fighters rage inside the walls. Both skill and courage fail; no thing avails; each wave is like another headlong death. Some cannot check their tears, and some are mute. One sailor cries that those indeed are blessed who die on land and earn a burial; another prays and begs the gods to help, stretching his arms—in vain—up toward the sky, though there is nothing he can see on high. One calls to mind his brothers and his parents; another fastens on his house, his children; and each recalls what he has left behind. But Ceyx thinks of his Alcyone; it’s she alone for whom he longs—and yet he’s happy she is far away from this. If only he could see his native coast, could turn his eyes, for one last time, upon his home! But Ceyx does not know just where his own dear country lies: the sea is so tumultuous; and clouds as black as pitch conceal the sky; the night is doubly dark. A twister lashes at—and cracks—the mast; the rudder, too, is smashed. A wave, triumphant—proud of all its spoils and prey— heaves high, looks down upon the other waves, until—as if one were to tear away Mount Athos or Mount Pindus from its base— it falls headlong and, with its crushing weight, sends down the ship. And almost all the men, caught in the vortex, never rise again. Latin [552–59] But some do cling to the dismembered ship’s torn planks. And with the hand that once had gripped the scepter, Ceyx clutches at a remnant and calls—in vain—upon his father and father-in-law; but above all, his lips call on his wife, Alcyone; he thinks again, again of her—his memories are like an eddy; he implores the waves to bear his body to a shore where he may yet be seen by his Alcyone and she, with love, may bury his dead body. And as he swims, each time the surge permits his mouth to open, she is on his lips: the name—“Alcyone, Alcyone”— of one so distant. And he murmurs it even beneath the waves, when he can’t lift his weary head. At last, a jet-black mass of churning water arches overhead, above the other waves, and then it breaks— and buries him. The Morning Star—that dawn— is dim and dark: you never would have known that he was Lucifer—since he could not desert his station in the sky, he wrapped his face in thick clouds. In the land of Ceyx, his wife, who’d not yet heard of the disaster, counts off the nights; already she prepares the festive clothes that he and she will wear at his homecoming—conjuring a thing that never is to be. Devotedly, she offers up incense to all the gods; but Juno is the one she honors most, and Juno’s shrine is where she always goes to pray for Ceyx—one already dead: she asks that her dear husband may be kept free from all harm and injury, that he come home to his Alcyone, and meet Latin [559–81] and love no other woman on his journey. Of those three things Alcyone implored, only the last request was granted her. But Juno found it hard to hear these pleas— these prayers for the dead; that she might free her altar from the unclean hands of one whom death has touched with loss, she called upon her faithful Iris: “Trusted messenger, go quickly to the drowsy house of Sleep, and have him send Alcyone a dream, an image that appears in Ceyx’ shape and shows him dead and tells of his true fate.” Such were her words; and Iris, in her cloak that shows a thousand colors, arched across the sky in rainbow guise. She went to seek the palace of King Sleep, well-hid beneath its covering of clouds. A cavern stands close to the land of the Cimmerians: a hollow mountain shelters many deep recesses of that cave; and sluggish Sleep lives there, in secrecy. No sun can reach within—none of its rising, noontime, or its setting rays; there fog and vapors pour up from the earth: it is crepuscular. No crested cock keeps vigil there, no crows to summon bright Aurora; there is no watchdog to break the silence with his barks, no goose, who’s even more alert than hounds. One hears no cattle low, no roaring beasts, no sound of branches rustling in the breeze; there is no clattering of human speech. That place belongs to silence—but for this: out from the bottom of the stony cave, the stream of Lethe flows; and as its waves traverse the gravel bed along their way, Latin [581–604] their gentle murmuring invites to sleep. The entranceway is graced by many beds of flowering poppies and the countless herbs from which damp night distills her hypnagogic elixir to spread sleep across dark earth. Lest any turning hinge might creak, there is no door in all that house; no watchman waits along the threshold. In the central space a couch of ebony stands tall—black, too, the feather mattress and the heavy blanket. The god himself sprawls there with languid limbs; and there, upon all sides, arrayed around him, in many miming shapes, lie futile Dreams, as many as a harvest’s ears of wheat, as many as the leaves upon the trees, or as the grains of sand cast on the beach. No sooner had the virgin Iris made her way into that room (she brushed away the Dreams that blocked her path), than all that space, that sacred dwelling place, was filled with light: the splendor of her cloak undid the night. And Sleep, whose eyes were heavy, found it hard to open them and, when he propped himself, sank back again and knocked his chin, nodding against his chest, until at last he shook himself free of himself and, rising up— his elbow served as his support—asked her (for he indeed knew who she was) just why she had come; and Iris answered him: “O Sleep, the gentlest of the gods, it’s you who bring repose to everything; you offer peace unto the soul; you banish cares; you soothe our bodies worn with labor; you refresh our bodies, so that we can face new tasks; it’s you, o Sleep, of whom I now ask this: do tell a Dream, one of that band who knows just how to mime true forms, that he must go Latin [604–27] to Trachin, town where Hercules was born; before Alcyone, have him appear as one who was shipwrecked, and have him wear the features of King Ceyx. So says Juno.” Her mission done, she left; for she could not withstand that cavern’s soporific force. As she felt sleep invade her limbs, she fled. Along the curving rainbow arch by which she’d passed before, she now retraced her steps. King Sleep was father of a thousand sons— indeed a tribe—and of them all, the one he chose was Morpheus, who had such skill in miming any human form at will. No other Dream can match his artistry in counterfeiting men: their voice, their gait, their face—their moods; and, too, he imitates their dress precisely and the words they use most frequently. But he mimes only men; for it’s another Dream who can become a quadruped, a bird, or a long snake: that Dream the gods call Icelos—but when he’s named by common mortals, he’s Phobetor. And still another brother Dream can claim quite special gifts: his name is Phantasos; the forms that he assumes deceive, intrigue: the shapes of earth and rocks, and water, trees— in sum, of lifeless things. And there are Dreams who show themselves by night to kings and chiefs, while others roam among the common folk. But the old god sets all of these aside; and of his many sons, he takes this one to do what Thanaus’ daughter said he must— and as I said, that Dream was Morpheus. That done, the god gives way to drowsiness; he hides his head beneath his thick black blankets. Latin [627–49] Now, quick to leave the cavern, Morpheus flies on his noiseless wings across the darkness. And soon he reaches Trachin. There he sheds his wings: he takes the face and form of Ceyx and, like a pale cadaver—not a shred of clothing on him—stands beside the bed of the dejected wife. His hair is drenched, his beard is soggy; dripping from his head are heavy drops. Over the bed he bends; his face is wet with tears. As Morpheus cries, he says: “Sad wife, oh, do you recognize your Ceyx? Or has death disfigured me? Look carefully; you’ll see who I must be. Yet I am not your husband but his Shade. Alcyone, it is in vain you prayed— I’m dead. Don’t let delusion leave you prey to barren hopes: I can’t come home again. The south wind caught my ship on the Aegean; he tossed her with his tempest force—she sank. Again, again, my lips cried out your name as I was thrust below and drank the waves; I am no messenger whom one can doubt— what you hear now is not some vague report. It’s I myself, the one who was shipwrecked, who tell you here—directly—of my death. Come, then, shed tears, and put on mourning dress; don’t let me go unhonored by lament down into Tartarus, that barren land!” And Morpheus employed a voice so like her husband’s, that he could not be denied. Even his tears seemed true; and as he moved, his gestures were the gestures Ceyx used. Alcyone, still in her sleep, began to mourn and weep; she tried to reach her man with outstretched arms; she wanted to embrace his body, but it was thin air she clasped. Latin [650–75] She cried: “Wait, wait for me! Where do you flee! Let me go, too, with you!” Her own loud plea and Ceyx’ image woke the anxious wife; and, first, she looked around to see if he whom she had seen just now was at her side. Her servingwomen, startled by her cries, had brought a lamp into her room. But she could not find him; she beat her cheeks, then ripped her robe off from her chest, and rent her breasts; and she tore at her hair—she took no care to loose it first; and to her nurse, who asked what was the cause of such despair, she cried: “Alcyone is done! She’s done! She died together with her Ceyx. Cast aside consoling words! He’s shipwrecked! He is dead! I saw him, and I knew him, and I tried to hold him in my outstretched hand; I tried to clasp and—as he left—to hold him back. It was a Shade, but it was his true Shade— my husband’s Shade. Yes, yes, his face did lack the life that it once had, its radiance. Poor me, I saw him pale and naked and with hair still damp. A sorry sight, he stood just here, just at this point” (and here she bent to see if there were still some trace of him). “This is what I had feared; I foresaw this— that’s why I begged him not to leave me, not to trust the winds! But since you left to die, you should at least have had me at your side. It would have been far better for me then; no instant of my life would have been spent away from you; then, too, we’d not have met death separately. For now, though I am here, I’ve died; though I am here, I, too, contend with waves; and although I am not at sea, it is the sea that swallows me. Indeed, my heart would be more savage than the sea, were I to strive to live still longer, try Latin [676–703] to overcome—to last beyond—this grief. But I won’t try; I won’t leave you alone; at least this time, sad Ceyx, I shall come along with you; this time I’m your companion. And if we’re not entombed in the same urn, at least the letters of our epitaph will join us; if my bones don’t touch your bones, at least my name will touch your name.” But grief stops speech; her words retreat before her moans; from her sad heart, all she can draw are groans. When morning came, she went down to the shore, to that same place where she had gone before to see him sailing off. She lingered there and murmured: “But this very spot is where he loosed that cable, and this spot is where he kissed me at his parting.” Even as she called to mind each scene and watched the sea, she saw, far off, along the waves, that something was floating—and it could well be a body. At first, she was not sure just what it was; but when the surge had pushed it somewhat closer— though still far off—it was becoming clear that, in that sea, there was indeed a body. She did not know whose corpse it was; and yet Alcyone was moved, for he was shipwrecked; and she took pity on him, just as one will pity an unknown: “Unhappy man, whoever you may be—unhappy wife, if you indeed are married.” And the body, thrust forward by the waves, came closer still; and even as she watched it, she grew more bewildered. It was closer now to shore, and closer, closer still—now she was sure: it was her husband. “It is he!” she cried; she tore her cheeks, her hair, her robe; she stretched her trembling hands toward Ceyx, as she said: Latin [703–27] “O dearest husband, is it thus that you, so wretchedly, at last return to me?” Along the shore, there stood a long breakwater: the work of man, it broke the waves’ onslaught by sapping it before it gained full force. And there she ran and leaped into the surge. That she could reach that mole was in itself a miracle: in truth, Alcyone had flown to that high spot with her new wings. With these, she beat the yielding waves and skimmed— poor bird—the combers’ crests; her mouth—by now a slender beak—gave forth such sounds as seemed to come from one who knew lament and grief. And when she reached the silent, lifeless body, she threw her newfound wings round his dear limbs; she tried to warm him with her kisses, but in vain—her beak was hard, her kisses cold. Did Ceyx feel the kisses that she gave? Or was it just the motion of the waves that made the drowned man seem to lift his face? Men were unsure. But this must be the truth: he felt those kisses. For the gods were moved to pity, changing both of them to birds— at last. Their love remained; they shared one fate. Once wed, they still were wed: they kept their bond. They mate; they rear their young; when winter comes, for seven peaceful days Alcyone— upon a cliff that overlooks the sea— broods on her nest. The surge is quiet then, for Aeolus won’t let his winds run free: he keeps them under guard, so that the sea maintain the peace his fledgling grandsons need. Latin [727–48] []{##Top_of_c114_xhtml .anchor}
Aesacus
An old man, as he watched that pair of birds fly over broad expanses of the sea, was praising Ceyx and Alcyone, who loved each other so enduringly. And one who stood nearby—or it may be the same old man himself—then told this story: “And that bird, too, the one whom you can see skimming the sea—the one whose legs are slender” (he pointed to a long-necked, swift merganser, a fervent diver) “is of royal birth. His forebears, if you want to hear in full his line from its beginning down to him, were Ilus and Assaracus and he whom Jove stole, Ganymede; and then came old Laomedeon and Priam, king who ruled in Troy’s last days. And Aesacus himself was Hector’s brother: if he had not suffered so strange a fate while he was still quite young, he might have won as much renown as Hector— though Hector was the son of Dymas’ daughter, while Aesacus was born—so it is said— of Alexiroe, who had as father Granicus, the horned river-god; and she gave birth to Aesacus most secretly, at wooded Ida’s base. He hated towns and kept away from regal banquet halls; he lived on solitary mountain slopes and in the simple countryside; he went to visit Troy but rarely—an assembly from time to time was quite enough for him. And yet his Trojan heart was hardly crude— nor steeled against soft love: he would pursue Hesperie, whose father Cebren was a river-god. For Aesacus had seen that nymph along her father’s banks as she Latin [749–69] was drying her long hair beneath the sun. When she saw him, she fled, just as the hind will flee the tawny wolf, or a wild duck, too far from her own customary marsh, will flee if she is startled by a hawk. The Trojan races after her, as swift with love as she with fear. But now the nymph is bitten by a serpent who had hid within the grass; just as Hesperie passed, he struck her foot with his hooked fangs and left his venom in her veins. And when her life was spent, so was her flight. In his despair, her lover clasped her lifeless form and mourned: ‘I should not have pursued you: I repent. But I could not imagine this. To win our race, I’d not have paid this price. Poor girl, it’s two of us who killed you: yes, the wound came from the snake, but I had caused the race. I am more guilty than he is—and I, to make amends for your death, offer mine.’ “That said, down from a seaside cliff whose base the waves had worn away, the Trojan leaped into the sea. But Thetis, taking pity, received him gently, softening his fall; and as he floated on the waters, she clothed him with feathers: she did not concede to him the death he’d sought so eagerly. The lover now is furious: he sees that he, against his will, is forced to live and that his soul, so eager to desert its wretched site, is not allowed to leave. So with the newfound wings upon his shoulders, he lifts himself and then again falls back; his fall is softened by his feathers. Frenzied, he dives headlong, dives deep; it’s death he needs; he seeks, reseeks a fatal path. His love had made him lean; between his joints, his legs Latin [770–93] are slender still, as is his neck; his head is distant from his body. And indeed he loves the water still, and since he dives beneath it, he is called the diving bird— merganser—always wanting to submerge.” Latin [794–95]