Minerva heard the story, and praised the song
And praised the righteous anger, but was thinking:
"It is very well, this praise, but I myself
Deserve some praise; I too should show resentment
Toward those who flout my power." She was thinking
About Arachne, a Maeonian girl,
Who, she had heard, was boasting of her talent,
Calling it better even than Minerva's,
In spinning and weaving wool. The girl was no one
In birth, nor where she came from; her father, Idmon,
Was a dyer, steeping thirsty wool with crimson.
Her mother was dead, a common sort of person,
With the same sort of husband, but the daughter
Was famous for her skill, and it had traveled
Through all the Lydian towns, though she herself
Lived in the little village of Hypaepa.
The nymphs themselves would often watch in wonder,
Leaving their vineyards or the river waters,
To see her finished work, or watch her working
With such deft gracefulness. It did not matter
Whether she wound the yarn in balls, or shaped it
With skillful fingers, reaching to the distaff
For more material, all soft and cloudy,
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Transfigured to long threads, or whether she twisted
The spindle with quick thumb, or plied the needle.
You would know, most surely, that Minerva taught her,
Yet she would not admit it, seemed offended
At the suggestion of so great a teacher:
"I challenge her, and if I lose, there's nothing
I would refuse to pay!"
Disguised, Minerva
Came, an old woman with gray hair, half crippled,
Hobbling along with a cane to help her footsteps,
Telling Arachne: "Old age, let me tell you,
Has some things we should never run away from:
Experience comes with time; hear my advice:
Confine your reputation as a weaver
To human beings, but defer to a goddess,
Be humble in her presence, ask her pardon,
You reckless creature, for your arrogance.
She will be gracious, if you only ask it."
But no: Arachne glowered, stared her down,
Let fall her threads to free her hands for striking,
Controlled herself a little, but spoke in anger:
"You silly old fool, to come to me! Your trouble
Is having lived too long. Your daughters, maybe,
Or your sons' wives, perhaps, might listen to you.
I can look after myself; you are getting nowhere,
You cannot change my mind with all that nonsense.
As for your wonderful goddess, why, where is she?
Why does she dodge the challenge I have offered?"
"She is here," Minerva answered. She was there,
No longer an old woman, but a presence
Whom the nymphs worshipped and the native women.
Arachne was not awed, though she was startled,
Blushing and paling, as the sky at morning
Shows crimson first, then whitens. Still Arachne
Maintains defiance, with a stupid passion
Rushing to doom. Minerva takes the challenge,
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Abandons admonition. The looms are set,
The fine warp stretched, the web is bound to the beam,
Reeds keep the threads apart, the shuttle threads
Shrill through the woof, the busy fingers plying.
With robes tucked up they speed the work, their hands,
Deft at the task, fly back and forth, the labor
Made less by eagerness. From the dark purple
The threads shade off to lighter pastel colors,
Like rainbow after storm, a thousand colors
Shining and blending, so the eye could never
Detect the boundary line, and yet the arcs
Are altogether different. Threads of gold
Were woven in, and each loom told a story.
Minerva showed the hill of Mars in Athens
And that old conflict over the name of the land.
There sat the twelve great gods of the high Heaven,
On lofty thrones in majesty, and Jove
Presiding, royal, above the well-known faces.
And there stood Neptune, smiting with his trident
The cliff of rock, and the gush of the sea-water
Proving his title to the rule of the city.
To herself Minerva gave the spear, the helmet,
The aegis for her breastplate, and the earth,
Under her spear, produced the gray-green olive,
Hung thick with fruit, and the gods looked on in wonder.
The work has Victory's ultimatum in it,
But that her challenger may have full warning
What her reward will be for her daring rashness,
In the four corners the goddess weaves four pictures,
Bright in their color, each one saying Danger!
In miniature design. One corner shows
Haemus and Rhodope, cold mountains now,
Who once, audacious mortals, had assumed
The names of gods most high; a second corner
Portrays the fate of the Pygmy queen, whom Juno
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Turned into a crane, made to attack the people
She once ruled over. And she showed, beside,
Antigone, who dared compete with Juno,
Whom Juno made a stork, white-winged, and clashing
Her clacking bill; much good it did her
That she was born in Troy, or that her father
Was king Laomedon. In the fourth corner
Cinyras tried to embrace the temple-steps
That once had been his daughters; he lies on stone,
He seems to weep. All this the goddess ended
With a border of peaceful olive-wreath around it,
Her very signature.
Arachne also
Worked in the gods, and their deceitful business
With mortal girls. There was Europa, cheated
By the bull's guise; you would think him real, the creature,
Real as the waves he breasted, and the girl
Seems to be looking back to the lands of home,
Calling her comrades, lifting her feet a little
To keep them above the lift and surge of the water.
There was Asterie, held by the eagle,
And Leda, Iying under the wings of the swan,
Antiope, pregnant with twins, whose father
Was a satyr, so she thought, but it was really
Jove in disguise again; he took Alcmena
In the semblance of Amphitryon; he came
To Danae in a shower of gold; he was
A flame to Aegina, to Mnemosyne
A shepherd, a mottled snake to Deo's daughter.
Neptune, Jove's brother, was another cheater,
A bull to one Aeolian girl, a river
To another, or a ram; a stallion to Ceres,
The fair-haired gentle mother of the grain;
The snake-haired mother of the wingĖd horse
Received him as a wingĖd bird; Melantho
Took him as dolphin. To them all Arachne
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Gave their own features and a proper background.
Apollo, too, was there, a country boy
At times, or a shepherd, deluding Isse so,
At times a hawk, at times a tawny lion.
And she worked Bacchus in, whose bunch f grapes
Deceived Erigone, and there was Saturn,
As horse, to father Chiron. Flowers and ivy
Ran round the border as the work was ended.
Neither Minerva, no, nor even Envy
Could find a flaw in the work; the fair-haired goddess
Was angry now, indeed, and tore the web
That showed the crimes of the gods, and with her shuttle
Struck at Arachne's head, and kept on striking,
Until the daughter of Idmon could not bear it,
Noosed her own neck, and hung herself. Minerva
At last was moved to pity, and raised her, saying:
"Live, wicked girl; live on, but hang forever,
And, just to keep you thoughtful for the future,
This punishment shall be enforced for always
On all your generations." As she turned,
She sprinkled her with hell-bane, and her hair
Fell off, and nose and ears fell off, and head
Was shrunken, and the body very tiny,
Nothing but belly, with little fingers clinging
Along the side as legs, but from the belly
She still kept spinning; the spider has not forgotten
The arts she used to practice.
The story spread
All over Lydia, through the Phrygian towns,
Through the whole world. Once, long ago,
Before her marriage, Niobe had known
Arachne, when the two were girls together
In the Maeonian country, but the warning,
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Of deference to the gods, restraint of language,
Was lost on Niobe. Too many things
Had made her proud, her royal husband's talent,
High birth, and power of place, and, most of all,
Her children made her proud: she would have been
Happiest of all mothers, had she only
Not thought herself the happiest. And Manto,
Tiresias' daughter, whose prophetic vision
Could see the things to come, had tried to tell her,
Had gone through all the streets of Thebes, proclaiming:
"Women of Thebes, adore Latona's temple,
Bring prayers and incense to her and her children,
Wreathe laurel in your hair; Latona orders,
I bring her message." And they were obedient,
The women of Thebes, with laurel for the temples,
And incense for the altar-flame, and prayer.
But here comes Niobe, with a crowd about her
Streaming along, and wonderful to look at
In Phrygian robes of gold, and beautiful
In anger, beautiful, if anger ever
Lets one be beautiful. Her lovely head
Is tossed back in a gesture of pride, the hair
Falling to either shoulder. And she stops,
Holds herself very tall, lets her proud eyes
Take in the scene. "O citizens, what madness
Takes hold of you?" she challenges, "Do you really
Prefer those gods whom you have only heard of
To those you see? Why is Latona worshipped
Over her altars, and my own lack incense?
My father is Tantalus, the only mortal
Ever permitted to touch the heavenly table
Where the gods feast. My mother is a sister
Of the Pleiades. Atlas, who carries Heaven
On his great shoulders, is one grandsire, Jove
The other one, and Jove is my husband's father.
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The Phrygians bow before me. I am queen
Of Cadmus' royal house, and the walls of Thebes,
Built by the magic of my husband's music,
And the folk of Thebes accord us royal homage.
Wherever I turn my eyes, I look on richness
Tremendous, vast. As for my own appearance,
It is worthy of a goddess. To all this
Count, also, seven sons and seven daughters,
Their wives to be, and husbands. Ask me, therefore,
What cause I have for pride, and do not dare
Prefer Latona to me, this Latona,
Daughter of Coeus, whoever he is, Latona,
To whom the whole wide world, one time, would give
No place to bear her children in. Not Heaven,
Nor earth, nor sea, was hospitable to her,
This goddess of yours, only a wretched island,
Delos, like her a wanderer, a vagrant
By sea, as she by land, took pity on her, gave her
A place at last--how feeble that foundation!
So there she was a mother, of two children!
I have seven times as many. I am happy,
Who can deny it? And I shall be happy,
Who dares to doubt it? My abundance saves me
I am too great for Fortune's power to injure.
Suppose she takes much from me; there is more
She will have to leave me still. To count my blessings
Removes my fear. Imagine it, suppose
Some of the population of my children
Were taken from me, even so, could I
Be so reduced, as she is, that Latona,
Childless, or might as well be, with that mob
Of two around her? Go, you foolish people,
There has been enough of this, remove those laurels
Out of your hair, stop making sacrifices,
Be quick about it!" They took off the laurel,
They left the rites unfinished, but no orders
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Could halt their silent praise and adoration.
Latona, a goddess angered, called her children
To her on Cynthus: "Here am I, your mother
Proud of your birth, deferring to no goddess
Except the queen of Heaven; doubt has risen
That I am goddess, and in all the ages
Worship will be denied Latona's altars,
Unless my children aid me. What is worse,
Insult heaped up on injury, Niobe dares
To think her children better than mine; she calls me
Childless (the word will be a curse upon her!)
As reckless in her talking as her father."
There was more she would have added, prayers, entreaties,
But her son said, "Enough! The longer we listen,
The later we punish," and her daughter said
"Enough!" and, veiled in cloud, the two came gliding
Down to the citadel.
Outside the walls
Lay a wide plain, as hard, almost, as pavement
>From the beat of galloping hoofs and rolling chariots.
There some of Niobe's seven sons were riding
On crimson-colored saddle-cloths; the reins,
The bridles, heavy with gold. The oldest son,
Ismenus, leaning inward, pulling hard
On the foaming bit to make a turn, screamed out
In sudden agony, let fall the reins,
An arrow in his heart, sank slowly, sidewise,
Over the horse's shoulder to the ground.
And Sipylus, his brother, heard the quiver
Rattle in empty air, and gave full rein,
Turned on all possible speed, as a ship's master,
Conscious of storm coming on, at sight of a cloud,
Crowds on all sail, takes every possible breeze
To help his scudding home. He gave full rein,
Drove fast in flight, but the arrow drove much faster
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The shaft stuck quivering in his neck, the barb
Came through at the front of the throat. Still leaning
forward,
He made a headlong dive, over the mane,
Between the galloping legs, and the ground took
The stain of his warm life-blood. Phaedimus
And Tantalus, named for his mother's father,
Were winding up their morning's exercise
In wrestling, and the shining bodies strained
In close embrace and hold, and a sped arrow
Fixed them in that embrace and hold; as one,
They groaned, as one they writhed, and the eyes whitened
And the last breath left their bodies. And Alphenor,
Watching them die, came running up to help them,
To untangle the cold limbs; in that devotion
Alphenor fell: Apollo's arrow pierced him
Through chest and lungs, and when he pulled the shaft
Out of the wound, part of the lungs came with it,
And the blood followed. The young Damasichthon
Was hit behind the knee, and as the hand
Reached down to pull the arrow out, another,
More accurate, more swift, struck through the throat,
Emerged with feathers dyed a different color.
There was only one left now, Ilioneus,
Who tried, in vain, to pray: "Spare me, O gods,
All of you, spare me!" He did not seem to know
He need not pray to all of them; Apollo
Was moved, a little too late, it seemed, for pity,
For the arrow had left the bow-string. Still, that wound
Was the most merciful.
Rumor of the trouble,
The grief and lamentation of the people,
The tears of her own friends, informed the mother
Of the doom that struck so suddenly. Amphion,
The husband and the father, had driven the steel
To his own heart, at one blow ending sorrow
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And life together. Niobe, bewildered
That all of this could happen, was Niobe, angry
That gods would dare this much, that gods had power
To execute their daring. A different woman
This Niobe, from the woman who so lately
Had driven the people from Latona's altar,
Striding the streets, with head tossed back, and haughty
And hated, even by her friends, but now
A woman even her enemies might pity..
On the cold bodies she flung herself; she gave them
The final kisses, gave them with no order,
No thought of protocol, and from them lifted
Her arms, bruised by the strain of that embracing,
And cried to Heaven: "O cruel Latona, feed,
Feed, batten on my sorrow! Feed the heart
Whose passion is for bloodshed, feed it full!
My seven sons are gone, and I have died
A sevenfold death. Exult, be hateful, triumph!
You are the winner. Winner, did I say?
Ha! Wretched as I am, I have more left me
Than you in all your blessedness. So many
Are dead, and still I win!"
And the bow made
Its twanging sound in the air, and all were frightened,
Not Niobe, whose very loss had made her
Beside herself with boldness. In black dresses
The sisters, with their hair let down, were standing
Before the barrows where their brothers lay,
And one of the girls bent over to pull an arrow
Out of the body, and herself sank down
Dead, face to face with brother; and a second
Offered her mother comfort, and all of a sudden
Ceased being a comfort, or trying to, jaw and lips
Set tight, to keep the last breath from escaping.
And a third daughter tried escape, and fell
Running, and a fourth tripped over the runner
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And died beside her sister. One tried hiding,
One tried being brave, in the open; but both trembled,
Were shaken, died. They were all gone but one,
The last one, whom the mother tried to cover
With body bending over, and wide robes spread
To make some kind of shelter. "Leave me this one,
The littlest one of all my many children,
Leave me the littlest one!" But while she prayed
The littlest one was dying. So she sat there,
A childless woman among her sons, her daughters,
Beside her husband, and never moved; no air
Lifted her hair, the color of her features
Was waxen, and her eyes were fixed and staring,
The picture of utter grief, and in the picture
No sign of life at all: the tongue was frozen
To the roof of the mouth; no pulse beat in the veins;
Neck could not bend, nor arms be moved, nor feet
Go back or forward; and the vitals hardened
To rock, but still she weeps; and she is carried,
Caught up in a whirlwind, to her native mountains,
Where, on a summit, a queen deposed, she rests,
Still weeping: even to this day the marble
Trickles with tears.
Then, truly, all the people
Dreaded Latona's wrath, and, more than ever,
Were zealous in their worship, and, as usual,
Told the old stories over again. "The Lycians,"
Said one, "Or, anyway, the Lycian peasants
Despised her long ago, and suffered for it.
The story is not well-known, those men were nothing,
But even so it is a wonderful story.
I have seen the pool myself, the place made famous
By the strange thing that happened there. My father
Was getting on in years, he hated travel,
And so he gave me orders, to bring down
Some first-class livestock from that cattle country.
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I had a guide who knew the trails; together
We crossed some pasture-land, and saw an altar
In the middle of a lake, an altar, blackened
With many fires from sacrifices: reeds
Whispered around it, and he stopped, and whispered
'Be good to me!' 'Be good to me!' I echoed,
And then I asked him who it was we prayed to,
Naiad, or Faun, or local god? He answered:
'No mountain deity dwells here, young fellow,
But the great goddess whom the queen of Heaven
Exiled, one time, from all the world, and Delos,
The wandering island, welcomed, although Delos
Came near refusing. There she bore her children
(For there were twins) on boughs of palm and olive,
And (for she still feared Juno) took them with her,
And came to Lycia, with the hot sun burning,
And she was tired and faint and hot and thirsty,
And the milk gone from her breasts to feed the children.
She saw a lake, or so it seemed; a pond
Is all it really was, in a low valley,
With country people there, gathering rushes,
Osiers and sedge. Latona came to the water,
Kneeling to drink, but they were churlish people,
They tried to keep her off. She pleaded with them:
"Why am I kept from the water? The use of water
Is free to all, or should be. Nature never
Made the sun private, nor the air, nor water,
Whose gentle blessing I have come for, asking
Nothing that all men do not own. I beg you
Let me have a little water, as a favor,
Not as a privilege. I did not come here
To wash my weary limbs and my tired body,
Only to quench my thirst. I can hardly speak.
My mouth is dry, my throat is dry and burning.
To me, one drink of water would be nectar,
It would be life; it is life you would be giving
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With just one drink. Do little children move you?
Look! Mine reach out their hands in supplication."
It was chance, I guess, that at that point the babies
Reached out their little arms; but neither children
Nor the mother's gentle words had any power.
They told her, Go away! and threats and insults
Were not enough; they made the water muddy,
Jumping and splashing, exulting in their meanness,
Until the goddess forgot thirst for anger.
No daughter of Coeus could keep on being humble
To louts like these, no goddess fail to speak
In her full voice. She cursed them: "Live forever
In that foul puddle!" And it came out that way:
They live in water and they love it dearly,
Now diving under, now coming up to the surface
To stick their ugly heads out, and now swimming,
Now squatting on the bank, or leaping in
To the cool water again, and all the time
Keeping their everlasting quarrels going
As shameless as they ever were, and cursing,
Or trying to curse, even when under water.
They have hoarse voices, and their necks are swollen,
Their jaws spread wide, their faces bulge, their necks
Seem to have gone entirely; their backs are green,
Their bellies, the biggest portion of their bodies,
Are bloated, white, and in the muddy water
The new frogs keep on leaping.'"
So that story
Was ended; somebody began another,
About that satyr whom Latona's son
Surpassed at playing the flute, and punished, sorely,
Flaying him, so the skin all left his body,
So he was one great wound, with the blood flowing,
The nerves exposed, veins with no cover of skin
Over their beating surface, lungs and entrails
Visible as they functioned. The country people,
[page 142]
The woodland gods, the fauns, his brother satyrs,
The nymphs, and even Olympus, whom he loved
Through all his agony, all wept for him
With every shepherd looking after his flocks
Along those mountainsides. The fruitful earth
Drank in those tears, and turned them into water,
And sent them forth to air again, a rill,
A stream, the clearest of all the running Phrygian rivers,
Named Marsyas, for the victim.
And the people
Came back from those old stories to the present
Mourning the death of Amphion and his children,
Putting the blame on Niobe, but one man,
They say, wept for her even then.
That was her brother Pelops, who, in tearing
The garments from his breast, exposed his shoulder
Showing the patch of ivory on the left.
When he was born, his shoulders both were normal,
The left the same as the right, and both of flesh,
But later, when his father cut him to pieces,
And the gods put him together again, they could not
Find that one portion anywhere, and made
An ivory substitute, which served, and Pelops
Was a whole man again.
The neighboring rulers
Came, and the neighboring cities sent their kings
To offer consolation, Argos, Sparta,
Mycenae, Corinth, fertile Orchomenos,
Calydon (that was before Diana's anger),
Messene, Patrae, Pylos, many others,
All except Athens, but Athens was in trouble
With war at her gates, barbarian invasion
>From over the seas, and could not send a mission
--Who would believe it?--so great was her own sorrow.
But Tereus, king of Thrace, had sent an army
To bring the town relief, to lift the siege,
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And Tereus' name was famous, a great conqueror,
And he was rich, and strong in men, descended
>From Mars, so Pandion, king of Athens
Made him a son as well as ally, joining
His daughter Procne to Tereus in marriage.
The omens, though, were baleful: neither Juno,
Nor Hymen, nor the Graces, blessed the marriage;
The Furies swung, or, maybe, brandished torches
Snatched from a funeral; the Furies lighted
The bridal bed; and above the bridal chamber
Brooded the evil hoot-owl. With such omens
Tereus and Procne married, with such omens
The bride and bridegroom soon were father and mother,
And Thrace rejoiced, and they rejoiced, and offered
Thanks to the gods, making the day of marriage,
The day of Itys' birth, both festal days.
People never know, it seems.
Five years went by,
And Procne asked a favor of her husband:
"My lord, if any ways of mine have been
A source of satisfaction to my husband,
Let me go see my sister, or let her come
To visit us, with a promise to her father
Of quick return. The sight of my dear sister
Would be the finest present you could give me."
So Tereus promptly had the ship made ready,
Sailed off to Athens, landed at Piraeus,
Found Pandion, and they joined hands in greeting
And wished each other well, and Tereus started
To explain the reasons of his coming there,
His wife's request, and the expected promise
Of a stay not over-long, and, as they chatted,
Here Philomela came, in rich apparel,
In richer grace, as lovely as the naiads,
[page 144]
As lovely as the dryads of the woodlands,
As lovely, rather, as they would be, if only
They had such clothes as hers, and such a bearing.
And Tereus looked at her, and in that moment
Took fire, as ripe grain burns, or dry leaves burn,
Or hay stored in the hay-mow; and this tribute
She well deserved, but there were other reasons.
He was a passionate man, and all the Thracians
Are all too quick at loving; a double fire
Burnt in him, his own passion and his nation's.
So his first impulse was to bribe her guardians,
Corrupt her faithful nurse, or by rich presents,
Even if it cost him all his kingdom, win her,
Or take her, and defend what he had taken
By violent war. In that unbridled passion
There was nothing he would not dare, with the flame
bursting
Out of his breast. Delay, delay! He suffered,
Was all too eager, and when he spoke for Procne
Spoke for himself. Love made him eloquent,
If he went too far, he would lay the blame on Procne,
Saying she wished it so, and he added tears,
As if the tears were shed at her instructions!
The hearts of men have such blind darkness in them.
Tereus seems a most devoted husband,
So eager to please Procne, and wins praises,
The secret crime-contriver. Philomela
Is eager to go, wants the same thing, or seems to,
Wheedles her father, and fondles him, and coaxes,
And argues how much good it will do them both,
Her sister and her self (little she knows!)
If she can make the visit. And Tereus, watching,
Sees beyond what he sees: she is in his arms,
That is not her father whom her arms go around,
Not her father she is kissing. Everything
Is fuel to his fire. He would like to be
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Her father, at that moment; and if he were
He would be as wicked a father as he is husband.
So Pandion says Yes, and Philomela,
Poor girl, is happy, and thanks him; both his daughters,
She thinks, have won; they are losers, both his daughters,
But how was she to know?
And the Sun's horses
Swung low to the West, and there was a great banquet,
Feasting, and wine in golden cups, then slumber;
And Tereus went to bed, and did not slumber,
In heat for Philomela, thinking of her,
The way she looked, the way she moved, her gestures,
Her visible charms, and what he has not seen,
Or not yet seen, at least he can imagine,
And does, and feeds his fires, and cannot slumber.
And morning came, and the old king and the younger
Shook hands before the leaving, and the older
Spoke through his tears: "Dear son, in all devotion,
Since both the sisters wish it, and since you
Appear to share their wish, I trust her to you.
I beg you, by your honor and our kinship,
Protect her with a father's love, and send her
Safe home, as soon as may be, the sweet comfort
Of my declining years. However brief
Her visit, it will seem to me a long one.
And you, my Philomela, if you love me,
Come home to me soon!" And, saying so, he kissed her
With his last plea, and wept, and hands were joined
To bind the agreement, and one thing more, he told them,
Give all my love to Procne and to Itys,
And his voice broke, and underneath his sorrow
Foreboding lay.
And the painted ship went sailing
Over the sea, and Tereus, the savage,
Knew he had won, having, as passenger,
His heart's desire, exults, can wait no more,
[page 146]
Or almost cannot wait, and looks her over
The way an eagle does, who has brought home
To his high nest, hooked by the cruel talons,
The prey, still warm, still living, the poor captive
Hopeless before the captor's gloating gaze.
And now the voyage ended, and the vessel
Was worn from travel, and they came stepping down
To their own shores, and Tereus dragged her with him
To the deep woods, to some ramshackle building
Dark in that darkness, and he shut her in there,
Pale, trembling, fearing everything, and asking
Where was her sister? And he told her then
What he was going to do, and straightway did it,
Raped her, a virgin, all alone, and calling
For her father, for her sister, but most often
For the great gods. In vain. She shook and trembled
As a frightened lamb which a gray wolf has mangled
And cast aside, poor creature, to a safety
It cannot quite believe. She is like a dove
With her own blood all over her feathers, fearing
The talons that have pierced and left her. Soon
As sense comes back, she tears her loosened hair,
She beats her breast, wild as a woman in mourning,
Crying: "O wicked deed! O cruel monster,
Barbarian, savage! Were my father's orders
Nothing to you, his tears, my sister's love,
My own virginity, the bonds of marriage?
Now it is all confused, mixed up; I am
My sister's rival, a second-class wife, and you,
For better and worse, the husband of two women,
Procne my enemy now, at least she should be.
Why not have been my murderer? That crime
Would have been cleaner, have no treachery in it,
And I an innocent ghost. If those on high
Behold these things, if there are any gods,
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If anything is left, not lost as I am,
What punishment you will pay me, late or soon!
Now that I have no shame, I will proclaim it.
Given the chance, I will go where people are,
Tell everybody; if you shut me here,
I will move the very woods and rocks to pity.
The air of Heaven will hear, and any god,
If there is any god in Heaven, will hear me."
The words had their effect. The cruel king
Was moved to a fierce anger, to equal fear;
The double drive of fear and anger drove him
To draw the sword, to catch her by the hair,
To pull the head back, tie the arms behind her,
And Philomela, at the sight of the blade,
Was happy, filled with hope, the thought of death
Most welcome: her throat was ready for the stroke.
But Tereus did not kill her; he seized her tongue
With pincers, though it cried against the outrage,
Babbled and made a sound something like Father,
Till the sword cut it off. The mangled root
Quivered, the severed tongue along the ground
Lay quivering, making a little murmur,
Jerking and twitching, the way a serpent does
Run over by a wheel, and with its dying movement
Came to its mistress' feet. And even then
--It seems too much to believe--even then, Tereus
Took her, and took her again, the injured body
Still giving satisfaction to his lust.
And after that, Tereus went on to Procne,
And Procne asked, of course, about her sister
Asked where she was. And Tereus, with a groan,
Lamented, wept, and told some kind of story,
Saying that she was dead, oh, most convincing
With all his show of sorrow. Therefore Procne
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Tore from her shoulders the robe with golden border,
Put on plain black, and built a tomb to honor
The spirit of her sister, and brought gifts
As funeral offerings to the fictive ghost,
Mourning a fate that should have been resented
Rather than mourned for.
And a year went by,
And what of Philomela? Guarded against flight,
Stone blocks around her cottage, no power of speech
To help her tell her wrongs, her grief has taught her
Sharpness of wit, and cunning comes in trouble.
She had a loom to work with, and with purple
On a white background, wove her story in,
Her story in and out, and when it was finished,
Gave it to one old woman, with signs and gestures
To take it to the queen, so it was taken,
Unrolled and understood. Procne said nothing
--What could she say?--grief choked her utterance,
Passion her sense of outrage. There was no room
For tears, but for confusion only, and vengeance,
But something must be done, and in a hurry.
It was the time when all the Thracian mothers
Held festival for Bacchus, and the night
Shared in their secrets; Rhodope by night
Resounded as the brazen cymbals clashed,
And so by night the queen went from her palace,
Armed for the rites of Bacchus, in all the dress
Of frenzy, trailing vines for head-dress, deer-skin
Down the left side, and a spear over the shoulder.
So, swiftly through the forest with attendants,
Comrades and worshippers in throngs, and driven
By madness, terrible in rage and anger,
Went Procne, went the Bacchanal, and came
At last to the hidden cottage, came there shrieking,
"Hail, Bacchus!" broke the doors in, found her sister,
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Dressed her like all the others, hid her face
With ivy-leaves, and dragged her on, and brought her
Home to the palace.
And when Philomela
Saw where she was, she trembled and grew pale,
As pale as death, and Procne found her a place,
Took off the Bacchic trappings, and uncovered
Her sister's features, white with shame, and took her
Into her arms, but Philomela could not
So much as lift her eyes to face her sister,
Her sister, whom she knew she had wronged. She kept
Her gaze on the ground, longing with all her heart
To have the power to call the gods to witness
It was not her fault, but something forced upon her.
She tried to say so with her hand. And Procne,
Burning, could not restrain her wrath; she scolded
Her sister's weeping. "This is no time," she told her,
"For tears, but for the sword, for something stronger
Than sword, if you have any such weapon on you.
I am prepared for any crime, my sister,
To burn the palace, and into the flaming ruin
Hurl Tereus, the author of our evils.
I would cut out his tongue, his eyes, cut off
The parts which brought you shame, inflict a thousand
Wounds on his guilty soul. I am prepared
For some great act of boldness, but what it is
I do not know, I wish I did."
The answer
Came to her as her son came in, young Itys.
She looked at him with pitiless eyes; she thought
How like his father he is! That was enough,
She knew, now, what she had to do, all burning
With rage inside her, but when the little fellow
Came close and put both arms around his mother,
And kissed her in appealing boyish fashion,
She was moved to tenderness; against her will,
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Her eyes filled up with tears, her purpose wavered.
She knew it, and she looked at Philomela,
No more at Itys, then from one to the other,
Saying: "And why should one make pretty speeches,
The other be dumb, and ravished tongue unable
To tell of ravish? Since he calls me mother,
Why does she not say Sister? Whose wife are you,
Daughter of Pandion? Will you disgrace him,
Your husband, Tereus? But devotion to him
Is a worse crime." Without more words, a tigress
With a young fawn, she dragged the youngster with her
To a dark corner somewhere in the palace,
And Itys, who seemed to see his doom approaching,
Screamed, and held out his hands, with Mother, Mother!
And tried to put his little arms around her
But she, with never a change in her expression,
Drove the knife home through breast, through side, one
wound,
Enough to kill him, but she made another,
Cutting the throat, and they cut up the body
Still living, still keeping something of the spirit,
And part of the flesh leaped in the boiling kettles,
Part hissed on turning skewers, and the room
Dripped blood.
And this was the feast they served to Tereus,
Who did not know, for the queen made up some story
About a ritual meal, for husbands only,
Which even servants might not watch. High in the chair
Sat Tereus, proud, and feasting, almost greedy
On the flesh of his own flesh, and in his darkness
Of mind, he calls: "Bring Itys here!" and Procne
Cannot conceal her cruel joy; she is eager
To be the herald of her bloody murder.
"He has come in," she answers, and he looks
Around, asks where the boy is, asks again,
Keeps calling, and Philomela, with hair all bloody,
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Springs at him, and hurls the bloody head of Itys
Full in his father's face. There was no time, ever,
When she would rather have had the use of her tongue
The power to speak, to express her full rejoicing.
With a great cry he turns the table over,
Summons the snaky Furies from their valley
Deep in the pit of Styx. Now, if he could,
If he only could, he would open up his belly,
Eject the terrible feast: all he can do
Is weep, call himself the pitiful resting-place
Of his dear son. He draws the sword, pursues them,
Both Pandion's daughters. They went flying from him
As if they were on wings. They were on wings!
One flew to the woods, the other to the roof-top,
And even so the red marks of the murder
Stayed on their breasts; the feathers were blood-colored.
Tereus, swift in grief and lust for vengeance,
Himself becomes a bird: a stiff crest rises
Upon his head, and a huge beak juts forward,
Not too unlike a sword. He is the hoopoe,
The bird who looks like war.
This sorrow shortened
Old Pandion's days, and his state and sceptre fell
To one Erechtheus, mighty in arms and justice.
He had four sons, four daughters; one of these,
Procris, wed Cephalus, Aeolus' grandson.
Another, Orithyia, lovely as her sister,
Had Boreas as suitor, but he came
>From the north country and the Thracian homeland
Where Tereus had reigned. So Boreas
Was kept away, and could not have her, and tried
To win by pleading, and accomplished nothing
With all his gentleness; then his natural manner,
Rough anger, rose up in him, the wind of the north,
And he growled and blustered: "This is what I get,
What I deserve! I have thrown down my weapons,
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Fierceness and violence and angry spirit
Fine things to exchange for prayers! What use are they
To me? How unbecoming! Violence
Is my right weapon, violence that drives
The gloomy clouds, shakes up the sea, turns over
Gnarled oak-trees, packs the snow, and pelts the earth
With the rattle of hail-stones. When I meet my brothers
In the open sky, on the chosen battle-ground,
I wrestle so fiercely that the heavens thunder,
Fire flashes from the hollow cloud. When I
Go down below the hollows of earth, and brace
My back against the walls of her deepest caverns,
I frighten the shades and the whole world with my heaving.
All this is how I should have sought my woman,
I should not have asked Erectheus, but told him
To be my father-in-law, and made him do it."
So, blustering, Boreas shook his wings, and earth
Blew in the blast of those pinions, and the ocean
Shuddered and swelled. He trailed his dusty garments
Brushing the mountain-tops, and, wrapped in darkness,
Seized Orithyia, fearful, trembling, held her,
Rough lover that he was, in tawny wings,
And as he flew, his passion burned the stronger,
And so he flew, until he came to Athens,
Where Orithyia was the cold king's bride
And mother of his sons, twin boys, who had
Their mother's looks, their father's wings; the wings,
So people say, were not born with their bodies.
While they were beardless youngsters, neither of them,
Zetes nor Calais, had wings, but later,
When hair began to grow, the sign of manhood
On face and bodies, the spreading wings were noticed.
They grew to manhood, and over an unknown sea
Accompanied the Minyans on their voyage
In the first ship for the gleaming fleece of gold.