Book 6

by
P. Ovidius Naso

Pallas et Arachne

Arachne and Minerva

All this Minerva heard; and she approved
their songs and their resentment; but her heart
was brooding thus, “It is an easy thing
to praise another, I should do as they:
no creature of the earth should ever slight
the majesty that dwells in me, — without
just retribution.” — So her thought was turned
upon the fortune of Arachne — proud,
who would not ever yield to her the praise
won by the art of deftly weaving wool,
a girl who had not fame for place of birth,
nor fame for birth, but only fame for skill!

For it was well known that her father dwelt
in Colophon; where, at his humble trade,
he dyed in Phoenicean purples, fleecy wool.
Her mother, also of the lower class,
had died. Arachne in a mountain town
by skill had grown so famous in the Land
of Lydia, that unnumbered curious nymphs
eager to witness her dexterity,
deserted the lush vineyards of Timolus;
or even left the cool and flowing streams
of bright Pactolus, to admire the cloth,
or to observe her deftly spinning wool.

So graceful was her motion then, — if she
was twisting the coarse wool in little balls,
or if she teased it with her finger-tips,
or if she softened the fine fleece, drawn forth
in misty films, or if she twirled the smooth
round spindle with her energetic thumb,
or if with needle she embroidered cloth;
— in all her motions one might well perceive
how much Minerva had instructed her:
but this she ever would deny, displeased
to share her fame; and said, “Let her contend
in art with me; and if her skill prevails,
I then will forfeit all!”

Minerva heard,
and came to her, disguised with long grey hair,
and with a staff to steady her weak limbs.
She seemed a feeble woman, very old,
and quavered as she said, “Old age is not
the cause of every ill; experience comes
with lengthened years; and, therefore, you should not
despise my words. It is no harm in you
to long for praise of mortals, when
your nimble hands are spinning the soft wool, —
but you should not deny Minerva’s art —
and you should pray that she may pardon you,
for she will grant you pardon if you ask.”

Arachne, scowling with an evil face,
Looked at the goddess, as she dropped her thread.
She hardly could restrain her threatening hand,
and, trembling in her anger, she replied
to you, disguised Minerva: “Silly fool, —
worn out and witless in your palsied age,
a great age is your great misfortune! — Let
your daughter and your son’s wife — if the Gods
have blessed you — let them profit by your words;
within myself, my knowledge is contained
sufficient; you need not believe that your
advice does any good; for I am quite
unchanged in my opinion. Get you gone, —
advise your goddess to come here herself,
and not avoid the contest!”

Instantly,
the goddess said, “Minerva comes to you!”
And with those brief words, put aside the shape
of the old woman, and revealed herself,
Minerva, goddess.

All the other Nymphs
and matrons of Mygdonia worshiped her;
but not Arachne, who defiant stood; —
although at first she flushed up — then went pale —
then blushed again, reluctant. — So, at first,
the sky suffuses, as Aurora moves,
and, quickly when the glorious sun comes up,
pales into white.

She even rushed upon
her own destruction, for she would not give
from her desire to gain the victory.
Nor did the daughter of almighty Jove
decline: disdaining to delay with words,
she hesitated not.

And both, at once,
selected their positions, stretched their webs
with finest warp, and separated warp with sley.
The woof was next inserted in the web
by means of the sharp shuttles, which
their nimble fingers pushed along, so drawn
within the warp, and so the teeth notched in
the moving sley might strike them. — Both, in haste,
girded their garments to their breasts and moved
their skilful arms, beguiling their fatigue
in eager action.

Myriad tints appeared
besides the Tyrian purple — royal dye,
extracted in brass vessels. — As the bow,
that spans new glory in the curving sky,
its glittering rays reflected in the rain,
spreads out a multitude of blended tints,
in scintillating beauty to the sight
of all who gaze upon it; — so the threads,
inwoven, mingled in a thousand tints,
harmonious and contrasting; shot with gold:
and there, depicted in those shining webs,
were shown the histories of ancient days: —

Minerva worked the Athenian Hill of Mars,
where ancient Cecrops built his citadel,
and showed the old contention for the name
it should be given. — Twelve celestial Gods
surrounded Jupiter, on lofty thrones;
and all their features were so nicely drawn,
that each could be distinguished. — Jupiter
appeared as monarch of those judging Gods.
There Neptune, guardian of the sea, was shown
contending with Minerva. As he struck
the Rock with his long trident, a wild horse
sprang forth which he bequeathed to man. He claimed
his right to name the city for that gift.

And then she wove a portrait of herself,
bearing a shield, and in her hand a lance,
sharp-pointed, and a helmet on her head —
her breast well-guarded by her Aegis: there
she struck her spear into the fertile earth,
from which a branch of olive seemed to sprout,
pale with new clustered fruits. — And those twelve Gods,
appeared to judge, that olive as a gift
surpassed the horse which Neptune gave to man.

And, so Arachne, rival of her fame,
might learn the folly of her mad attempt,
from the great deeds of ancient histories,
and what award presumption must expect,
Minerva wove four corners with life scenes
of contest, brightly colored, but of size
diminutive.

In one of these was shown
the snow-clad mountains, Rhodope,
and Haemus, which for punishment were changed
from human beings to these rigid forms,
when they aspired to rival the high Gods.

And in another corner she described
that Pygmy, whom the angry Juno changed
from queen-ship to a crane; because she thought
herself an equal of the living Gods,
she was commanded to wage cruel wars
upon her former subjects.

In the third,
she wove the story of Antigone,
who dared compare herself to Juno, queen
of Jupiter, and showed her as she was
transformed into a silly chattering stork,
that praised her beauty, with her ugly beak. —
Despite the powers of Ilion and her sire
Laomedon, her shoulders fledged white wings.

And so, the third part finished, there was left
one corner, where Minerva deftly worked
the story of the father, Cinyras; —
as he was weeping on the temple steps,
which once had been his daughter’s living limbs.
And she adorned the border with designs
of peaceful olive — her devoted tree —
which having shown, she made an end of work.

Arachne, of Maeonia, wove, at first
the story of Europa, as the bull
deceived her, and so perfect was her art,
it seemed a real bull in real waves.
Europa seemed to look back towards the land
which she had left; and call in her alarm
to her companions — and as if she feared
the touch of dashing waters, to draw up
her timid feet, while she was sitting on
the bull’s back.

And she wove Asteria seized
by the assaulting eagle; and beneath the swan’s
white wings showed Leda lying by the stream:
and showed Jove dancing as a Satyr, when
he sought the beautiful Antiope,
to whom was given twins; and how he seemed
Amphitryon when he deceived Alcmena;
and how he courted lovely Danae
luring her as a gleaming shower of gold;
and poor Aegina, hidden in his flame;
Jove as a shepherd with Mnemosyne;
and beautiful Proserpina, involved
by him, apparent as a spotted snake.

And in her web, Arachne wove the scenes
of Neptune: — who was shown first as a bull,
when he was deep in love with virgin Arne
then as Enipeus when the giant twins,
Aloidae, were begot; and as the ram
that gambolled with Bisaltis; as a horse
loved by the fruitful Ceres, golden haired,
all-bounteous mother of the yellow grain;
and as the bird that hovered round snake-haired
Medusa, mother of the winged horse;
and as the dolphin, sporting with the Nymph,
Melantho. — All of these were woven true
to life, in proper shades.

And there she showed
Apollo, when disguised in various forms:
as when he seemed a rustic; and as when
he wore hawk-wings, and then the tawny skin
of a great lion; and once more when he
deluded Isse, as a shepherd lad.

And there was Bacchus, when he was disguised
as a large cluster of fictitious grapes;
deluding by that wile the beautiful
Erigone; — and Saturn, as a steed,
begetter of the dual-natured Chiron.

And then Arachne, to complete her work,
wove all around the web a patterned edge
of interlacing flowers and ivy leaves.

Minerva could not find a fleck or flaw —
even Envy can not censure perfect art —
enraged because Arachne had such skill
she ripped the web, and ruined all the scenes
that showed those wicked actions of the Gods;
and with her boxwood shuttle in her hand,
struck the unhappy mortal on her head, —
struck sharply thrice, and even once again.

Arachne’s spirit, deigning not to brook
such insult, brooded on it, till she tied
a cord around her neck, and hung herself.

Minerva, moved to pity at the sight,
sustained and saved her from that bitter death;
but, angry still, pronounced another doom:
“Although I grant you life, most wicked one,
your fate shall be to dangle on a cord,
and your posterity forever shall
take your example, that your punishment
may last forever!” Even as she spoke,
before withdrawing from her victim’s sight,
she sprinkled her with juice — extract of herbs
of Hecate.

At once all hair fell off,
her nose and ears remained not, and her head
shrunk rapidly in size, as well as all
her body, leaving her diminutive. —
Her slender fingers gathered to her sides
as long thin legs; and all her other parts
were fast absorbed in her abdomen — whence
she vented a fine thread; — and ever since,
Arachne, as a spider, weaves her web.

Niobe

Niobe

All Lydia was astonished at her fate
the Rumor spread to Phrygia, soon the world
was filled with fear and wonder. Niobe
had known her long before, — when in Maeonia
near to Mount Sipylus; but the sad fate
which overtook Arachne, lost on her,
she never ceased her boasting and refused
to honor the great Gods.

So many things
increased her pride: She loved to boast
her husband’s skill, their noble family,
the rising grandeur of their kingdom. Such
felicities were great delights to her;
but nothing could exceed the haughty way
she boasted of her children: and, in truth,
Niobe might have been adjudged on earth,
the happiest mother of mankind, if pride
had not destroyed her wit.

It happened then,
that Manto, daughter of Tiresias,
who told the future; when she felt the fire
of prophecy descend upon her, rushed
upon the street and shouted in the midst:

“You women of Ismenus! go and give
to high Latona and her children, twain,
incense and prayer. Go, and with laurel wreathe
your hair in garlands, as your sacred prayers
arise to heaven. Give heed, for by my speech
Latona has ordained these holy rites.”

At once, the Theban women wreathe their brows
with laurel, and they cast in hallowed flame
the grateful incense, while they supplicate
all favors of the ever-living Gods.

And while they worship, Niobe comes there,
surrounded with a troup that follow her,
and most conspicuous in her purple robe,
bright with inwoven threads of yellow gold.
Beautiful in her anger, she tosses back
her graceful head. The glory of her hair
shines on her shoulders. Standing forth,
she looks upon them with her haughty eyes,
and taunts them, “Madness has prevailed on you
to worship some imagined Gods of Heaven,
which you have only heard of; but the Gods
that truly are on earth, and can be seen,
are all neglected! Come, explain to me,
why is Latona worshiped and adored,
and frankincense not offered unto me?
For my divinity is known to you.

“Tantalus was my father, who alone
approached the tables of the Gods in heaven;
my mother, sister of the Pleiades,
was daughter of huge Atlas, who supports
the world upon his shoulders; I can boast
of Jupiter as father of my sire,
I count him also as my father-in-law.
The peoples of my Phrygia dread my power,
and I am mistress of the palace built
by Cadmus. By my husband, I am queen
of those great walls that reared themselves
to the sweet music of his sounding lyre.
We rule together all the people they
encompass and defend. And everywhere
my gaze is turned, an evidence of wealth
is witnessed.

“In my features you can see
the beauty of a goddess, but above
that majesty is all the glory due
to me, the mother of my seven sons
and daughters seven. And the time will come
when by their marriage they will magnify
the circle of my power invincible.

“All must acknowledge my just cause of pride
and must no longer worship, in despite
of my superior birth, this deity,
a daughter of ignoble Coeus, whom
one time the great Earth would not even grant
sufficient space for travail: whom the Heavens,
the Land, the Sea together once compelled
to wander, hopeless on all hostile shores!
Throughout the world she found herself rebuffed,
till Delos, sorry for the vagrant, said,
‘Homeless you roam the lands, and I the seas!’
And even her refuge always was adrift.
And there she bore two children, who, compared
with mine, are but as one to seven.

“Who
denies my fortunate condition? — Who
can doubt my future? — I am surely safe.
The wealth of my abundance is too strong
for Fortune to assail me. Let her rage
despoil me of large substance; yet so much
would still be mine, for I have risen above
the blight of apprehension. But, suppose
a few of my fair children should be taken!
Even so deprived, I could not be reduced
to only two, as this Latona, who,
might quite as well be childless. — Get you gone
from this insensate sacrifice. Make haste!
Cast off the wreathing laurels from your brows!”

They plucked the garlands from their hair, and left
the sacrifice, obedient to her will,
although in gentle murmurs they adored
the goddess Niobe had so defamed.
Latona, furious when she heard the speech,
flew swiftly to the utmost peak of Cynthus,
and spoke to her two children in these words:

“Behold your mother, proud of having borne
such glorious children! I will yield
prestige before no goddess — save alone
immortal Juno! I have been debased,
and driven for all ages from my own —
my altars, unto me devoted long,
and so must languish through eternity,
unless by you sustained. Nor is this all;.
That daughter of Tantalus, bold Niobe,
has added curses to her evil deeds,
and with a tongue as wicked as her sire’s,
has raised her base-born children over mine.
Has even called me childless! A sad fate
more surely should be hers! Oh, I entreat” —

But Phoebus answered her, “No more complaint
is necessary, for it only serves
to hinder the swift sequel of her doom.”
And with the same words Phoebe answered her.
And having spoken, they descended through
the shielding shadows of surrounding clouds,
and hovered on the citadel of Cadmus.

There, far below them, was a level plain
which swept around those walls; where trampling steeds,
with horny hoofs, and multitudinous wheels,
had beaten a wide track. And on the field
the older sons of Niobe on steeds
emblazoned with bright dyes and harness rich
with studded gold were circling. — One of these,
Ismenus, first-born of his mother, while
controlling his fleet courser’s foaming mouth,
cried out, “Ah wretched me!” A shaft had pierced
the middle of his breast; and as the reins
dropped slowly on the rapid courser’s neck,
his drooping form fell forward to the ground.

Not far from him, his brother, Sipylus,
could hear the whistling of a fatal shaft,
and in his fright urged on the plunging steed:
as when the watchful pilot, sensible
of storms approaching, crowds on sail,
hoping to catch a momentary breeze,
so fled he, urging an impetuous flight;
but, while he fled the shaft, unerring, flew;
transfixed him with its quivering death; struck where
the neck supports the head and the sharp point
protruded from his throat. In his swift flight,
as he was leaning forward, he was struck;
and, rolling over the wild horse’s neck
pitched to the ground, and stained it with his blood.

Unhappy Phaedimus, and Tantalus,
(So named from his maternal grandsire) now
had finished coursing on the track, and smooth,
shining with oil, were wrestling in the field;
and while those brothers struggled — breast to breast —
another arrow, hurtling from the sky,
pierced them together, just as they were clinched.
The mingled sound that issued from two throats
was like a single groan. Convulsed with pain,
the wrestlers fell together on the ground,
where, stricken with a double agony,
rolling their eyeballs, they sobbed out their lives.

Alphenor saw them die — beating his breast
in agony — ran to lift in his arms
their lifeless bodies cold — while doing this
he fell upon them. Phoebus struck him so,
piercing his midriff in a vital part,
with fatal shot, which, when he pulled it forth,
dragged with its barb a torn clot of his lung —
his blood and life poured out upon the air.

The youthful Damasicthon next was struck,
not only once; an arrow pierced his leg
just where the sinews of the thigh begin,
and as he turned and stooped to pluck it out,
another keen shaft shot into his neck,
up to the fletching. — The blood drove it out,
and spouted after it in crimson jets.

Then, Ilioneus, last of seven sons,
lifted his unavailing arms in prayer,
and cried, “O Universal Deities,
gods of eternal heaven, spare my life!” —
Besought too late, Apollo of the Bow,
could not prevail against the deadly shaft,
already on its way: and yet his will,
compellant, acted to retard its flight,
so that it cut no deeper than his heart.

The rumors of an awful tragedy, —
the wailings of sad Niobe’s loved friends, —
the terror of her grieving relatives, —
all gave some knowledge of her sudden loss:
but so bewildered and enraged her mind,
that she could hardly realize the Gods
had privilege to dare against her might.
Nor would she, till her lord, Amphion, thrust
his sword deep in his breast, by which his life
and anguish both were ended in dark night.

Alas, proud Niobe, once haughty queen!
Proud Niobe who but so lately drove
her people from Latona’s altars, while,
moving majestic through the midst, she hears
their plaudits, now so bitterly debased,
her meanest enemy may pity her! —

She fell upon the bodies of her sons,
and in a frenzy of maternal grief,
kissed their unfeeling lips. Then unto Heaven
with arms accusing, railed upon her foe:
“Glut your revenge! Latona, glut your rage!
Yea, let my lamentations be your joy!
Go — satiate your flinty heart with death!
Are not my seven sons all dead? Am I
not waiting to be carried to my grave? —
exult and triumph, my victorious foe!
Victorious? Nay! — Much more remains to me
in all my utmost sorrow, than to you,
you gloater upon vengeance — Undismayed,
I stand victorious in my Field of Woe!”

No sooner had she spoken, than the cord
twanged from the ever-ready bow; and all
who heard the fatal sound, again were filled
with fear, — save Niobe, in misery bold, —
defiant in misfortune. —